HAD ME A REAL GOOD TIME

Memorial bash for my best friend Clive last Saturday night. Been looking forward to it for a few weeks now. Not only because it was the commemoration of wonderful man but also it would perhaps give us a little bit of "closure" to coin a cliche concerning his untimely and sudden death at the tender age of 57.

Social media had been tweeting and face booking. Posters were up. The local paper had devoted half a page to the event.

A band had been booked and a BBQ organised at his favourite boozer, The Marina Fountain in St Leonard's on sea.

The whole event was a charity do with the proceeds going to Crohn's disease - a particularly nasty intestinal condition from which he had suffered for twenty years and had a profound impact on his life.  It being a condition of the "underpant department" we Brits are not very keen on taking about it so it can get overlooked in favour of the more fashionable unpleasant conditions.

We first went to this boozer in 1986 and had been going there occasionally since until about ten years ago when Clive started going there regularly which coincided with the new landlady Stevie took over and us falling out for a few months and not talking. Silly now to think of it.

He quickly became the life and soul of the place. Contributing a monthly newsletter of information on the bands that appear there every weekend the other community events and scurrilous gossip about the regulars.

We'd all been asked to bring photographs of him. There were dozens. Many of him in fancy dress  as the pub held many such do's over the years and he could always be relied upon to find an appropriate outfit.

However much to his credit he rarely dressed as a woman, we've mentioned this many times on the show. Someone says "partaaay" and the men immediately get the frocks out. Rarely Clive.

Two of his friends Terri and Neal even brought a carefully constructed life sized picture of him so all evening it looked like he was there just leaning against the wall drink in hand.

I managed to find six: Three of him as a 23 year old and another three from my wedding to the Dark Lady in 2011.

They were duly nailed to the bar.

As well as being well known as a comedy writer, his finest moment writing the "Real water" sketch for the Two Ronnies.

Watch the sketch by clicking here

In other circles he was also the guru of wet and messy fun!

He invented a fetish called "Sploshing", which - through his creation of magazines, videos and latterly websites, quickly spread around the world attracting thousands of enthusiastic disciples all eager to fill their knickers with custard!

It was slightly disappointing then that - despite a good turnout - very few of the Splosh fraternity

were there.  A shame as they would have met Sammy-Jane, a long time model and Splosh actress who kindly agreed to sign all sorts of related merchandise which raised over £100 by itself.

The Dark Lady busied herself  along with Stevie who rushed around collaring people who were only too happy to cough a couple of quid for a magazine a DVD or one of his books.  I even helped the fundraising by auctioning a couple of autographs and pictures!  Although this honestly wasn't a great help towards the final total but it was terrific to meet you and was a great ego boost.

The contribution we made to the evening was the commissioning of a cabinet and plaque containing a pair of his fancy dress shoes. They are going to be on display so go and see them.

The brass plate reads

"The Clive Harris (Bill Shipton) memorial stillies"

By the time the band finished their first set we'd been there some time whooping it up. So when I was called to make one of my legendary "short but cheerful" speeches. I was steaming gently.

I bounded onto the stage and addressed the increasingly baffled throng.

Can't really remember what I said however it was emotional. It was from the heart and it was probably nonsense:

This is my admittedly probably faulty recollection:

"We're here to celebrate our great friend Clive.....we met 36 years ago.....he stopped me being beat up at a Geordie thing at college by the compere....we went to the pub a lot.....he was funny....I wuvved him"!

I sensed I was losing the crowd at this point so upped the rhetoric:

"I have a dream......a dream that....."

Well it worked for Martin Luther King. Perhaps not in a pub in St Leonard's on sea though.

"I promise if elected to reduce income tax and fight for the provision of a free mangle for every household with children of school age"!

Now I was just bellowing incoherent nonsense at the slightly uncomfortable crowd. Although I did notice a couple of heads nodding. Politics is easy!

"This is not the end...nor is it the end of the beginning.....it is perhaps though the beginning of the end"!

That's it, Alex. Give em the full on statesman routine. That'll wow em.

"It is better to live one day as a lion than 100 years as a sheep"!

I roared before realising that I had now swapped sides and was with the baddies

Better bring the speech back to some sense of taste decency and decorum. Do the thank you's and get back to my pint and the Dark Lady who by this time was hiding behind the Stillie cabinet cringing with embarrassment....... I now go cute

"I stopped believing in Santa Claus when my mother took me to see him in a department store and he asked for my autograph"

Nope this is getting embarrassing. Just thank people and leave.

"Thank you band and people who in and and you not in band and standing there. Also charity thing good thank too. Thanks munny giving thanks Clive. Bill as you know Ronnie Splosh."

This was getting worse I was now sounding like a horribly drunken Star Wars character.

I lurched off the stage.  My lovely wife then took me home and put me to bed.

The following morning I had a horrible nagging doubt in my mind....

