I retain undying admiration for the likes of John Humphrys, who, despite the ungodly hour his day begins, is as sharp as a tack on the current Today programme. He also has to deal constantly with heavyweight issues. In my time, although politics was very much part of the programme, overall it had a lighter feel to it. There was still time for the ‘record egg-laying hen’ type of story.
In fact one morning, when Jack de Manio was still doing the show, he had to conduct an interview with a chap who had bred an unusual type of mouse. The creatures had been brought into the studio in a small cage. Jack, rascal that he was, finished the interview and, as I began the next item, I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was heading towards me, small furry beast in hand. He promptly shoved it up the sleeve of my jacket. As it ran across my shoulder and down my back, I just kept ploughing through my link. Jack later told the listeners what he had done and was amazed I had kept going. In truth I was still a bit raw, and thought that was the thing to do.
While working on Today I had a few dates with a pretty secretary on the show. One evening I arrived at her flat in North London to take her out to the pictures. While I was enjoying one of her liberal gin and tonics, the door bell rang. She peered out of the window and very quickly ushered me into the back garden.
‘Slight problem,’ she said. From the safety of the pitch-black garden, I was able to see her problem. He was one of my occasional co-presenters on Today, famous both then and now, and seemed most put out when he was fairly hastily dealt with and shown the door. I was retrieved from my hiding place and it was explained to me by my date that he was just a friend and he had arrived on this occasion uninvited. Off we went to the cinema and the incident was never mentioned again, although for some time afterwards every time I saw him I was sorely tempted to ask him if he fancied the lady in question.
In my radio days I was sent up to Hampstead one morning to do an interview with Dudley Moore for the Today programme.
I was quite nervous about it. Dudley and Peter Cook were hugely famous at the time and I was a big fan. I had first seen them in their satirical hit ‘Beyond the Fringe’ at the Theatre Royal, Brighton, during their pre-London run.
Dr Jonathan Miller, one of the famous quartet – the fourth of course was Alan Bennett, once told me that the local theatre cognoscenti who came back-stage after a performance were of the opinion that while the show was attractive it had its limitations. Apparently one old, rather camp theatre regular told him ‘whatever you do, don’t even think about taking it to the West End.’ Of course, it had a record-breaking run in London.
By the time I was to interview Dudley, he and Cook had been delighting television audiences with their shows and were at the peak of their popularity.
I arrived at Dudley’s home and he came to the door himself. ‘Welcome,’ he said. For some reason his facial movement as he said the one word, made me laugh. ‘I’ll have to write a sketch around the word “welcome”,’ he said. ‘It obviously works for you.’
I turned on my tape-recorder and Dudley went through a comedy routine for me, interspersed with a few delightful examples of his genius on the grand piano. I ended up with a brilliant interview, which had precious little to do with me. Dudley had just performed.
As I was about to leave, he asked me where I was heading. ‘I’m going back to the West End,’ I said. ‘Back to Broadcasting House.’
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ said Dudley. ‘I’ve got to go down that way myself.’ And so in a few minutes I found myself a passenger in Dudley Moore’s blue Mini, being driven by the star himself.
It was another example of how my life had changed in a few short years. I was mixing with the stars. Well, if not exactly mixing, at least having the opportunity to meet them.
I bumped into Dudley again some ten years later, by which time he had become a hit in Hollywood. He seemed as down to earth and personable as ever but thereafter his life became complicated and ended horribly when he contracted a disease of the nervous system.
Another star I met during those radio days was Fenella Fielding, she of the sultry voice and the fluttering eyelashes who appeared in numerous British comedy films.
Again with my trusty tape-recorder in tow, I had made arrangements to interview Fenella at her flat in Knightsbridge.
When she opened the door, I was astonished to find this glamorous lady attired only in a rather flimsy negligee. ‘Oh darling, you’re a little early. I hadn’t quite finished getting ready,’ she said. My eyes were now popping out of my head. And I was consumed also by the obviously expensive perfume she seemed to have bathed in.
Anyway we settled down to do the interview, Fenella going through her vamp routine, when for some reason I asked her why she had never married. This question touched a nerve and she burst into tears. I found myself trying to console her. ‘Please don’t cry, Miss Fielding,’ I said. ‘Let’s ignore that question and move on.’
She recovered and off I went to Broadcasting House with my interview. Unfortunately, my colleagues got hold of the tape recording before I could edit it myself and the ‘Please don’t cry, Miss Fielding,’ quote proved to be difficult to shake off for some considerable time.
I had a few nice times with a sparkling girl called Pam and then I met Jill, a lovely girl, just twenty-three years of age, but already a nursing sister. She was bright and pretty with a great figure, and she was also a beautiful and considerate lover. So what did I do? I messed her around, took a few other girls out, and eventually lost her. I was having my twenties in my thirties and I had a roving eye. Jill came back to help me in a time of need a couple of years later and is still a wonderful friend, living happily in rural France with her husband.
There were already so many strings to my professional bow when along came another. One of the sports in which I was particularly interested was boxing. I had always been a fight fan and took all the magazines connected with the sport. Before joining the BBC I had been to Henry Cooper’s fights with Muhammad Ali, saw Brian London attempt to take on the great man, and took in a boxing show whenever I could afford it. As a schoolboy I had tried my hand at the sport but found it the greatest laxative known to man. In one bout I got knocked out: nearly half a century later I still dream about it. I’d done it because my Dad had encouraged me to learn to stand up for myself. But it wasn’t for me, though my very brief experiences underlined for me how much courage and dedication are needed to have a successful ring career – or indeed to step into the ring at all. I continue to have great admiration for those who do.
So I began to report on boxing for the radio. One Saturday afternoon my guest on Sports Report was the famous fight promoter Harry Levene. Harry was not an easy man to interview. If you asked him what he considered to be a stupid question he would let you know. But after the broadcast he said to me: ‘You know your boxing. Why don’t you become a commentator? You’ve got a good voice and bigger fools than you have done it.’
I began to think about the possibility and asked if I could take a commentary test. I did reasonably well and when the Commonwealth Games came round in New Zealand in early 1974, I was selected as the boxing commentator. What a trip, and what a challenge … oh, and what a girl I met there.