CWTSH ME IF YOU CAN                             Blog: 24 Jan 2012

There is sometimes talk in Wales of ‘ English oppression’  just as there is occasional talk in England about ‘ Welsh depression’.

Are they just myths built up over the decades or are they based on truth?

Well,  for a start it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to claim that there’s a wholly misinformed image of ‘ The Welsh ‘ held by some people who live outside the Principality.   The image I’m referring to is that of the dour, miserable, self-pitying Taff with a chip on his shoulder the size of one of Katie Prices over- inflated bazoomas and a pathological hatred of all things English.

But the reality is, unless you’re a curmudgeonly hermit in a sheep-skin thong, living in a cave half-way up Mount Snowdon, sworn to have nothing to do with modern times,  nobody in Wales who buys national newspapers, glossy celebrity magazines, books , cds and dvds, or watches tv, listens to the radio, goes to the theatre , cinema, music & rock concerts and comedy clubs,  can truthfully, hand-on-heart hate all things English.  Because it’s undeniable that we all absorb and enjoy English/British culture.

In the same way, the majority of people who think the Welsh are a race of whinging whiners have probably never ventured into Wales for any length of time, in which case they never enjoyed the benefits of the loveliest, most gloriously  wonderful thing ever to come out of Wales.

No, not Catherine Zeta Jones. Or the Welsh cake.  Though they both come pretty close.

I am of course referring to a cwtsh. Aahhh! The word itself is a deliciously delicate delight on the lips.  Cwtssshh! Spoken softly it sounds like a miniature lullaby.  If ever you get stressed, repeat ‘ cwtsh ‘ a dozen or so times and your mind will be in a much better place.

So, what is this ‘ cwtsh ‘ ?

A cwtsh, to the uninitiated ( and un-cwtsh’d ) is a warm, affectionate embrace that provides the lucky recipient with much more lasting comfort than a quick cuddle. There’s more to a cwtsh than just holding someone really , really tightly.

You’ve heard of a ‘ group hug ‘ right? Well as all-embracing (literally) one of those is, if you receive a genuine, honest-to-goodness one-on-one cwtsh from a person who really means it,  it’s value is more than a dozen group hugs.

To me, the  fact that over the centuries,  we Welsh created, nurtured, developed and continue to freely practice the art of the  cwtsh, is proof that we are a nation of warm-hearted, understanding people, always ready to hold out our arms to our fellow men and women when they need us.

There is no 100% accurate literal translation of ‘ cwtsh ‘ from Welsh  to English, but the closest ( and at the same time the most appropriate )  is ‘ a safe place ‘.

Everyone needs a safe place when things get too much for us.  Somewhere the world can’t get to us, where no one can  hurt us or criticise us or look down on us or laugh at us or demand too much of us.  And there will be times in our lives when inevitably we will all appreciate that such a place exists.

For a baby , the strong protective arms of a mother, father or grandparent will  provide that safe place .  Always.

And for a small child, perhaps frightened or upset or unwell, there is no more effective remedy that can help to wipe away the tears as quickly and as happily as a cwtsh from it’s  Mam.  Yes Dads can give good cwtshes, but all Dads know that when it comes to quality cwtshes, no one comes close to Mam. She is the Queen of the Cwtsh.

To paraphrase a well- known saying....‘ A cwtsh isn’t just for Childhood. It’s for life “.

Because when you’ve just received bad news....or had a blazing argument with your loved one that’s  come to a head after a lengthy  heated exchange of angry words that you now both regret...or when an item on the news upsets you so much it brings you to the verge of tears...or when your day has treated you so badly, so contemptuously, you need reminding that you’re not such a bad person after all....where better to find solace than in the safest of safe places? Held tightly within the arms of the person who loves you the most in a  cwtsh that can last five minutes or all through the evening and into the early hours.

Remember, while a cwtsh costs nothing to give, it can be worth treble its weight in gold to the person who is being cwtsh’d.

