by Chris Evans
Some time during that night in the toilets back at Radio Radio I had obviously made an impression on The Dude and little did I know he was now out there working his magic very much on my behalf.
The old BBC Radio London had recently closed down and was to be relaunched shortly as a new, more cosmopolitan, forward-thinking station. It would also receive a new name—GLR, Greater London Radio. The Dude was to be part of the debut line up and the new boss who was looking for fresh people with a fresh new vibe had asked him if he knew of anyone who might fit the bill. Along with a couple of other names The Dude had very kindly mentioned me, as a result of which I was contacted and asked to come in for an interview.
Wow, this really was something—I now had a shot at working for the BBC.
To get into the BBC was no mean feat, especially as a producer. It usually involved some kind of university education or at least a stint at broadcast school. To circumvent this type of route was almost unheard of but if the BBC were happy to see me, I was more than happy to see them.
When I said I was asked in for an interview, I ought to clarify that the BBC don’t have interviews so much, they have a process called ‘boarding’. It’s one of the typical BBC phrases that still exist to this day, like holidays are always referred to as ‘leave’, a surefire way of spotting a BBC employee and the use of which for some reason still makes me giggle.
To be ‘boarded’, a potential candidate must face an actual ‘board’ of people who will cross-examine them with a combination of different questions. It’s a very good idea that works well and with the make-up of the board often being a huge source of intrigue itself.
‘Have you heard who’s on the board yet?’ the whispers soon start to circulate.
The members of the board are usually cast from various departments from across the BBC and even the top jobs and internal moves are still determined in this traditional way, from the Director General all the way down to researchers and broadcast assistants. I was currently at the ‘all the way down’ level but this was a job with the most respected broadcaster in the world and I was preparing to give it my best shot.
My board was to take place at the radio station which was located in Marylebone High Street, a very swanky part of town, posh shops with the clientele to match, with lots of actors and other showbiz types residing in the area, many of them in the pretty mews houses which lay hidden off the main drag.
On the day of my appointment I had decided to walk there to help clear my head, the route from my house meant I could take in Regents Park along the way, the perfect place for a quiet think and for me to contemplate what kind of questions they might ask me. The park, with its mighty trees and acres of green grass, helped calm me down and gain some perspective. I’m always exasperated at how few people make use of these amazing spaces and their beautiful surroundings.
As I arrived at reception, my peaceful preparation had worked—I was relaxed and focused, a good place to be. I was, however, minus one essential item.
‘Don’t you have a tie?’ said the guy who was due to go in before me. His name was John Revell, who happened to be the second person I had met after Carol on my first day at work at Radio Radio. John had previously worked as an in-store DJ at Virgin Megastore before moving on to the doomed satellite broadcaster. We had hit it off immediately that first morning whilst struggling to assemble a Revox tape machine. Neither of us had the first idea what we were doing and it resulted in one of those situations where you can barely talk for laughing.
‘No, why, do you think I need one?’ I replied, suddenly feeling on edge.
‘This is the BBC, they like all that, you gotta show you know the appropriate thing to do—the etiquette—and right now wearing a tie is probably pretty much up there at the top of the list.’
‘Shit, fuck—fuck, shit!’ He was right, I thought I had looked perfectly acceptable in jeans, a shirt and jacket but I had to put a tie on—it wasn’t worth the risk. I wasn’t going to not get this job because I wasn’t wearing a tie. I had the rest of my life not to wear a tie.
‘You can borrow my tie if you like,’ he offered kindly.
‘But don’t you need it?’
‘Yes, but they always take five minutes to discuss things after seeing someone, so you can have it after I’ve been in.’
‘Gee thanks man.’ What a star.
In he went and twenty minutes or so later he was out again. John said he thought it had gone well and that the guys in there seemed decent enough; he said it wasn’t as tough as he thought it was going to be and he advised me just to be myself and let them know how much I loved radio and wanted the job. He then duly took his tie off and handed it over.
‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Break a leg.’
The board was made up of three people—the new boss and two other suits, except they weren’t suits, they were smart casual—quite cool for execs, all with a different line in questioning, serious but not solemn. My boarding got under way. The questions, few of which I had expected, came thick and fast. I’m sure I was way off the mark with most of my answers but I kept the bullshit down to a minimum whilst cranking up the enthusiasm to maximum. Towards the end of the session, their mood had lightened and I began to sense a feeling that they might even like me. Could I really be in with a chance of working for the BBC?
I finished with a flurry of how and where I had come from, experiencing the relative freedom and creativity of commercial radio which I suggested could be useful if married with the professionalism and resources of the BBC—it was just what the corporation needed. In my mind the Beeb presented broadcasters and producers with endless opportunities but was lacking in ideas whereas commercial radio was basically the opposite. This final argument, though a little audacious, brought a smile to their faces—always a good time to shut up—I decided to leave it there.