"Did I thank Stevie"?

"No".

So for the record:

Stevie Beale who runs the Marina Fountain pub in Caves Road St Leonard's on sea. East Sussex.

Thank you to you for all your time and effort organising a fantastic evening in memory of a wonderful and hugely popular man. He is going to be missed by so many.

Due to the brilliant work by you and your staff and the generosity of the customers. Many of whom were Clive's friends  Crohn's UK is better off the tune of £1939.25!

Thank you and see you soon.

Xx

How Bizzare!

You may have noticed I had last Friday off for a long weekend, with the estimable Tommy Sandhu sitting in.

"Off again"!

"He's hardly ever there"!

"BBC paying him too much if you ask me"!

"He has more holidays than that Wogan/Evans/Wright… combined!"

It's been arranged for some time. I had a couple of unscheduled Fridays recently due to the death of my mate Clive which I hope I'm allowed.

So it was planned that the Dark Lady and I head off to France on Wednesday evening in her car containing my stepdaughter Ella and her friend Sophia.

Following close behind would be Barry and my stepson Jamie and his friend James.

"Barry?"

Barry is the first of the DL's husbands.

Before you think we are heading into Zsa Zsa Gabor territory er "Darlink"! I am only the second (so far).

"But isn't that rather weird?"

No not really. He is a top bloke and we get along very well.  There was a gap before I happened along so we are not in the throes of an Eastenders like love triangle.

 

It has provoked some odd looks and comments in the past though.

A couple of years ago Jamie clonked his head on a window sill at a mates house. So we all hurried to the hospital to find him sitting with his Dad and a bandaged head.

"Who are these people?" The consultant asked to ascertain if he was concussed.

"My Dad. My Mum and that's my stepdad".

"Who do you live with?"

"My Dad and my Mum"

"What about your stepdad"?

"He lives somewhere else"

"So your Mum and Dad live together and yet stepdad lives somewhere else."?

"I live with my Mum and then I live with my Dad"

"Separately"

"Why don't you live with your stepdad?"

"Cos he's always in bed and we'd wake him up"

I half expected to have a visit from Social Services after that.

Another time Barry was in hospital for an operation and we were all crowded round his bed. All four, well five if you include the patient.

"Who are all these people?" asked the bustling nurse. (Editors note. Nurses always bustle).

"My children. My ex wife. Her new husband" sighed Barry wearily.

"I know it's like a soap opera" he added.

"So we're all going to France for the weekend." I said to a mutual friend.

"ALL of you? Won't that feel a little er weird?"  What happens if you want to er you know er well you know...."

"I don't think we'll be inviting him to watch if that's what you mean!" I quipped.

"NO THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT!"  She replied sharply.

I shall return to the rest of the weekend in a future blog if I remember.

I'm not usually given to commemorate celebrity deaths either here or on the show.  I find them rather mawkish and they are usually covered far better on other programmes and in the news.  I was in local radio the day John Lennon was shot.  By the time my afternoon show started at 3pm the earlier guys had played just about every Beatles and Lennon track they could find apart from Revolution 9 and Working Class hero. The bloke on before me not being the sharpest tool played a song by Wings as his tribute.

So to the passing of Sir David Frost.  I met him once when I was a fresh faced student.  One of the other people on the course revealed he was his uncle. So we very excited to all get tickets to see an episode of his discussion programme "We British" being recorded and then a quick chat with him afterwards.  He was very nice as I recall with a very swanky blazer and an expensive cigar. His nephew Bryan also revealed that his uncle had given him his old bed. Bearing in mind his lady killing reputation, we virginal teenagers could only guess at what had gone on.  I'm sure Bryan's eyesight was poor and hair grew on the palms of his hands.

As you are aware the lovely David Jacobs died this week.  There have been fulsome tributes in the press and on the radio.  I only knew him personally through Radio 2. He was not only a brilliant and unique broadcaster. Of which there are so few instantly recognisable personalities now if you tune around the dial. He was also such a nice man.

He had a wonderful store of filthy jokes, made all the more delicious by his unique voice and delivery. He was also terribly kind to youngsters like me… as I was then!

"Alex. Give me your hand" he would say when I saw him which he would grasp warmly.

"You know when you stand in for people. I don't miss them". He once said to me.  He may have just been being kind.  However I cherish those words.

"What's your favourite musical?" he once asked the assembled company in the BBC club bar one day (it's funded by subscription not the licence fee incidentally). He was like a very well dressed walking encyclopaedia.

"Guys and Dolls, Mack and Mabel, South Pacific" came the various replies.  He nodded sagely and would deliver a little or unknown fact about the various productions, discussing the various merits of the casting and the score.

"What about you Alex"?

"Well frankly David I don't know a lot about musicals".

"Well if you listened to my "f@&£()@/:;-ng" programme you would!"