Let’s make 2012 the year of THE CWTSH. The year in which you give as many cwtsh’s as you possibly can.

And in return, if ever you feel the need to be cwtsh’d yourself – and there will be times, I assure you -  I genuinely hope that you are offered  twice as many.

DECEMBER   BLOG 13^th Dec 2011

The Comedians curse

Welcome to my pre-Christmas blog.  My, you look chilled to the bone, my friend! Brush the snow from your boots, come inside and take off your scarf, gloves and overcoat.  Yes it is dark in here.  There’s been a power cut and it could be hours until the supply is reconnected.  Luckily I found some candles to brighten up those dark corners and frighten away any imaginary demons that may lurk in them.

Sit down and warm yourself by that roaring fire while I pour us each a glass of mulled wine.  What was that?  No, that’s not someone tapping at the window.  It’s just the withered branches of a tree being blown about by the bitterly cold North wind.  I agree it does sound a little eerie.  A little unsettling.

Even more so at three in the morning when the timbers of this old place creak and moan and strain like an ancient, arthritic giant and other, unexplained sounds emanate from the room at the far end of the landing that’s been locked for over twenty years, ever since the terrible December night when....

Boo!

Gotcha!

See what I did then?  I led you in one direction, you willingly followed me and then...bang!  I surprised you.  In other words, my opening paragraphs followed the exact same pattern as a joke.  A comedian sets it up...reels in the audience....and the last line of the joke is the ‘payoff ‘ ...or surprise.

I started this Christmas blog in a spooky manner because this is traditionally the time of year for ghost stories and tales of mystery and imagination, whether it’s with your family and friends sitting around swapping strange experiences...which have no rational explanation...or the annual ritual of reading a couple of chapters of Charles Dickens “ A Christmas Carol “ every night when you’re snuggled under the duvet.

I love a mystery and believe me there is no greater mystery, in my book (which comes out next year priced £30 in all good book shops and an ironmongers in Aberystwyth) than what makes a person want to become a comedian when they are absolutely totally unsuited to the job psychologically.  The history of comedy is littered with the names of performers who were, at-best depressed or at-worst totally screwed-up because they didn’t quite make it to the ‘ A ‘ list.

And here’s the thing.  The list of comedians who did manage to make it to the ‘A ‘ list, subsequently becoming fabulously rich and achieving success on stage, television, radio....even in films...and who became even more depressed and  screwed-up, is just as long.

If you’re only vaguely knowledgeable about the great comedians of the past, you’ll be aware that Tony Hancock, the man whose BBC tv shows were so popular they emptied ‘pubs and caused church services to be re-arranged, was an introspective manic-depressive who late in his career developed an over-reliance on booze to give him confidence before he could face an audience.

Although a massive star, he was riddled with insecurities and jealous of the success of his comedy colleagues Sid James and Kenneth Williams.  So he dispensed with them before also sacking the men who had created the ‘ Hancock’ persona which had propelled him to success, scriptwriters Ray Galton and Alan Simpson.  He then channel-hopped from the BBC to A.T.V. ( one of the several ITV companies which broadcast to the nation in the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s ) for whom he made a truly appalling series which shed viewers in their millions, even  though the nation really wanted him to succeed ( no I’m not that old, I just know my comedy ).

Although famous for his radio and television sitcoms and a brace of films which, while fitfully amusing, didn’t set the movie world alight, he did start out as a stand-up comic and eventually went back to it when his star waned.  His famous return to stand-up at the Royal Festival Hall in September 1966 was a hit and miss affair and even the 50 minute televised version of the show did him no favours.

Despite hiring his old scriptwriters Galton and Simpson to pen him some new routines, whether it was because he couldn’t learn them or didn’t think they did him justice, he scrapped the new stuff and on the night went out and did bits from his old act, including impressions of long-dead actors that would have had anyone under 30 in the audience scratching their heads.  Remarkably, his comic timing was still intact but he looked tired and bloated and nothing like ‘ The Lad Himself ‘ whose television shows just a few years before were un-missable.

