Easter Monday, 2009
Easter has always been a really happy time for me. Even as a child I think I found Christmas a bit overwhelming: too many expectations, too much tension, too much time cooped up, terrible weather and worried about travelling in same. Whereas Easter is spring, out of doors, relaxed, few expectations, but lots of get - togethers with family and friends. Relaxed, lovely, all the adults seemed very happy and not distracted by worrying endlessly whether the sodding turkey was done enough or whether they and bought the right presents.
As a child we spent most Easters with family friends down south – where I was born but must point out that we moved north when I was about 18 months and there was nothing I could do about it at the time! My dad spent a few years working at a research institute in Surrey and Mum got pregnant with me during what was evidently a very happy period in their early marriage. According to Mum (bless here!) mine was a trouble-free pregnancy and birth and I was a very contented baby (I was born at home with only the midwife present as the doctor had pronounced in his visit that I would be some time yet but, well evidently I started my life-long trend of surprising people just when they think they'd got me sussed, by popping out sooner than expected -you can make your own jokes up here). Anyhow, my Mum and Dad were good friends with another couple, also with two boys, though a bit older than me and my brother (I was always the youngest!) and when my Dad got a job in the midlands they kept up their friendship.
I used to love going down there – first the excitement of driving around London (no M25 then of course) and, amongst other things, spotting the Police boxes – just like in Dr Who! Which would, of course, set me off 'singing' the theme tune, impersonations of Daleks, etc.
Then it was putting out the Easter eggs in a row (maybe three or four in a good year) and the anticipation of Easter Sunday and the scoffing of same, with some rivalry as to who had the best/most and who could eat them the quickest. These sons were great fun – they and a big garden and we would have some amazing games' tournaments. In the evenings, the adults got 'merry', playing ludicrous and never-ending card games with increasing hilarity – one of which, 'Up the River', had the most arcane and complex rules, which my Dad claimed to be know. Too young to play a hand myself I would be 'helping' him and explained his strategy in whispers. At we shared a room with them and we were sent off to bed, naturally there was high jinx up there, with adults coming in every so often to tell us to shut up and get off to sleep. One thing that was a bit strange to me and my brother was the bed-time prayers – which, coming from an atheist household, we never did.
When I was a bit older I used to go with the father to an open-air service on the Surrey Downs. He had a fantastic baritone voice – again, due to my Heathen upbringing, the only hymns I knew were the ones we were forced to sing at school ("and DON'T smile or I'll knock that grin off you", etc) so I couldn't really join in. Some happy religion this was!!). Anyway, I have strong memories of the early morning mist giving way as the hills filled with this sounds of this service.
Anther Easter was spent with this family on the Norfolk Broads – UNBELIEVABLY exciting to share an eight berth (SLEEPING on a boat and everything! Fantastic! Playing these evening card games had an added hilarity and excitement on board. By day I would occasionally be allowed to take the wheel (obviously with a responsible adult's hand hovering over the tiller!). I am rarely happier than when in, on or over water. Another time we rented a cottage in Dymchurch – locale of the Dr Syn novels about smuggling, which of course was a gift to my ever-fertile imagination.
The only time I have been abroad at Easter was when I was 14 (nearly 15!) and my Dad booked us on unbelievably cheap cruise. I think it was just £50. Even then that was a real bargain – my Dad couldn't work out how they could make it pay; he was right – a year or so later the company went bust. It was during this trip that I was exposed to another, rather different form of religious celebration; in Athens and Corfu, where the colour of the elaborate floats, and the joyous celebrations made me think again about how important religion was to 'other people'. But not for too long. That holiday is chiefly remembered for meeting a gorgeous Canadian girl. Cindy had cornflower hair, blue yes, freckles, a great sense of humour (well, she laughed at my stupid jokes and antics); gorgeous. She was with another girl and her family and as it turned out both families were loaded. Not that the latter interested me. I think we met the girls as my brother and I were playing some game on deck. Both these girls were a great laugh and it was real holiday romance. When we parted at the airport Cindy said: "I'll write you as soon as I get home" Note that. "I'll write you". Not "write to you", which for some reason made a deep impression on me. But, regardless of this North American grammatical curiosity, the big question was: would she? (Write, I mean!!) Well, dear reader, she did.
About a fortnight later an air mail envelope arrived, containing a lovely, chatter letter, full of nonsense, referring to all the daft things that had happened on the cruise, in jokes, lots of exclamation marks, in loopy, girly handwriting. Many times my hand went over….that writing. Her hand had been on that paper! Even better, she had enclosed a high school photo – one of those formal jobs, with a blue back-ground, which showed up her utter loveliness perfectly. I had this propped up on my desk in my bedroom throughout all the next year as I worked for and revised for my 'O' levels. Very distracting! (There have been serious studies explaining the difference between academic attainment of boys and girls at around that age and it can be mostly attributed to the amount of time that, erm, boys spend thinking about girls and indulging in, ahem, 'quantitative easing', when they should be studying periodic tables, or the origins of World War 1, or whatever. Makes sense!). Either way, at home or in the class-room my attention often drifted onto Cindy, or radio, music - or all three.