He will be missed by all his many fans and colleagues. As well as his close friends and family. We shall never hear his like again. An era has passed.

I have a guilty secret: Once when I was sitting in for Ken Bruce he popped into the studio with a piece of paper.

"Friends of ours are celebrating their ruby wedding anniversary. Could you give them a mention"?

"Of course! With the greatest of pleasure."

When the show finished and I was clearing up.  I found the dedication. I had forgotten to do it!

David I hope you forgive me.

ALL KINDS OF EVERYTHING.

Still in the throes of trying to help sort out the affairs of my late mate Clive.

Sadly he left things in a bit of a mess. So we have been trying to track down a will and get his property valued for probate purposes, never realised there were so many rules, regulations and potential bills.  We now have interim death certificates so we can move forward with untangling it all.  The biggest problem now is how to value his business?

As the creator and owner of the "Splosh" empire. (For wet and messy fun lovers. 18+ only).  How do you put a value on several custard based websites?

One thing I'm absolutely sure about is that he would find the whole thing extremely funny.

If anything can be learned from this it is as follows:

1) Make sure you have a will.

2) Ensure it is up to date and all the paperwork is easy to find

3) Give a copy to an executor or trusted friend.

4) If at all possible try not to die in the first place!

In happier news: The Dark Lady is continuing to reorganise the house.  I am not sure how she does it but it does seem to be a lot cleaner and tidier and at the same time more comfortable.  Not sure how this was achieved but maybe it's a girl thing that I've not mastered.

Her tour de force so far has been the kitchen. She has completely reorganised things so that I can't find anything. However I don't worry about this as she is a terrific cook and if she wants to spend more time in there I can spend more time in my "study" which she has cleverly carved out of a spare bedroom.  So brilliantly done was this that the only casualty was a badly chipped novelty Xmas mug my sister gave me in about 1995.  She even found enough space on the shelves to go and buy some old coloured crockery from a second hand shop to add a but of colour. I have been a slave to plain white ever since I was told years ago by a very sophisticated friend that having white crockery shows off the food better and means that the colour of the comestibles will never clash with the plate.

Something that has never really occurred to me before or since as I fork mountains of brown stuff into me whilst watching "Camper van Crisis"!

We headed off to France last weekend.  One of the things we like to do is to get the early Portsmouth Ferry on a Friday morning. Grab the newspapers and go and have a proper sit down breakfast in the restaurant, this takes at least an hour. Then we repair to a cabin and sleep the rest of the journey away.  On this occasion we had only got halfway through the meal when the tannoy fired up.

"Would Mr and Mrs Lester please report to the information desk"

"What's that"? Trilled the Dark Lady prettily.

"No idea. I'll go and find out. You carry on enjoying your breakfast"

"Do you think you've left the car lights on or maybe the alarm is going off"?

"Could be, although the lights were definitely off when I went to fetch the emergency Marmite a few minutes ago".

Emergency Marmite is always carried as ferries and hotels very often don't have it. Leathery catering toast just doesn't taste right with "preserves".

As it was a bank holiday weekend the boat was very crowded.  I hurried through the crowds and joined the queue at the Information desk.

"Monsieur Lester"?

"Oui"

"We are pleased to inform you that as a regular ferry passenger for over twenty years we would like to invite you and your wife up to the bridge in order to watch the ship depart Portsmouth harbour".

You note that no attempt was made to engage me in French. They must realise from my appalling accent that I was a lost cause and it was simpler and quicker to use English.

I hurried back to the restaurant.

"What's the matter"?

Asked the DL all concerned. 

Now I am a big one for surprises and one of my wedding vows was to "surprise and delight". So I thought I'd keep schtum

"Nothing it's all good. Just finish up as we need to go downstairs".

"Why. Is something wrong"?

"No. Nothing is wrong it’s actually rather nice".

"What the matter. Why do we have to go"?

"It's all good. It's going to be a nice surprise"!

Exasperation began to creep in a little at this point as I struggled to maintain the element of the surprise.

"There's something wrong isn't there"?

(Bang)!

"THERE'S NOTHING WRONG.....I TOLD YOU IT'S A BLOODY LOVELY SURPRISE"!!

"No need to shout."

At this point even the badly behaved children who seem to populate ferries and other public places we frequent stopped and stared at the purple faced man waving a jar of Marmite for emphasis at an attractive woman who, able to multitask, was folding her newspaper, packing her handbag drinking her coffee, putting on her coat and eating toast all the same time.

"WE'VE BEEN INVITED UP ON TO THE BRIDGE. I TOLD YOU IT WAS A NICE SURPRISE"

He said rather spoiling it with his impotent rage.

"Well why didn’t you just say so?!"

This made perfect sense; with the benefit of hindsight.

Up on the bridge the view was spectacular and all was perfect calm.

"See. I told you it was a nice surprise. Why didn't you just believe me"?

