Going Off Alarming: The Autobiography: Vol 2

by Danny Baker

  On the very first 606, our flag was well and truly speared into the battleground by one response in particular. My ban on club staff had not yet been announced and under the delicious umbrella question, ‘Just How Crooked Are Referees?’ we in the studio were both astounded and impressed when we received a call from Andy Townsend, then playing for Chelsea. Andy, in a way that would probably find him suspended from the game today, was driving home from that day’s match and began to heatedly outline the significant shortcomings behind the whistle at his fixture. When I asked him was this unusual, he roared with laughter and gave a few more examples of open bias he had known. Thanking him for his honesty, the show then moved on to the pros and cons of being trapped underneath those gargantuan flags that supporters pass around stadiums. The next day, though, it was Andy’s remarks that made the Sunday back pages and 606 was instantly declared to be the only place to go for all football fans when in transit each weekend. Other sports were soon phased out, but the bizarre, unique and enraged content continued to grow and flow in all directions.

  One other note before we move on. It’s long forgotten now, but 606 used to feature music – an ingredient that may have seemed super-fluous, but one that I tried to make vital. Between calls I would play ever more insistent records from all genres that I felt might make the show seem like it could influence the wheels of the audience’s trains, coaches and cars to turn a little faster. Once more I had been given complete freedom on air and the show blindsided a hierarchy not overly paying attention. By the time they became aware of what was going on it was too late to rein it in and the show was a hit. It was a tremendous thrill and a privilege, being able to spit on my hands and run up the black flag like that every week, but such a renegade style was soon to be extinguished as the industry lurched towards today’s model where, inexplicably, the further you are away from the microphone the more control you wield over what is ultimately said into it.

  Radio 5, cock-a-hoop at having a show that people were talking about, then approached me to see if I would be interested in taking over their daily breakfast show, a moribund magazine affair called Morning Edition. In that one sentence you can see how this over-exposure thing achieves lift-off, can’t you?

  This programme too went with some zip for a couple of years and even delivered a couple of lifelong friends in Danny Kelly and Mark Kermode. As newspaper reviewer and film critic respectively, I inherited both the chaps from the previous format and while I was always going to get along with Danny, given that he had joined the NME just after I left and his upbringing in North London almost entirely mirrored that of my own across the river, Mark and I were sort of slung into a spin dryer and blended. Until we later spoke about it I had no idea that ‘guest’ spots on the show were supposed to be self-contained and not designed to be interrupted. The first time Mark came in with, quite correctly, his written script and a bunch of audio clips from the films under review, he said something in his introduction about how he hated John Hughes’ films and frankly don’t we all? I couldn’t let this pass and as he attempted to press on with his five-minute spot I pointed out that to suggest such a thing about the director of Home Alone he must be some kind of notorious ratbag with extra lashings of pickled sourpuss. Appearing stunned, he looked up from his script and after an initial ‘What?’ set about me with a vim and wit every bit a match for my own. I like to think that, in that moment, Mark was freed from his previous role as robotic reader of fixed dialogue to the magnificent jousting free-form broadcaster he is today.

  My favourite tale from the Morning Edition years happened in my absence, though it was then joyfully related to me by those who were present. Once the show started doing well, a meeting was called by a senior management figure at Radio 5 to see if anything could be done to make things better. I was naturally asked to attend, but explained that my daughter’s (imaginary) pet racoon had been a bit down lately and I was at home blowing bubbles through its cage in an attempt to perk it up. Early on in the meeting, the executive turned to the show’s producers, Nick Morgan and Oliver Jones, and said,

  ‘Is Danny happy with the show and the station, do you know? I mean, can we do anything to help him?’

  Knowing me well, the pair of them were tempted to reply, ‘Yes, never call another pointless meeting like this again.’ Instead they elected to go with more diplomatic answers. The superior, however, seemed convinced that they had become disconnected from the station’s star turn and so pressed them further, leading to what I consider to be one of the greatest reported exchanges in show business history.