His problem,...well one of them...was that he continually analysed what made audiences laugh.  He wasn’t content with being the biggest, most-loved comedy star in Britain year after year. He over-intellectualised the art of comedy so much it eventually evaporated in his hands.

Two years later, in the middle of trying once again to resurrect  his career and star status, this time in Australia, he took his own life, leaving a note that said “ Things went wrong too many times “.

Perhaps if he’d hung on to his talented comedy cohorts and his writers and his BBC contract, maybe things wouldn’t have gone wrong quite so many times.  Who knows?  I do know that Bob Hope hung on to his staff and many of his writers for 30 years or more and no one enjoyed their success in comedy and the art of making people laugh as much as Hope and no one was less prone to depression or self-doubt.

Then there was the huge light entertainment star of the 70’s.  No, not Mr. Blobby.  He wasn’t big until the 90’s.  For about three weeks.  A terrible, gut-wrenching three weeks admittedly but just three weeks nevertheless.

No, I’m referring to a comedian and impressionist who was popular for a decade or more.  I won’t mention his name but you should have a pretty good idea who I mean.

He was HUGE.  He had a Saturday night BBC series plus a Christmas special every year.  He toured theatres.  He played long summer seasons.  And he popped-up as a welcome guest on chat shows and panel games.  That man had it made.  Well apart from the fact he was physically sick before he went on stage or in front of a television audience.  He was happiest pre-recording sketches that would be shown on monitors to the studio audience and their genuine laughter would be recorded.

As his success grew, so did his doubts and fears and depression.  Until eventually he became so crippled with stage fright he just could not step out in front of an audience.  Which as you may know is one of the basic requirements of being a performer.  He even tried appearing in stage farces, surrounded by comedy actors who could give him moral and sometimes verbal support if he forgot a line.  But even that was too much for him and in less time than it takes to remove the greasepaint of destiny from the over-made-up face of Olde Father Time, this very talented man disappeared from view.

Blimey!  This blog hasn’t been very Christmassy has it?  Doom and gloom Depression. Suicide. Sad lonely characters...it’s like “ A Best of Jeremy Kyle “ dvd.

Look, it’s not a state secret that most comedians are complicated people.  To be complicated is one of the main requirements of the job.  You may have seen the ads in your local ‘paper or the situations vacant pages of the Times.

“ Comedian wanted.  Simple, uncomplicated people with no particular attitude, hang-ups, obsessions,  opinions or oddly- skewed personal  view of the world need not apply “.

Let’s take me for example.  Why?   Because this is my blog.  When you get around to writing your own blog you can talk about you as much as you like.   I might even take the time to read it.  Unless it’s a nice day.  But this is my blog, which is why there’s so many references to me in it.  I think I’ve made my point. Ever so subtly.

I love being a comedian. I love making people laugh. But most sensible people in the audience realise that I don’t just walk on and make things up as I go along.  I prepare well in advance. I write material, and learn it. Over and over again until I know it well enough to open my mouth and share it with an audience.

But before I go on stage my slightly ‘complicated‘side shows itself.   I can’t just step out of the car and onto the stage.  I arrive well before show time and I keep myself to myself, staying away from any negative conversations or other performers  mood swings.  Because if there are eight comedians in the green room, all with different personalities and character quirks, it only takes one of them to look a bit nervous or doubtful about the strength of his or her material and it can be as contagious as a sneeze in a lift.   A lift with lots of people in it.  Well, I say ‘lots’.  Two or three’s enough for the germs from a sneeze to spread. You get the idea.

While I’m waiting to do my set, I always try and visualise the end of my act and that it’s gone very well.  By visualising the perfect outcome, when my name is called I hit the stage running and work towards what I had already pre-visualised.

That in itself isn’t enough of course.  You also need confidence, attitude, experience and faith in your material.

But if you possess all those things and can see, in your head, that they will all come together in the time they’ve given you on stage, you will do better than someone who is full of self-doubt and moments before his or her name is called,  is sitting there wondering “ What the hell am I doing here?  I’m crap !”.