"I thought you may be trying to stop me worrying by saying it was all fine. When really something terrible was happening because you are a loving and kind man"!

How she puts up with me I've no idea. The woman is a saint!

HOLIDAYS IN THE SUN

After all the grim upheavals of the past couple of weeks (see previous blogs) it was good to get away for a week with the family in Portugal; the idea being to do as little as possible, in fact ideally nothing at all.

You may argue, "Why do you need a holiday? You don't actually do any work"!

True, but the week was for the Dark Lady who does work, and very hard too; out there in the harsh realities of the commercial world.

She needed the holiday and what with it being the summer, the step-children thought they deserved one too.

So it was to a villa in the Algarve we went. Armed with those things you need for a week doing nothing, nothing at all.

A mountain of luggage!

Every time we go away we have this discussion.  We are not on a polar expedition or attempting to find the source of The Nile. We are going to spend a week in a very comfortable, well-appointed villa thank you very much!

I would be spending 90% of that time in my swimming trunks. The other 10% (look away now if you are of nervous disposition........naked in bed or bath.)

WELL I DID WARN YOU!!!

So it was decided that we would share a suitcase and the children would pack what they needed in their own cases.

I did point out that I was only going to need three pairs of trousers, a pair of shorts, two pairs of trunks, seven pairs of pants, socks and about ten shirts.

I was outvoted.

The children rammed their cases with similar amounts of clothing and a number of electronic gadgets, without which no teenager’s life is worth living.

To the airport and breakfast.  



So far so good although by this time we had picked up another smaller suitcase with emergency clothes in. So that made four in total.


I shudder to think what we'd do if we had to go for a fortnight.

   

I took my phone and one of those crazy gizmos called a book.

We arrived at Faro airport after a flight which was so uneventful I dozed throughout

We then picked up a rather dented hire care with a rear windscreen wiper missing and covered in sun creamy handprints and headed off to find the villa.

DL had been given copious notes by the owner giving us a choice of routes; the faster route using toll roads or the scenic (cheaper) route.

We soon discovered we were heading towards the motorway and thought,

"Hang the expense we are on holiday".

We then managed to get lost.....

By the time we rediscovered the route we were back on the scenic (cheaper) route and we, (well I) breathed again.

The villa was excellent although it was a little out of the way.  


Eventually however it won't be…that is when they build some more apartments. Portugal is in the teeth of a recession and as the rest of Europe isn't faring much better. No one is building. So we were surrounded by scrub-land, a few other buildings, a lot of pavements and street lights that didn't light.

Just waiting to be finished.

So we got out the sun loungers by the pool and decided to get stuck in to doing nothing.

This involved a lot of TV and DVD watching, particularly by the children as there was a satellite system.

Remember you can travel nearly anywhere in the world and you need never miss Jeremy Kyle!

Once we arrived, the hard work began. Relaxing.  It's harder than it looks I discovered. I'm normally the sort of person that likes to be up and doing stuff on a vacation rather than sitting in the sun by the pool watching the world go by. (However the villa was so peaceful the world wasn't going anywhere).

The children busied themselves doing nothing. I read my book and the Dark Lady relaxed by cooking and cleaning and tidying.

This led to a little tension.

"RELAAX"

"I am doing"

"NO YOU'RE NOT. YOU'RE SLAVING AFTER EVERYONE"!

"I find this relaxing."

"YOU'VE JUST SWAPPED ONE FORM OF DRUDGERY FOR ANOTHER"!

I think my passive aggressive behaviour wasn't actually helping in truth.  I just couldn't see how housework could be deemed "relaxing".

"I'm enjoying this in my own way....I find it therapeutic".

"BU..."

"SHUUUUT UUPPPPP"!

At that point I realised the matter was closed and I went back to my book.

My stepson Jamie and I took up scuba diving last year in Florida so we'd booked a couple of dives. This time the sea being much colder we had to don wetsuits. This involves contortions that a middle aged man should not be called upon to attempt.

We also had to go out in a far smaller craft called a ‘RIB’ (Rigid Inflatable Boat).  And there was the whole toppling over backwards into the water thingy, which was quite disorientating the first time not knowing which way was up. On top of this my mask leaked and I found it difficult to see.

We had a good time, however Jamie had trouble with his ears so we opted out of another days diving. Not such exotic fare as Florida; no sharks but we did see a pipefish. 

The second day there was an oily swell so even though I didn't succumb a few of the other divers decided to be sick over the side!

Meanwhile back at the villa the Dark Lady was a whirlwind of relaxation; cleaning, washing, cooking. It was exhausting to watch.  I read my book and occasionally cooled off in the pool waiting for the next culinary onslaught.