  ‘Well, what are Danny’s interests? Are there any guests we could get on the show he would really spark off?’

  Now it just so happened that Frank Sinatra was in town to play one of his final concerts. Oliver, who has on many occasions been reminded that his sardonic wit is prone to being misunderstood, piped up,

  ‘Well, Sinatra is playing the Albert Hall. Danny likes him. Perhaps he’ll come on.’

  This drew a laugh around the table. Except from the exec. He continued to look at Ollie.

  ‘Well? Has anyone made the call?’ he said in all seriousness.

  ‘No!’ the producer guffawed. Then, noting the furrowed brow of his superior, he attempted to explain the problem. ‘No. It’s Frank Sinatra. Frank. Sinatra. We’re Radio 5’s new breakfast show. Frank Sinatra doesn’t even receive the Queen!’

  The suit at the top of the table was having none of this.

  ‘I want someone to find out where he’s staying and ring him up. Ask if he’ll come on and do something for us.’

  ‘Do what exactly?’ asked Oliver, aghast.

  The suit was not to be swayed.

  ‘I don’t know, perhaps he could come in at six to look over the morning papers.’

  That was his idea. In all seriousness he believed there was a world in which I could say, live on air,

  ‘Well, the time here on Morning Edition this Tuesday is just coming up to eight minutes past six and now we’re going to look at some of the stories dominating today’s newspapers. Casting an eye over the headlines for us, I’m joined by singer Frank Sinatra. Frank, what’s caught your eye this morning?’

  Presumably the same member of management would not have turned a hair if I had followed this with,

  ‘Let’s see what’s happening on the roads now with our eye in the sky, Marlon Brando.’

  As my radio profile grew I began to get my first experiences of what Jerry Seinfeld once described as ‘show business people’s obsession with giving each other jack-off bowling trophies’, though he did qualify that by later saying, ‘Believe me, I would not be talking like this had I not already won most of them.’ The first award I was nominated for was at the New York International Radio Festival in 1991 and, like the two others that swiftly followed, it involved an element of fiasco.

  I had just arrived in Florida for a holiday when I received a call from GLR’s Trevor Dann, extremely excited that something on the station had caught the attention of a prestigious international jury. He explained that the actual ceremony would be in Manhattan three weeks hence and it would really give my chances of winning the gold a boost if I was in attendance. Naturally happy at the news, I told Trevor that, sadly, I would be with the family in the Sunshine State at that time and leaving the kids to fly up to New York for a business jolly just wasn’t on. Trevor asked me to reconsider my decision, underlining that the honour was something very important to a local station like GLR. With equal stress I replied that my wife not hitting me over the head with a tyre iron was just as important and this would doubtless be the outcome should I say I was going away for a few days.

  The truth was I didn’t want to go. When I’m on holiday I never call home, go online or seek out information about what might be happening back in the UK. If I so much as see anyone reading a British newspaper I genuinely feel like setting fire to it, so the idea of sitting with my boss – chum though he was – at a radio convention carried all the
allure of a weekend’s unpaid overtime in a windowless room.

  In the end a desperate Trev put a compromise to me that only a heartless weasel would have nixed. The ceremony was at 8 p.m., GLR would get me a seat on a 4 p.m. flight out of Orlando that would arrive in New York around 6.30. This would take me straight to the do, and while I would miss one night of my holiday I could catch the 5.30 a.m. plane next morning to be back with the family for breakfast. This was deemed doable and the connections and hotel were duly arranged.

  Shortly after signing off on this deal I began to have mixed feelings. On the one hand I had sold out a family principle and suddenly found myself to be one of those wretches who receives work calls while away with the kids. On the other . . . I was a big noise in New York! Oh yes. You will forgive me if in the days after being alerted to this my ‘bombs’ into the hotel pool were a little more flamboyant in their execution. That said, when the Friday of the awards arrived I mooched about Disney World with a melancholy air. As our little boat chugged around It’s a Small World After All, I sensed the hundreds of animatronic dolls the attraction features were not singing the famous ear-worm the ride is notorious for but instead leering out at me with disapproval, changing the chorus to, ‘You’re a Poor Dad After All’.