Anyway, back to the southern escapades though keeping up the maritime theme: being in the midlands, the reception of the mid-'60s pirates was very iffy. But south of London, of course, they boomed in, so I heard these stations at Easter-time (as I, much later, later listened to Capital Radio and the first 'Help a London Child' in 1974). I also heard them when we holidayed in the summer at my grandparents' chalet near Skegness. Well, it was hard to avoid the stations on the beach. The thought of these guys broadcasting on ships just over the horizon and playing this amazing pop music – all day and much of the night – was fabulous to me. And of course, Easter '64 was when it all started. I am sure that Ronan O'Rahilly – whose paternal grandfather was killed in a hail of machine-gun bullets by the Brits during the Easter uprising of Easter 1916 and was commemorated in a poem by W.B.Yeats – chose Easter as the time to launch his 'love bomb' revolution of the air-waves.
In Easter 2004 – handily, just after I had Broadband at home – BBC Essex put together a station broadcast on its AM frequencies and over the Internet using a Lightship just off the Harwich coast. This reunited many of the big names from the 'pirate' eras, as well as younger presenters who were not alive even alive during the mid-'60s. A brilliant idea. I did an academic paper and conference paper on this (no less), with an article published in Media History. In August 2007 they did the same thing, to commemorate the 40th anniversary of the coming into effect of the Act which forced most of the stations off the air. Only the two Caroline ships (north and south) heroically carried on, with an estimated 15 million listeners across Europe listening at midnight on August `14th/15th to the Civil Rights anthem "We Shall Overcome", The Beatles' "All You Need is Love", preceded by the proclamation, so redolent of Britain in May 1940: "We are now alone"! Real goose-bumps stuff. The DJs on the 'revived' ship included Johnnie Walker, who put together the extraordinary, hyperbolic Man's Fight For Freedom broadcast, in August '67. I was on a family holiday in Vancouver in August 2007 but the Essex station received prime-time TV news coverage on the CBC evening news. Extraordinary.
Now they're at it again! This week-end'/s broadcasts have been terrif' and a reminder just how crap most of modern radio is. The DJs – now well into their 60s – are on sparkling form and have even been able to choose their own music – not, as one observed, the same 300 songs as on most commercial radio today. Of course, they haven't got to earn their living through advertising or sponsorship. I'll have to do another Blog post on all of this at some stage. For the moment though, for the 'true' story of the importance of these ships on politics, culture, as well as broadcasting try this article . The ludicrous Curtis movie (see previous post), which although providing the pretext for a further 'blast from the past' is, erm, 'Bollocks, Actually',
But if this is not to become a novel-sized length blog I must finish with a note about the memorial service for former Radio City (City Talk) presenter Phil Easton. This was well over a fortnight ago but it was just too upsetting for me to sit down and write about it until now. It was a lovely, if terribly poignant, celebration of Phil's life; first at Liverpool Cathedral. I asked my fellow guests either side in the 'friends and family' section if they were 'blubbers' – 'cos I definitely am. Fortunately, they weren't. But there was not a dry eye in the cathedral when son Dan did his eulogy. After numerous tributes from the music and entertainment worlds, including some stunning live performances, it was Dan's observation that his Dad "asked for nothing for himself…nothing at all…except for a cold beer and some sun" (Phil was due to retire to his Spanish villa at the end of this year) that broke my efforts at self-control. The service ended with a video compilation of family videos of Phil accompanied by "You'll Never Walk Alone." Almost unbearable. I am sure I was not the only one who was inspired by what were obviously heartfelt and sincere accolades to such a lovely guy to try and be a better person. This is a wonderful legacy.
Afterwards at The Cavern, things were naturally more light-hearted and, of course, it was good to catch up with some folks whom I'd not seen for many years and some I'd never met – like Radio City's original Chairman. The fact that Phil has a plaque on The Cavern wall, not far below John Lennon's, shows the esteem in which he is held but the love and laughter from the people who knew him is the real testament to his life and to the man. We are all the better from knowing him.
I know it was an honour for those organising the whole event to do this but also an emotional and organisational ordeal. The lovely Lesley ('Molly') Marshall (who was programmes' administrator – or some such title! - when I was Programme Controller at Radio City Gold, and continues to be the person who really runs the station(s)!), did a lot of the hard work and is another person who is a life-enhancer and whom I've never known to be 'moody' - even though, when I spoke to her the next day, she was, understandably, emotionally exhausted. As one of the presenters said to me on my first day at the station: "the world would be a much better place of there were more Lesley Marshalls." Very true.
The Sunday before last I was on Phil's last station – City Talk – as guest on a show currently being presented by Will Batchelor (link is to his regular on-air slot), who did a terrific job: just right for that time on a Sunday and I had at least three really good on-air rants and felt much better afterwards! Highlights available soon on my Podcast page (maybe!)
But now I must prepare for my trip to the Mojave desert.
Next dispatch, all being well, from Las Vegas.
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