Apart from a couple of evenings out we stayed in and barbecued. We watched films and "House of Cards" together, it was pretty restful. The children, now 14 and 17 didn't feel it necessary to be at each others throats the whole time.  I think I was the one who was the most trouble. I'm going to have to relax about my adorable wife's desire to relax by being very busy doing stuff.

So from now on my angel, if you want to wait on me hand and foot, I'm not going to argue of it gives you pleasure.

"You couldn't get me a cold one from the fridge could you pet"?


"ROOOOOAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR"!!!!!


"Oops sorry. Forgot. Holidays over".

Just unpacked the suitcase and discovered that we hardly wore any of the clothes we took with us.


Baby what a big surprise!

THANK YOU FOR BEING A FRIEND

We met at a student party. He was intervening in a cider fuelled dispute over a girl. He was calm. Rational. Possibly brave or just plain foolhardy. I was impressed. he went on to save me life on several occasions. The first time was 24 hours later.



The next night we went to the Aston University Geordie Society night which boasted Ray Stubbs the amazing one man blues band and comedian Mike Elliot and compere.



After watching the turn and also a sweaty man shouting "Gateshead" every few minutes the evening was over. I staggered drunkenly up to the compere to ask where the comic was.



"It's me yer"



Clive intervened. Calmly. Rationally. Or then again he may have just been being brave or more probably foolhardy and we tottered into the night.



So what sort of man was he was back then?



Without a doubt the Funniest most bizarre and possibly scruffiest human being I ever saw.

Old beyond his years and to me very worldly wise.



We discovered mutual love of pub and conversation. Birmingham in the late 1970's boasted dozens of horrible down at heel seamy boozers and we visited them all. One game we'd play was



Pub toilet bingo



Door. Lock. Seat. Paper. Lighting. Full house. Paper was known as Bathroom stationary he explained due to an elderly aunt terming it thus.



He was so inventive. We would spark off one another. With me the junior partner struggling to keep up. Strangers would edge their seats closer to eavesdrop.



He was a storyteller.



He also had the most wonderful sense of the absurd. As well as the ability to laugh at his physical imperfections.



Once after visiting the cinema to see Slade in Flame in Birmingham one cold and rainy winters night. He wandered into what he thought was a chip shop where his glasses promptly steamed up.



"Savaloy and chips please" he said.



"Sorry mate this is a taxi office." Came the reply.



Then there was his family.



He always spoke in glowing terms about his parents Bert and Molly and how they were the perfect team when they ran their business. How they had started with nothing and had done it all on their own and how he could never hope to emulate the success they had made of their lives.



We traded family stories of eccentric aunts who would turn the tv on to "look at the news" and a scary centenarian woman swaddled in blankets who he was left alone with in the front parlour. Just her. Him and a dinky toy. Her only utterance being "woo hoo hoo hoo". I don't think he ever found out her name as she was just known as "Little Auntie".



I tried to trump his tale with mine of a great grandmother who appeared to be made entirely of woollen shawls and talcum powder and the horror of the visit to her at the Fleur de Lys Nursing home which always entailed the kiss at the end of the visit.



He would talk about an idyllic childhood growing up in Rosniegr then Ashford With him tricycling up the street to visit the neighbours so they would make him tea. He once said happiness was a new toy car a new pair of plimsolls and the summer holidays stretching out in front of him.



A year or so after I met him and we were swapping tales as usual and he told me about his brother Mark. Four years older than he. Who he adored although Molly told me they fought a lot as siblings do.



As he was talking about him. He started to weep. He then told me Mark died very young before he had a chance to fulfil his obvious potential.



Clive would often mention him. He was always with him. I think his brother informed many of the decisions he made in his life and he was never forgotten.



If we were together he would often mention it was his brothers birthday or some other anniversary.



In fact last February Kerry my wife tweeted that we were up in Morecombe for the weekend and Clive immediately texted back that one of his favourite memories was of visiting his brother who was doing his teachers training up there and walking round the bay together doing impressions of TV nature programme commentators. Every observation ending with the line "and they make such a magnificent sight" or something similar. Clive had a mind for these observations and would always be 100% accurate. I was always rather less so. I got used to being corrected over the years!



Such was his brain. He was able to recite poetry. Song lyrics. Advertising slogans and tv dialogue at will. This probably explained one of his many strengths. He loved to write parodies.





Work.



Work was everything to Clive. He had ambitions to be a writer. He succeeded although not perhaps in the way he perhaps intended. It was glaringly obvious when we were at college doing our Communications Studies Diploma. An early form of the now discredited Media Studies degree that he was the star of the show.



He excelled at every module.



TV. He was a natural. However he knew that looking as he did a tv presenting career was out of the question.



Radio. He was a leading light in hospital radio and during his early freelance career did many voice overs for radio commercials. Using one of his many voices. Being a gifted impersonator.



Advertising. We had to write the copy and design a campaign for a men's underarm deodorant. The best I could manage? Blue collar rather direct campaign for "No Sweat"



Prevents perspiration... No sweat.!