  I left it to the very last moment to head to the airport. Amazingly, I had not thought to pack either a dress or lounge suit for walking around the sweltering theme parks, and what’s more I was damned if I was going to hire one. The temperature that day in Florida was around a thousand degrees, so I set off for the plane in loose Hawaiian shirt, garish Bermuda shorts and pool shoes. In my bag I had packed a plain white shirt, a clean pair of jeans and a pair of black crepe-soled brothel creepers. This was as formal as I wished to be and, while not wishing to appear markedly disrespectful, I felt if a rocking radio festival couldn’t cope with that look then its awards weren’t worth the pewter they were struck from.

  The first hiccup in the carefully wrought schedule was that, of course, the plane was delayed by thirty minutes. Even with a good run into mid-town, I would be cutting it very fine. Trevor had flown out from London and I was scheduled to meet him in the reception of the Hilton hotel at 7.30. Now I would be turning up as the drum roll that announced our gala got under way. I started to tense up. WHY had I agreed to this preposterous intrusion? Answer: because it was in New York. Had I been at home and the honours bash had been held in Huddersfield, would I have gone? Not a chance.

  The second rock in the road was that I had forgotten to pack my normal glasses and, as day turned to night, all I had were the wrap-round prescription Ray-Bans that I had dashed out wearing. Every time I wanted to see a gate number or find the toilets, I had to bung on shades. Given that I was now dripping with sweat, agitatedly checking the arrivals board and muttering furiously to myself, I must have looked like a helpless cokehead awaiting his latest important parcel from Colombia.

  It was not a great flight. One of Florida’s infamous weather events meant we dropped, rattled, shuddered and lurched for the entire first hour. With bitter irony I realized that these were exactly the sorts of sensations I had been queuing up to an hour to experience in Universal Studios. Having made up a little time on the journey, the pilot announced that we were now beginning our descent into New York. This was my cue to make it to the toilets to get changed into my show clothes. From what we had heard about the weather en route, I began to wish I had also packed a jacket, but I’d decided against it because, like British newspapers, once I’m under the sun the sight of functional city garments make me feel positively greasy.

  Once inside the cubicle I wearily removed my Hawaiian top and watched myself in the mirror replace the pictures of palms and dancing girls with the traitorous white shirt of surrender. With every button I fastened it seemed like I was walling up Wendy and the kids on the other side of the world. Now down came the psychedelic Bermuda shorts, still fragrant with the chlorine from our pool, and I reached into the bag to fish out my heavy Levi’s, last worn on the outward journey. After all these weeks away, I fancied they would envelope my legs like a mummy’s bandages. Stepping into them, I hauled the denim up with a sigh. Something was wrong. I tried again. For some reason they would not come past my knees. For several seconds I remained doubled over, jeans about my ankles, holding them by the waistband. My eyes cast themselves upward in thought. I saw myself back in the Florida hotel room, working myself up into an angry state about departing, reaching into the cupboard and . . . oh fuck. These must be Wendy’s jeans. I put it another way to myself. ‘You have no trousers to wear to a glittering ceremony at the Hilton Hotel.’

  Then came the reverberating bong that precedes an announcement. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are making our final descent into New York La Guardia Airport, please return to your seats and make sure all baggage and meal trays are stowed safely away, with seat belts securely fastened. Cabin crew doors to manual.’ Oh for God’s sake!

  By the time I legged it out to the rank of yellow cabs it was 6.55 – so basically an hour to make it to my meet with Trevor. I would need every second of that, but knew I just had to buy a pair of trousers, any pair of trousers, somewhere along the way. Bundling into the back of the cab I blurted out the address – three times, Americans resolutely believe I speak in some sort of queer Bulgarian dialect – before saying, as clearly as I could, ‘Could you stop at a gents clothiers on the way?’