Matthew Bannister, the boss, thanked me for my time, congratulated me on my energy and positivity and informed me that they’d ‘let me know’. As I rose from my chair and turned to the door I wanted to punch the air—I may not get the job but I couldn’t have done any better and that’s all a person can ever ask of themselves—but then…
…just as I was about to press down the handle on the door to ‘escape’ along with remembering to breathe, which I had momentarily forgotten how to do, Matthew called me back.
‘Er, just one more thing…’
‘Shit—fuck, what was it? What was he going to ask me now? Please don’t let it be a sneaky last-minute question designed to trip me up,’ I thought to myself. I turned and smiled through gritted teeth, attempting to appear nonchalant but filled with a terrible sense of foreboding.
‘Sure, what is it?’ I squeaked unconvincingly.
‘Err…is that the same tie the last guy had on?’
Ha ha, very bloody funny, the three of them were in stitches.
‘No,’ I replied with a huge sigh of relief and a relieved smile. ‘Who on earth would be so stupid as not to turn up for a BBC board without a tie?’
Two days later I got the job, as did John—the tie was a winner—and so were we.
Top 10 Jobs at a Radio Station —in My Very Biased Opinion
10 Work Experience
9 Broadcast Assistant
8 Assistant Producer
7 Producer
6 Executive Producer
5 Head of Department
4 Assistant Controller
3 Controller
2 Network Controller
1 DJ
Greater London Radio was to become a very special place for me and one without which I would not have achieved much of what you most likely already know about.
GLR’s ethos was that it should be a much bolder station than its predecessor Radio London had ever dared to be, based on the fact that the local BBC station for London was in many ways a one-off. London is, after all, one of the most famous cities in the world—people come to live and work here from all over and the new GLR wasn’t going t
o be embarrassed to acknowledge this. It was decided it would capitalise and seize upon all the opportunities such a rich and fertile environment had to offer and would stop pretending to be like all the other local BBC radio stations.
Big ideas call for big names, so once again I witnessed a small army of well-known personalities drafted in to fill the schedules—many of whom had been more used to telly, some having never done any radio before. This is where I came in.
I was charged with the task of producing a young lady by the name of Emma Freud, who was slated to host the mid-morning weekday slot. Emma was a much-respected television broadcaster and one of the sharpest cookies in town. She came from one of the most famous dynasties of modern times, her great-grandfather being Sigmund Freud—the father of psychoanalysis—and her own father the eccentric, intellectual and much-loved though now sadly departed Sir Clement. As a result of such breeding, there was nothing Emma wouldn’t tackle, her confidence knew no bounds—or at least that’s how it seemed, although underneath she was actually quite a fragile little soul. She took to radio, however, like a duck to water. Failure was not in her vocabulary—she was totally brilliant.
Emma typed all her own scripts for every single show; she prepared her research notes more thoroughly than anyone I had ever worked with. Not only that but she insisted on learning how to self-operate the studio, something a lot of ‘celebs’ shy away from. She was never late and was never once antsy or starry, no need for talent management here—Emma was the real deal, a consummate professional, the best of the best, a joy, what more can I say? I loved working with her.
As Emma’s show grew in stature and popularity, I was now labelled as the kid who taught London TV types how to do radio and as a result was given my next charge—a shy, retiring young man by the name of Danny Baker.
Danny was an old television colleague of Emma’s from LWT’s The Six O’Clock Show. It was a show I’d never seen as it came off air before I arrived in London but by all accounts it was a very big noise for several years, a fact Danny was very keen not to let pass me by. The Six O’Clock Show was a Friday teatime show designed to start the weekend off with a bang. This was another prophetic coincidence as Danny and I would one day work together on a similar show at a similar time and on a Friday night. You know the one.
I will never forget the first time I met Danny. He came for a cup of coffee after Emma’s show one day—Jesus Christ (and I don’t often take the Lord’s name in vain)—he just talked and talked and talked and he’s been talking ever since.
Danny really is a one in a gazillion—the most energetic man I know as well as one of the cleverest. No one can hold a torch to Danny when he is on form. He is alight twenty-four seven and is now one of my best friends. That first day, however, I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted to see him again, let alone work with him in a confined space twice a week for the next year.
Danny had been asked to host the new weekend breakfast show, a real shot in the arm for the listeners as the lady who’d been doing it for the previous hundred years was a more ‘traditional’ broadcaster, shall we say. Her audience didn’t have a clue what was about to hit them. Nor did I for that matter.
Danny’s opening link on his first show, his first-ever link on the radio was at six a.m. on a Saturday morning and consisted of the following sequence of events. He opened the fader connected to the microphone and when the red light came on he immediately started to bang on the console of his desk with his fist, like a warmonger whipping up the mob:
‘GOOD MORNING LONDON’, he bellowed. ‘THIS IS RAW MEAT RADIO, THERE’S A NEW SHERIFF IN TOWN AND FROM NOW ON THIS IS HOW IT’S GONNA BE—HEAR YEE, HEAR YEE.’
With his other hand he then proceeded to ring a handbell for all it was worth before next producing a huge old-fashioned bell horn and honking it profusely.