Clive elegantly crafted a campaign around Abatis! The Greek word for an obstacle or a barrier.



Now that was a class act.



It was little wonder that writing beckoned. He was supremely gifted.



He started out writing for the Henley in Arden Digest. He was in his element. It was a tiny village magazine he wrote and produced it. He would ride off from his dingy bed sitter in Birmingham each day on his Honda 70. It was the closest he ever got to learning to drive. All the better for other road users with his eyesight frankly.



Each weekend he would regale me with stories of pompous and very camp members of the cast of the Archers who lived in the village and his favourite. The local copper Sgt Scudder who would ring him with the latest police report.



Occasionally if there had been an accident on the A34 he'd start the conversation with "Hello Clive. Scudder 'ere. I've got a nice fatal for yer"!



He ran the magazine with a bloke called Beamon who so he told me seemed to be made up of a kit of parts. Lifts in his shoes. A bad toupee. False teeth and a selection of nervous twitches. Brought on he reckoned by this blokes suspicion that his wife had tried to kill him by putting ground glass in his food. One day Beamon disappeared. With the money. For years after. The police would call asking if he'd heard from him.



So Clive needed a job and the only one he could find was at Mayfair magazine. Where he honed his writing style. He crafted wonderful articles about steam locomotives. Second World War bombers and the like. Secure in the knowledge that no one would read them as they only bought the magazine for the naked girls.



When he wasn't at Mayfair he sat in his flat writing furiously carving out a freelance career which included the Real water sketch for the Two Ronnie's. He often described himself as a hack. Anyone who has seen that sketch would tell you that wasn't the work of a hack.



One day his life changed. At Mayfair they used to make the letters up as no one wrote in. So he invented one about a slapstick fetish where people would cover themselves in custard.



To his surprise and delight he had a deluge of genuine letters. He needed a name for this and Splosh was created. He also decided he needed another name for his freelance work and Bill Shipton was born.



He started Splosh as a magazine and then moved into films.



So he was able to combine so many of his talents. Writing. Producing and helping.



Clive or Bill if you prefer as a man was always drawn to the underdog. He always wanted to help people. One summer for instance he helped build a kids adventure playground.



With Splosh he not only provided top quality fun and entertainment. He was the first person in the world to do so. How many of us can say we started something that had never been seen before?



He also created a community. Many people from the Sploshing fraternity had felt isolated and alone. He brought them together and showed them that it was alright. It was normal. It was fun. It was life affirming. The world took on a rosier hue after a pie in the face,



Which goes part way to explaining the large numbers of people who have been saddened by his death. Their tributes pouring in to his and other websites.



Off duty he was the life and soul of the Marina Fountain. Writing the newsletter and holding court. It was a place he loved as it was full of fascinating characters. He liked nothing more than to sit there talking about anything and everything with anyone. He held no prejudice.



It was a side of him that many didn't realise existed.



He was in many ways an intensely private man. I knew him 36 years and I didn't know everything about him.



His Crohn's disease hindered him latterly and he found it difficult to travel. So working from home was ideal. He preferred to meet on neutral ground. So the pub it was. Not that I was ever complaining about that.



How do you sum up a life like Clive's?



He wasn't a rich man. That didn't worry him. He would have liked to have done more writing and we are all the poorer for that. I think had he lived we would have seen an hilarious autobiography. He had intended to write about his time at Mayfair. The stories he told were magnificent about a demoralised work force and their petty revenge on the people in charge.



Everyone who met him immediately found him riveting and the best company.



No one who ever met him could ever forget him.



He was the hit of my wedding.



His best man speech was the voted the best ever by experienced wedding goers.



When Kerry my wife and I retired to bed for our wedding night hoping for our very own Mayfair moments. All we could hear were great gusts of laughter from the bar downstairs as Clive held court and recounted tale after tale to a rapt audience of new friends who had only met him a few hours before.



I could go on all day about this man. But he's probably fretting to get to the pub.



So now this is going to be the hard bit: To sum up.



He is irreplaceable. There was only one. There will never be another. The world is a darker sadder certainly less funny place for his passing.







All this has made him out to be a bit of a saint hasn't it?



Well he wasn't perfect.....





Twenty years ago when he was first hospitalised with Crohns he asked me to go get him a couple of pairs of pyjamas.



"I'll pay you when I get out" he said.



I'm still waiting!!



Frankly I think this is a rather extreme way of getting out of paying a debt. Don't you?

FUNERAL FOR A FRIEND

I mentioned on Facebook last week that my best friend of 36 years standing, one of the two wonderful people who agreed to be my best man at my wedding to the Dark Lady in 2011, had died suddenly.



It is a bitter blow. A far bigger blow to his parents who at this late stage in their lives have now lost both their children, (his older brother died 40 years ago as a student). How cruel life can be. They are a lovely couple are Bert and Molly and this is not the way things are supposed to be.