  My driver, a turbaned chap listening to his ethnic radio station of choice, said ‘Eh?’

  ‘A men’s shop. I need to buy some jeans?’ I enunciated slowly.

  ‘Eh?’ he said again.

  ‘Trousers. Do you know of anywhere I can buy trousers on the way?’

  There was silence.

  ‘Trousers,’ I stated hopefully, following this up with another, more plaintive, ‘Trousers?’

  The man left another pause before replying.

  ‘Eh?’ he said, this time with a hint of anger.

  I struggled with how I could make it any plainer. Then I suddenly realized where I had been going wrong. It was in the key word. This meant little in the US.

  ‘Pants!’ I now blurted. ‘I’ve come away without any pants. I need to buy a pair of pants.’

  ‘Pants?’ said my man at the wheel, followed by, ‘Pants?’

  ‘Yes, pants. I have no pants. And need some. Do you know of any pants stores we pass?’ It is a measure of how desperate I was that I didn’t even laugh at the drivel I was now breaking down into single syllables.

  Once more there was silence.

  ‘Eh?’ he eventually said.

  The traffic was not kind to us and as we sat in the Friday rush I craned my neck this way and that, searching for anything that might look like a gent’s outfitters or working man’s store. I racked my brain for somewhere I might have seen on any of my previous visits, but all I could recall were the copious XXX adult-store neons that overran midtown back then. At exactly eight o’clock the cab arrived outside the Hilton and I ran up the few steps into the lobby wearing a white shirt, psychedelic shorts, yellow socks and brothel creepers. Trevor, replete with black bow tie, was so relieved to see me he hid his reaction to the full horror of my appearance and just led the way forward. Inside, the ceremony had already begun and as we made our way to our table I sensed many of the dinner-suited and designer-frocked gathering were thinking, ‘How pathetic. This guy can’t leave his whacky persona outside for one evening. What a goon, get over yourself, buddy.’

  Settling down, I hid as much of my legs underneath the tablecloth as I could and smiled silent greetings to the other ten strangers circled around in the half-light. About five minutes later, the opening speech from the stage finished. Trevor and I applauded and then one of the most disheartening things I have ever witnessed swung into full effect. The lights went up and a pair of co-hosts, each behind a lectern, started rattling off names of medal winners at a speed identical to that of Texan auctioneers selling off cattle. Soon a line had formed to one
side of the stage, very much like the queue for the buffet at a wedding reception, and people just jogged up and were handed a trophy before coming down the other side to be photographed with it against a cheap golden backdrop emblazoned with the event’s logo. After about twenty minutes of this we heard my name called. After a short wait in the line, up I went. I don’t think I was on stage long enough for anyone to notice what I was wearing. If at the end of an hour there was anybody in the room who wasn’t holding an award, I certainly didn’t see them. Trevor and I looked at each other.

  ‘Well, not quite the Oscars . . .’ he said with raised eyebrows.

  I ventured that the ‘event’ seemed to have more in common with those time-share gatherings you read about where your attendance guarantees a Parker pen or miniature carriage clock. Naturally we agreed not to breathe a word of the perfunctory free-for-all we had been part of and simply wire London that we would be returning home with a gold.

  A far more prestigious honour is the Sony Radio Academy Award. This bash is held annually in London, and in 1992 I was nominated for Radio Personality of the Year for Morning Edition. Once again the news was a big deal for the station and once again I had to tell them I would not be around when the big night came because, you will not be staggered to learn, I was going to be in Disney World. This may strike some as unadventurous, but all I can say is that, while we did go on other holidays, the kids adored their stays in the Magic Kingdom and that was enough. The station asked me if it was possible to delay the trip, but after the New York debacle I was doubly determined not to give way. We went that year with Jonathan and Jane Ross and their family, and on about the third day my heart sank when I came back to the hotel room to find the red ‘message’ light flashing on the phone. Nobody likes that.