And here endeth the umpteenth lesson.

Roy Woods song “ I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day “ which there’s a chance you might have heard once or twice while out shopping in the last couple of months, doesn’t make any sense.  Why?  Well I’ll tell you if you’ll have a bit of patience.

Roy Wood is/was a singer and songwriter.

Singers and songwriters, before the advent of downloads, made money from singles and album sales.

Singles and albums were sold in shops ( and still are ).

But shops like HMV and supermarkets are closed on Christmas Day.

So if it was Christmas every day, Roy wouldn’t be able to sell any of his records, whether they were related to Christmas or not.

So where’s the logic of  wanting it to be Christmas every day?

He just didn’t think it through, did he?

November 20th 2011                                                                                             Comedians have stress blog.

In previous blogs I’ve tried to explain what it’s like for a comedian and warm-up man to make an audience laugh in a club, theatre, television studio or a mixed sauna in Sweden. Oh....you missed the one about my gig in the mixed sauna? Well I won’t bore you with it all over again, but I will remind you how disappointed I felt when, after I thought I’d received a massive round of applause, as the steam cleared I realised the sound I’d heard was actually thirty-five pairs of bare buttocks sitting down on stone slabs at the same time.

So, if you’ve read some of my previous blogs, by now you should have some idea what it’s like to stand on a stage and tell jokes and funny stories hoping the people sitting there watching you will find you at the very least mildly amusing and at best, flippin’ hilarious.

This time around I want to give you a flavour of what it’s like behind the scenes, backstage, before that heart-stopping moment when your name is called and it’s your turn to walk up to the microphone.  Actually, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I mean, if it really was a heart-stopping moment, you’d never make it to the microphone would you? You’d be lying semi-conscious on the floor with someone working on your chest and giving you the kiss of life.   Similar to what you might see on some Swansea streets on most Friday nights.

I compered a comedy night recently which featured an array of comedians. No, that doesn’t sound right, does it? An ‘array‘ of comedians.  No, there has to be a better word to describe a collection of funny men.  A ‘ giggle ‘ of comedians maybe?  Knowing some comedians penchant for ‘ borrowing‘ other comedians material,  I think it was Barry Cryer who coined the phrase a ‘ steal ‘ of comedians. And bearing in mind how stressed-out and worried many ( though not all ) comedians are before they go on stage, maybe the most apt word would be a ‘misery ‘ of  comedians.

Anyway, this particular night there were eight comedians on the bill plus me compering and generally keeping order.  There was a real mixture of ages and experience amongst the eight comics, from the ones with loads of gigs under their  belts to those who were comedy virgins.

But it was noticeable that even some of the experienced ones were visibly nervous, unsure if the act that might have stormed an audience the previous night will get the same reaction this night. Because that happens a lot.  Solid gold material can raise the roof one night, yet, delivered in exactly the same way to a different audience in another venue the following night, it can be met by silence....or even worse...heckles and jeers.
Heckles and Jeers?  Weren’t they a comedy double-act back in the 70’s.

It’s odd that audiences can feel  so free to heckle a comedian or even shout out ” Heard it!”  while he’s in the middle of a joke, but they never do that when a singers on stage belting out a chart-topping pop song or a power ballad. Imagine going to see Shirley Bassey at the Royal Albert Hall. The 60-piece orchestra starts the strident, brassy intro to “ Goldfinger “. Shirley opens her mouth to allow that glorious voice of hers to belt out “ Gold....fingah! He’s the man, the man with the Midas touch....” and some annoying twonk in the second row who thinks he’s funny , suddenly yells out  “ Heard it!“.

That never happens and quite rightly so. But a performer who may be just as talented in the comedy world as Shirley is in the music world, is wide open to being rudely interrupted by an obnoxious audience member and is expected to be able to handle it.  I just thought that was a point worth making. Where the heck was I....?