I first met Clive at a student party in a grim house in an even grimmer suburb of Birmingham. He was in the year above me and we bonded immediately. I can still remember saying to him the next morning when having slept on the floor of this vile house, unwashed and with a horrendous hangover waiting for the bus into the city centre.



"Nothing beats a good evening’s bullshitting"!



We decided that night due to our mutual interest in comedy and also my interest in music to go and see "Ray Stubbs the amazing one man blues band. Comedian and compere Mike Elliot".



It was for the Aston University Geordie Society. We were at the lowly Birmingham Polytechnic but we shared a campus so that was alright.



This was the first of several times he saved my life!



At the end of the evening as we were leaving having witnessed Mr Stubbs and a sweating compere shouting "Gateshead" every few minutes I staggered up to this bloke and asked where the comedian was. Not realising it was comedian AND compere. Rather than COMEDIAN. And Compere.

Clive saved me from a kicking on several occasions over the years.



I moved into radio, he into journalism and freelance comedy writing. He was the founder of a tiny magazine called The Henley in Arden Digest, which was notable for the local copper phoning him up with crime and accident tips. He delighted in the name of Sgt Scudder and would occasionally ring and mutter conspiratorially down the phone:



"Clive? Scudder 'ere. Got a nice fatal for yer"!



If someone had met their end on the busy A34.



1979 dawned and Margaret Thatcher was elected Prime Minister. His business partner did a runner with the money. Recession arrived and the magazine was finished.



By this time I was with the BBC and travelling round the local radio stations, mainly in the North of England. Clive loved to travel by train and would come and visit. The visits were broadly similar; Pub and conversation. In fact over 36 years we have done little else. Just in a variety of different locations.



He needed a job. They were hard to come by. Eventually he landed a job on soft porn magazine Mayfair. Ever after he blamed Maggie for his descent into a life of pornography.



Even if we were apart we would be in constant touch. He had ambitions to be a comedy writer. He was a very good one and the funniest man I have ever met. When we were on a roll, sitting in the pub firing out ludicrous ideas, people would edge their chairs closer to hear what nonsense we were talking.



As well as being a scream he was also very clever and well read. He was also good and free with his advice. This was useful as he picked up the pieces after a series of romantic failures on my part.



We didn't always agree. Occasionally there was the odd wounding word. He may have been slightly jealous of my perceived "success".



I never understood this. Here was a man who had not only written the "Real water" sketch for “The Two Ronnies” but also the excellent "Lester's Lists" for me which we repeated a few to celebrate my 26th anniversary on Radio 2. This was a man who had also started an entirely new fetish!

During his time at Mayfair one of the many editorial jobs was to make up the letter for the letters page as they received so few genuine ones.



One day for a joke he invented a letter from someone who claimed they really liked pouring custard into their knickers!



To his surprise they received a flurry of genuine letters from people who were into this but thought they were alone.



Sploshing was born!



It started small with magazines. Then there were films and latterly websites. He became a celebrity in this world. If ever there was a sex show on TV up would pop "Bill Shipton" (his pseudonym) with a bucket of gunge and a posse of scantily clad women. Far from being "filth" it was Carry on style slapstick comedy where the woman always came out on top!



"Belle de Jour" with Billie Piper featured Sploshing and got in touch to find out how to do it properly.



"So that's when the guy has sex with the gateau? No No No. The woman sits on it"!



He loved thinking up ludicrous plots and making his messy movies in his own studio. He was adored and feted the world over. Home Box Office from America did a big piece on him. Film Director John Waters waved a copy of his magazine on the David Letterman or was it the Jay Leno show?



Trouble was this took up all of his time so he wasn't able to do as much comedy writing as he would have liked.



Not that he was unhappy. True he could be a grumpy sod. However that may have been partly due to the Crohn's disease he suffered for the last 20 years of his life, restricting a lot of his travels and sapping his strength.



He was the life and soul of the pub: The Marina Fountain in St Leonard's on sea. He did the newsletter for them which was full of information about the bands due to play, and scurrilous gossip about the regulars.



When I went to meet him it was very difficult to talk to him uninterrupted as a constant of stream of friends would drop by his table to chat.



He hadn't enjoyed the best of health over the last few months but last time the Dark Lady and I saw him he looked a lot better and was in good spirits. So his sudden death is a terrible shock.



He is irreplaceable and leaves a massive gap. Everyone who met him adored him. He always had time and loved nothing more than a good conversation. If it involved pub… So much the better.



I often see things, think of things or you tell me things and I think



"Clive would love that"



Who can I tell that too now?



My life is less colourful. There is less laughter. Still I have the most wonderful memories of the funniest and most generous man I've ever known.

