It’s bizarre that this was the exact type of dross we were warned to expect from Sky by the same terrestrial broadcasters who are now mostly responsible for churning it out.
One more thing—while we’re on the subject of sales guys completely messing this industry up for everyone else—the broadcasters and the public and anyone else in between, what drives me really crazy is…
If a (TV or radio) station’s audience starts to deteriorate, and as it does so begins to attract a lower demographic, instead of stopping, regrouping and attempting to recapture its lost, more desirable and now disenfranchised audience, what do the sales guys do? Bring in a whole set of equally lowly advertisers to appeal to the dregs, drug addicts and no-hopers that are still tuning in and probably only because they can’t be bothered to get their fat arses off the sofa to stretch for the remote control.
Rest assured, as long as the sales team hit their targets and get their bonuses they don’t give a hoot what’s going out on the air. They are the ‘bankers’ of the television industry. They don’t care how long ad breaks are becoming and what’s offered up as so-called entertainment in between them as long as X + Y = £.
I swear, if the sales guys could justify 59 minutes of adverts per hour and just the one minute of actual content, maybe even less, they would go home with their heads held high as long as their back pockets were bulging, guiltless of the fact it was they and their like that slaughtered the goose that used to lay that oh so very golden egg.
If the BBC does ever get bullied off the air, God help us all.
End of the short rant (please forgive me)
Back at the ranch at Piccadilly, my weekend overnight shifts were soon to be supplemented with weekday overnight shifts—more official hours meant more official pay, whoopee! My feet were now firmly under the Piccadilly Radio table and I was willing to play footsy with anyone who would have me. There wasn’t a show I hadn’t worked on, there wasn’t a ‘jock’ I hadn’t worked with.
I started to be given warm-up jobs for the various road shows and it wasn’t long before I was appearing on the breakfast show as the tea boy, again as a character rather than a real person. This time I was called White and Two Sugars.
One of the ruses with ‘Whitey’, as he was known, was how he always wanted the DJ’s job but was so unbelievably inarticulate and narrowminded that he didn’t have a hope in hell. This wasn’t going to stop him, of course—he was in show business and he was going to milk it for all it was worth. Not only did he want the DJ’s job but he also wanted his life. This would make up the basic premise for each on-air exchange.
A lot of the DJs had sponsored cars, supplied by local companies, emblazoned with their names on the side. I thought it might be fun to see if Whitey could jump on the sponsored car bandwagon and bag a set of wheels. He was on the air, after all, so why couldn’t he have a car like the top guys?
The sponsored car thing was a huge big deal for some of the DJs, the make, model and type of sponsored car they had saying a lot about their perceived popularity and coolness—in their minds at least. A couple of the presenters were leaders of the sponsored car pack, always managing to secure the latest snazziest models and quietly having a secret duel to try and outdo each other every September when it was new reg time.
This all came to an embarrassing head one year when one of the guys suddenly couldn’t get a deal—for a car of any kind. The story goes that this was such a crushing blow for him, he went out and bought a brand new car out of his own pocket and then had his name sign painted on the vehicle along with an imaginary sponsor. This was made all the more ludicrous by the fact that, previously, he had always claimed what a bind it was to have to endure the rigours of a sponsored car with such overt livery attached to it.
Based on the DJ-sponsored car philosophy, I had decided that if White and Two Sugars was to get a car, it would probably be a Skoda or something similar. Skodas had for a while been the butt of a lot of jokes and as a result the company were doing everything they could to change their profile, a battle they were gradually beginning to win—there was even a rumour of a sporty version.
I was told I was free to make some enquiries as long as it was all good ‘business’ on the air. Not for a second did any of us think anything would ever come of it, but as the daily on-air reports of my sponsored car-seeking mission progressed, gaining more and more programme time, local garages realised that if one of them was to give the tea boy some wheels, there was a good chance they would receive some decent publicity, maybe even more than the other car sponsors, with their ‘reluctant’ DJs having to pretend a free motor car was a cross they were forced to bear.
So lo and behold, the day came when Whitey was offered his own diamond white Skoda—there was a sports version of this latest model and this was it. I couldn’t believe my luck, none of us could, they were offering me a brand new car and it was mine for twelve months—if I wanted it, which of course I did. When it arrived I thought it was beautiful—Reg no. E363 WNE…I’ll never forget it and of course, Name…on…the…side…!!! The brightly coloured caption read:
‘WHITE AND TWO SUGARS BLENDS PERFECTLY WITH SKODA.’
And if you don’t believe me:
Everyone thought it was hilarious—I thought it was amazing.
Along with the radio from the newsagent’s, it’s the one thing I would buy back from my past—in a heartbeat.
Top 10 Genuine Names of 80s Nightclubs in the North West of England
10 Cinderella Rockafella
9 The Dance Factory
8 Legends
7 Peppermint Palace
6 Rotters
5 Placemate 7s
4 Mr Smiths
3 Thursdays
2 Fridays
1 Saturdays *
The main Piccadilly DJs went by the collective name of The Magnificent Seven and often went on the road as a group, touring the local nightclubs, performing party nights and appearing in the same order as they did on the air. For no more than approximately half an hour’s spot each they could earn hundreds, sometimes even thousands, of pounds—I had been right, DJs really did have the easiest life—ever.
Sometimes in return for a few quid or a drink I would tag along and play the records in for them as they messed around with the crowd. It was great fun and all more experience.
Then there were the continuing live roadshows. During these, I would work as the warm-up guy, another sweet, sweet job. I would wind up what was already a very excited and lively crowd for the big, first on-air cheer of the day; after that I just had to keep them interested and vocal for the rest of the show, nothing that a few free T-shirts and the odd CD couldn’t sort out.
As with everything in life, though, the more you do, the more you should become good at things, but at the same time the more chances there are for something to go wrong. The two most renowned mushroom experts in the world were a married couple, they met through their passion for mushrooms and they both died of mushroom poisoning, what more do we need to know?
I was due a mess up soon and I was going to get one—in fact I was in line for two.
The radio station was appearing at a local summer festival along with what was now a full roadshow rig. Things had moved on from