Oh yeah.  Back to that comedy night. It was interesting for me to quietly observe how each of the comics dealt with the ‘ordeal’ they were about to endure.

And make no mistake about it, if you go out there and your first few jokes or amusing observations fall flat and get little or no reaction from the audience, so you start losing confidence and sweat appears on your top lip and the inside of your mouth suddenly resembles the Gobi Desert at noon and you’re wondering if the rest of your material will meet a similar fate and your mind starts wandering and you ask yourself why you didn’t take your  brothers advice and take up a much-less hazardous occupation, like grizzly bear wrestling or sky-diving without a parachute....it definitely becomes  an ordeal.

Different comedians cope with pre-show nerves in different ways. Some like to quietly sip a pint. Or two. Or three.  That’s not something I would recommend. I never drink alcohol before a show.  I respect my audience too much to go out there with a drink or drinks inside me.  They might have had several , which is all well and good. But a comedian has to remain sharp and focused and you can’t do that when alcohol is flowing though you system.  Or when you’re wresting grizzly bears.

On this particular night, minutes before the show started, some comedians paced up and down, going over and over the act in their head.  Some stood outside smoking and chatting as if they were just waiting for a ‘bus. Others sat there, hands in their heads, apparently asleep but actually trying to remember a new line they wrote that day and how they could shoe-horn it into their well-rehearsed routine. Mind you, I did discover that one of them really was fast asleep because of Jet lag. He’d left his car at the petrol station and walked eight miles to the gig.

They all dealt with their nerves in their own way and what worked for them, definitely must work for them, because on this particular evening, none of the comedians let me down.  They each had their own style and attitude and came well prepared with plenty of fresh, laugh-out-loud routines. I know they all took the time to prepare for the night.  And that I think is the main way a comedian can conquer his or her nerves. By knowing their act inside and outside, frontwards and backwards, so that if they do mess up a line – and it can happen to the very best and most experienced – they know exactly what the next line is,  deliver it perfectly and get the laughter that their hard work and creativity deserves.

My thanks go out to the following performers: Gary Slaymaker, Gill Ray, Matt Steel, Huw Marshall, Andy Woolley, Ignacio Lopez, Geraint Evans, Alan Wightman and Luke England.

That’s it for now. If I don’t speak to you all before December 25th, let me be the first to wish you a Happy Easter and a joyous May Day Bank Holiday,

PHIL EVANS  BLOG

Spilling the beans

Well it’s the time of year when the clocks go back. Our clock went back to  British Home Stores, because it stopped working.  We stood at the Returns desk for ten solid minutes while my partner gave the woman assistant  a real ear-bashing about how disappointed she was with the poor quality of the clock and how much it had cost her and how she was never going to buy anything at BHS ever again. When she eventually finished, the woman said “ Have you tried changing the batteries? “ and I said “ My partner doesn’t need batteries. She can keep going for hours on a large cappuccino and  a Kit Kat ! ”

So that’s Halloween out of the way.  I can’t say it’s my favourite night of the year.  Well, I get so fed up with those horrible cheeky  little children in scary masks and creepy costumes, shouting “ Trick Or Treat !”, basically holding out what amounts to a begging bowl.  You may think me harsh but I don’t see why I should give them loads of free sweets and lollipops just because I’m their Dad.

Even though they’re only  Four and Seven ( I named them after the number of a house I used to live in ), they’re my kids, and after a couple of hours of watching them playing very noisy spooky games  I  told them straight “ Will you please put away the devils horns and vampire teeth and do something useful! “  Okay, so they burst into tears and ran screaming to their mother, but it was Halloween. They were supposed to be scared!

And don’t get me started on Bonfire  Night!  Otherwise known as Guy Fawkes night.  Fawkes was the man who got arrested just minutes before he blew up the Houses of Parliament.  Other countries celebrate the lives of heroes, achievers and pioneers.  How typical of us British that every November the 5^th we celebrate a total bloody failure.