DARLING HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

26 years! My time (so far I hasten to add) at Radio 2 has flashed by. The pudgy fresh faced youth that arrived here in the summer of 1987 has given way to a pudgy slightly more weathered middle aged man. However despite the passing of the years I still have all my own hair and all my own teeth. OK I lost half a molar 17 years ago biting into a kebab but with a little invisible mending you wouldn't know.

When I first arrived I'd been a DJ for over ten years so it wasn't exactly new but it was big. It was important. It was national. It's what Radio presenters dream about. It was the Man U of the wireless. I say wireless. For back then Radio 2 was a very different beast. I was too young for the demographic. By nigh on 30 years.

It meant that when I was on the air presenting programmes such as "Nightride" or "The Early Show". It was very difficult to know what to talk about. I couldn't talk about my life otherwise I'd sound like the audiences grandson. Nor could I pretend that I had their life experience.

"Remember the Blitz?" would have sounded ludicrous coming from me.

The language we used would also have to be tailored. We never used the term "gig" for when we went to see live music. It was "concert" or even "recital"!

When I first started at the BBC. There was a firm ruling:

"Do not mention alcohol as some listeners do not drink and may be offended"!

My first show came about sadly as a result of the lovely Ray Moore being taken ill with the cancer that killed him at an early age. It was bittersweet that the start of my national presenting career coincided with the end of his. He was unable to continue and so the schedule had to be reshuffled at the 11th hour. I was around and on I went. I was terrified. Well outside of my comfort zone. I have the cassette of it somewhere and more than a quarter of a century later I still can't bring myself to listen to it.

After that I started to do shows on a regular basis, alternating between the after Midnight slot and the early morning show which I do now. Then in 1995, huge ructions. The BBC decided that it would be good to move my show (as it had now become) to Birmingham.

This was an upheaval. Do I sell up and buy a house in the Midlands or stay put and commute? I chose the latter and for 10 of the next 13 years I lived on a canal boat. I was closer to my parents and sister and brother in law so there were advantages. It also meant I got to see my Mum a lot more over the last years of her life.

Then having sold the boat and moved into a house. The phone call came...

"The Controller wants to see you. I can't tell you what it is about"!

What would it be. A higher profile show? The axe?

"You're coming back to London"

So in 2008 I upped sticks and moved south once more.

By this time and since our move to Birmingham 13 years before there had been a seismic shift in the target audience coupled with my advancing years. The music changed. It started to reflect my own tastes. Stuff I had bought rather than my parents’ generation. The language changed. We became more informal. You could use the word "gig" without the management having an attack of the vapours. In fact we used a whole lot more words and began to sound like the person you would talk to over a pint in the pub. We could even mention the pub without fear of a deluge of complaints from the offended. (Although I can't recall ever having a complaint along those lines anyway).

Then in 2011 another change. The shows production was put out to tender. It would no longer be made by the BBC. I had no say in the selection process but to my great delight to was won by Wise Buddah a company who make a number of shows for Radio 2 such as the Terry Wogan, Johnny Walker and Michael Ball programmes. So I was in pretty exalted company.

Looking back over the last 26 years I've been very lucky.

I got to spend time with me old Mum. When I came back south I met the Dark Lady who in a moment of aberration agreed to become my wife and I get to fool about and play nice tunes on the radio.

For a boy from Walsall who started out as a filing clerk at the D.H.S.S I know I've been very lucky. OK so I've not exactly set the TV world alight. Maybe it would be nice to have a higher profile time slot. However with age comes wisdom...(even to me) and I've learned you can't have everything.

I can still remember those long tedious hours filing Case Papers in A-L. I didn't even have the whole alphabet to go at!

In general I've worked with many kind clever and talented production staff who have added a lot to the shows I've done and continue to do so. Dr Strangelove has moved on and is missed. Jade the Unnatural is doing a brilliant job and will move on soon herself and will also be missed.

I have every confidence that between the two of us, myself and the new person will continue the tomfoolery and the tunes. In many ways it’s now more fun to do the show than it’s ever been. As long as you are up for it. We most certainly are.

A huge thank you to you for listening and taking part.

Roll on the next 26!

IMPORTANT NOTE TO INTERNET CONSPIRACY THEORISTS:

Whenever anyone writes anything like the above. Pimply Herbert's on message boards put two and two together and come up with the following:

"He's leaving"

"He's been fired"

"He's ill. Probably dying"

"Obviously major changes afoot on the station"

In response to these rather overexcited posters.


NO.

Then in response to the following cyber mutterings:

"We'll they always say that. I've heard from a "source" (imaginary). That he's going/Ill/fired/abducted by aliens"



THE ANSWER IS STILL NO!

Not saying I expect to do another 26 years. I have no reason to think that I'm going any time soon and as far as my health is concerned. I think (hope) I'm good for a while yet.
If you are up for it lets continue to Ride the Night Horse!