What the hell was this mad man doing? The banging on the desk was making everything distort so much no one listening at home would have been able to understand the first word of his radio revolution. And what was all the shouting? Was he trying to broadcast the first ever radio show that didn’t need a transmitter, let alone a microphone? Whatever it was, though the method needed a little fine tuning, the intention was clear, to me at least, if maybe not anyone else as I was probably the only one who could hear what he was saying.
Danny was going to do it his way—period. The listeners were either going to love it or hate it. Fortunately for everyone, once we’d fitted a new microphone and they could hear him—they loved it: Danny was a hit, a humungus, unstoppable, unpredictable, hairy, raw-meat-radio hit.
Like the majority of the best, Danny was a leave-alone guy: once he’d grasped the basics of what he needed to know, which took him no more than a couple of shows, there was little he needed from me. I just spent the next few months benefiting from the first-hand experience of witnessing another mad genius at work but I got the added bonus of the pictures as well as the sound—exhausting but great fun.
I wouldn’t want to be in Danny’s head for a second but I want him in my life for ever.
For the first time in a long time after Danny had settled in and probably the first time in my career, I felt myself cruising—a very dangerous place to be. I was a BBC staff member, I was on a very good wage—but I was treading water. Both the station and the shows I was involved in were doing well, all I had to do was keep my eye on them, but as you get better at something, inevitably you learn less and less. This is precisely what was happening to me. I concluded that if I wanted to keep moving forward I needed to take the next step, wherever that was and whatever that might be.
Top 10 Pivotal Moments in My Career
10 Going to watch Timmy at Old Trafford
9 The phone call from Andy
8 The Dude
7 The Big Breakfast
6 Don’t Forget Your Toothbrush
5 TFI Friday
4 Making a load of money
3 Losing a load of money
2 Fame
1 Matthew Bannister
When you’re hot in the London media scene, everyone tends to know about it. Fortunately for me it wasn’t long before the word was out that there was a sparky young producer over at GLR who might be ready for a move. This just happened to coincide with the need to fill a vacancy over at the mighty Radio 1.
I was twenty-five years of age and about to be offered a producing post on a national BBC network. It was a job which I would accept without hesitation after completing the obligatory boarding process, of course. A year or two before, I couldn’t even imagine being allowed to look round Radio 1, let alone actually get a job there. All I had to do now was tell Matthew, who was still my boss at GLR, that I would be leaving.
I owed Matthew plenty and this was a sad occasion for both of us. After discussing my circumstances, Matthew said he understood my position and couldn’t blame me for wanting to advance my career. What an all-round top man. He helps make you what you are and then he sends you off with a hug and a pat on the back. We shook hands but then as I went to walk out of his office, history was about to repeat itself
‘Er, Chris…just one more thing.’
I thought he was having a laugh by reminding me of the first day I met him when he called me back to ask about my tie.
‘Sure, what is it?’ This time I was a little less squeaky but equally surprised.
‘Is there anything I could say that might change your mind?’
He wasn’t joking and I was touched by the sincerity of his question but nevertheless the writing was on the wall, I had to take the offer from Radio 1 if I wanted to progress my career.
‘Honestly, Matthew I am flattered that you even ask but really there isn’t. Radio 1 versus GLR. It’s a no contest.’
‘Alright…what about…if I gave you your own show?’
‘What?’ What did he just say? Did he say, ‘What about if he gave me my own show!’
I didn’t do the on-air thing any more. I was a producer now. My prese
nting days were over—done and dusted, dead and buried, not only that but this was London, the home of ‘all killers, no fillers’ when it came to hiring talent. What on earth was he talking about?
‘How about you produce Danny on Breakfast at the weekends,’ he continued enthusiastically. ‘And then you stay on and do a Saturday afternoon show yourself?’
He both looked and sounded like he meant it.
‘But me—why?’ As far as I knew, he wasn’t even aware what I sounded like on the radio.
‘Because I think you might be good, you’re funny.’
Christ on a bike, Matthew was offering to put me back on the air and not just anywhere—on the BBC and in London—regional accent and all.
Radio 1 would have to wait—for both of us!
Top 10 Things that Make a Successful Radio Show (the type of shows I do, that is)
10 Know your audience
9 Play on your strengths
8 Avoid your weaknesses
7 Reflect the day
6 Reflect the world
5 Empower the listeners
4 Never forget music is your friend (The Beatles are always on hand if you need them)
3 Be yourself but just a bigger version
2 Put yourself down before anyone else has the chance to
1 Content, content, content
I now had a new show to create and this time my own. I couldn’t wait to get going.
Whenever I’m faced with the prospect of a new show, all I do is consider each hour as a clockface, an hour of time to fill and the better the things you fill it with, the more effortlessly and entertainingly it will pass by. The content should also, when it comes to light entertainment, leave the listener or viewer in a better, more relaxed, or more thoughtful frame of mind.
Break it down, break it down, break it down. That’s what I do, that’s the key.