Those of you who are regular followers of my blog – and those of you who aren’t regular should cut down on the burgers and fries and eat more fruit and fibre -  will remember I mentioned  some of my experiences as a television warm-up man in a previous blog or two. I enjoy warming-up studio audiences, even though I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve almost come to the killer punch line of a joke or got that close to revealing the last line of a rambling funny story or routine, only to be interrupted ( i.e. told to shut up and get off the set ) by the floor manager because the star of the show is about to appear.  “ C’est la vie ! “ as the ancient Egyptians used to say. Well, the two or three who could speak French, anyway.

It’s a fact that if you’re a working comedian who becomes a particularly successful warm-up man, you can get offered wall-to-wall work...but only as a warm-up man.  Producers and talent bookers get to know you in that capacity and not as what you started out as and what you want to make your living as. A stand-up comic. Whilst it can be very frustrating,  in this business and in these tough economic times we have to count our blessings if we’re offered any sort of work or even asked to attend an interview to discuss the possibility of work.  Which is why, when I was invited to the BBC studios in White City  some months ago to meet a producer who might be in a position to offer me a job as a warm-up man on a new television series, I bought an Inter City train ticket to London. As I caught a train before nine in the morning, I daren’t tell you how much the ticket cost, but I doubt if I could have afforded it if an elderly uncle hadn’t died and left me £15,000 in his will.  That’s right. There was just enough left over to buy a cup of coffee and a sandwich.

When I reported at BBC reception, the young lady behind the desk said she would ‘phone the producer and tell him I had arrived. So I found a comfy chair and waited. And waited. And then I waited a bit more.  Now there’s an old showbiz expression, coined no doubt by an old showbiz expressionist, that if you sit in BBC reception long enough, the odds are you’ll see a major international star,  a newsreader, someone off “East Enders “ and at least one Chuckle Brother.

That’s just so much hogwash. And let me tell you I’ve washed my fair share of hogs in my time and they take a heckuva lot of washing.

I was sat there for almost an hour and the most famous person I saw was that bald bloke who used to be in that comedy, or was it a drama, set in Newcastle or it might have been Leeds?  The one set in a supermarket. Or possibly a vicarage. You must know him. He was married to that woman who was in “Emmerdale “ or “ Holby City ”  before getting that show on E4 at half past one in the morning.  So you can imagine my excitement.

Ah, but then! But then! Who should I see walking up to the reception desk, but an imposing figure dressed all in black  with curly grey hair and beard to match. No, not Esther Rantzen or Angela Rippon, you card, you! You’re really funny! So stop it!

It was none other than the Prince of Pontypridd....Tom Jones himself!  I couldn’t believe he was on his own. I imagined he might have brought along a large entourage...or some other foreign car.   And,  after having reported-in at reception, he sat down right opposite me, smiled, and nodded.   Then, some sixth sense must of kicked-in, because he leant over and said in that familiar, deep husky voice “ Oooh, sweetie, I simply adore those shoes you’re wearing! Where did you find them, you lucky bitch? “.

No, no, he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. It was my jacket he loved. No, I’m kidding. I know Tom’s not remotely camp.  Just bear with me and with a bit of luck and a fair wind, we should both arrive at the end of this anecdote at the same time.

What he said was “ You’re not from Wales by any chance are you? “. Now I’ll admit I might have given him a little clue here and there.  Things like, wearing a copy of the Western  Mail on my head...playing the Welsh National Anthem on a kazoo...and building a scale model of the Senedd out of plastic spoons.

So we started talking, he asked me what I was doing at the BBC and it turned out he was going to meet the same producer who should have met me an hour before .  As we were chatting away,  a young girl P.A. came over and asked Tom to accompany her.  Tom shook my hand, wished me luck and off he went.  To see the producer I was supposed to have met an  hour before!

That was a real lesson for me. I learned that international superstars who have sold millions of records and performed  all over the world from Las Vegas to the London Palladium over a forty-five year career, are thought to be more important than a warm-up man from West Wales.   Who would have thought it?

It was another hour before the producer I had travelled to London to meet, could find the time to see me. And when he walked up to me, he didn’t even apologise for keeping me waiting. As far as he was concerned, I might have been waiting to see him for five minutes or five hours. He couldn’t have cared less.

Oh, you want to know this pillocks name? 0kay, for the sake of this blog, I’ll call him Nigel. I’ll call him Nigel because that’s his name.

I couldn’t show Nigel how angry I felt for being left waiting for two hours.  If I had, there would be no chance of me being offered the job, which, from what I understood would entail me working every Saturday night for twelve weeks, for pretty good money.  But he’d behaved very rudely and made me feel about  that big.  It didn’t help matters, as he walked me to his office, that he didn’t stop boasting about all the huge stars he had worked with and how he was the BBC’s golden boy of entertainment, yadda, yadda, yadda.

Make no mistake about it, he wanted me to know that despite the fact the show he was producing was, in his words “ Going to be the next big Saturday night ratings winner “  if I was chosen to be the warm-up man, I was going to be so low on the shows totem pole, any small dog who needed to cock his leg against it, would be pee-ing way over my head.

As we walked to his office, him jabbering on about his successes, me trying to look interested while I was silently seething inside, he suddenly stopped in his tracks and said, “  Look, Paul....” , which was another nail in the coffin of our budding friendship... “ Here at the BBC London, it’s not like BBC Cardiff.  These corridors here are simply awash with stars and superstars.  And as I doubt you have actually worked with or met many superstars, I must insist that if you see one today, and there’s every likelihood you’ll see many while you’re here,  you must not approach them , speak to them, smile at them or even look at them. Is that understood? “

I nodded, which seemed to keep him happy and then we carried on walking for a bit, him talking, me wishing a rogue Dalek would come hurtling down the corridor to exterminate him, when he stopped again.  “ Bill...” he said, “ Let me be frank !”.

So Nigel had  suddenly become Frank. How confusing. Pause for laughs. None came. Cary on. He said  “We have several potential warm-up men to see over the next week or so, some of them with vastly more experience than you. So don’t build your hopes up! “  No fear of that. Any hopes I’d had when I got on the  train were now laying battered and bruised on the side of the track, somewhere between Bristol Parkway and Swindon .

He continued “ But as you’ve come all this way, let me show you our Green Room. You do know what a green room is, I hope? “ .  I was now ready to punch this arrogant, condescending twonk right in his condescendingly twonky nose.  He opened a door and I followed him into the Green room , which contained a half dozen sofas, a table covered in plates of cold meats, salads and fruit and....sat in the corner, drinking a cup of tea and watching “ In The Night Garden “ on a  50” plasma screen, the Prince Of Pontypridd. Jones The Voice!

When Nigel saw Tom he almost had a blue fit, saying “ Sorry to interrupt Tom! We’ll come back later” as he tried to push me out of the room before I could make eye contact with the superstar.   Tom looked up at Nigel and said nothing. Then he looked at me, smiled and said “ Alright ‘Phil! Has he offered you the job yet? “ . I said “No, Tom, he hasn’t interviewed me, yet ! “ . And I paused for two seconds before I said, purely to get up Nigels condescendingly twonky nose. “Maybe you could put in a good word for me? “.

Tom flashed that famous grin of his and went back to watching the Ninky Nonk and the Pinky Ponk, as Nigel grabbed my arm and stuttered “ D....d....d...you know Tom Jones? “, his red face now a picture of puzzled embarrassment.

I could have said so many things at that moment, but I just ignored him, said goodbye to Tom, who waved  and wished me luck again and I walked back down the corridor, out of the BBC and hailed a taxi to take me to Paddington Station.

I’m still waiting to hear from Nigel.

As they say on “ In The Night Garden “....Isn’t it a pip!!

Until the next time, my friends, remember, you know you’re having a bad day when you accidentally tune in to “ Loose Women “ for a few minutes and find  yourself thinking “ These girls talk a lot of sense! I must watch this more often!”.