I Should Have Been at Work. Des Lynam

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СКАЧАТЬ he was an accountant. I had thought he was a friend. My marriage was over. It had lasted just seven years. Now I would be one of those ‘visiting’ fathers. Heartbreaking.

      I had nobody else to blame but myself. I had been so absorbed with my new life and career, Sue and my new baby son had not received the attention they deserved. How many times have you heard of men throwing themselves into careers at a cost to their families?

      I was especially guilty in Sue’s case. After Patrick’s birth in 1970, she had suffered a breakdown. It wasn’t just post-natal depression. Sue was seriously ill: for a time she became a completely different personality and had to spend some time in hospital. Baby Patrick was without his mother for the first three months of his life. How I wish that my mother had been alive to look after him. As it was, my mother-in-law did a pretty good job, but it was a desperate time. When Sue recovered, she needed my arms around her and a great deal of loving attention, but I was intrigued with my new job. I was commuting, travelling abroad, working nights from time to time, and enjoying all the social invitations that went with it. Sue had to recover her health and deal with a demanding infant, mostly on her own. It should have been no real surprise that when an affectionate arm was offered, she took it. Nonetheless, it did come as a huge shock, and she made it clear there was no way back. We had met as kids, I had been at the local boys’ grammar school, she at the girls’ equivalent. We had had some good times and she gave me my wonderful son, who remains a delight in my life. No recriminations. Had she not strayed, it is almost certain that I would have done: there were so many temptations.

      The most important thing to do now was to make absolutely sure I didn’t lose touch with my son. Of course I had to preplan my visits to him, and for a time it was awkward. I missed seeing him grow up on a day-to-day basis; but as he got older we had marvellous times together and I know that to this day he remembers them as fondly as I do. We ate out together a great deal. Even as a four-year-old he was asking for parmesan cheese with his spaghetti. He had impeccable manners in restaurants and I was often complimented on his behaviour. We played table tennis and we swam.

      Brighton was a great place for us to be together. We enjoyed the beach and the funfair and exploring. Like all small children, Patrick would ask those questions that stun adults. ‘Why does the sea stop coming in, Daddy?’ Pause for thought. ‘Ahem, it’s because the land stops going out.’ Four-year-old accepts answer and moves on to jumping over cracks in pavement.

      Meanwhile my BBC career was expanding into areas other than sport. I had been popping up on a Radio 2 programme called Late Night Extra, reporting on the day’s sport. I had one close shave on the programme. I had adjourned to the bar after what I had thought to be my day’s work done when, having consumed about four pints of lager, I was asked by a chap called Derek Thompson, now of Channel Four racing fame, if I could stand in for him on Late Night Extra as he felt decidedly ill. Well, I did; but I shouldn’t have done and I slurred my way through the broadcast, much to the amusement of the presenter, David Hamilton.

      Normally I did the job responsibly, and I seemed to interact well with whichever presenter was working on the show. Soon I was asked by the music department if I would like to introduce a new programme that would go out just after the seven o’clock news each night, appropriately called After Seven. I would do one night a week, while the likes of Michael Aspel, Michael Parkinson and the late Ray Moore would do other nights. I used to joke on air that I was the only person doing the show that I had never heard of, and soon under the guiding hand and ample bosom of a fearsome lady producer called Angela Bond, I established a new strand to my broadcasting life. It was basically a middle of the road music programme with some features included. I came up with an idea which we called ‘Monday’s Mimic’. Members of the public could win a prize for their impressions of famous figures, but they had to do it live down the telephone. Some were good, the odd professional was clearly ringing in, but we tried to avoid them because the deluded amateurs were hilarious. We had one poor chap whose ‘James Cagney’ and ‘Mae West’ were indistinguishable and we used to fall about in the studio.

      In addition, having presented the sportsdesk on the Today programme I was asked if I fancied actually presenting the whole programme. I began doing this on the occasional Saturday by myself and then joined Jack de Manio, John Timpson and later Robert Robinson, as one of the weekday presenters of the show. All the while, I continued with my sports programmes. I was working flat out. Some weeks I was up at three in the morning to present the Today show, did After Seven on the Monday, plus a six-hour sports show on the Saturday. Bear in mind that I was now to all intents and purposes a ‘single’ man again. I was not exactly behaving like a monk, and the candles were being burnt not just at both ends but in the middle too. Eventually I turned down the invitation to renew my agreement with Today and got my life back on a more even keel. But being on the programme taught me a huge lesson about how to work under pressure and write lucidly and concisely in a very limited space of time.

      I retain undying admiration for the likes of John Humphrys, who, despite the ungodly hour his day begins, is as sharp as a tack on the current Today programme. He also has to deal constantly with heavyweight issues. In my time, although politics was very much part of the programme, overall it had a lighter feel to it. There was still time for the ‘record egg-laying hen’ type of story.

      In fact one morning, when Jack de Manio was still doing the show, he had to conduct an interview with a chap who had bred an unusual type of mouse. The creatures had been brought into the studio in a small cage. Jack, rascal that he was, finished the interview and, as I began the next item, I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was heading towards me, small furry beast in hand. He promptly shoved it up the sleeve of my jacket. As it ran across my shoulder and down my back, I just kept ploughing through my link. Jack later told the listeners what he had done and was amazed I had kept going. In truth I was still a bit raw, and thought that was the thing to do.

      While working on Today I had a few dates with a pretty secretary on the show. One evening I arrived at her flat in North London to take her out to the pictures. While I was enjoying one of her liberal gin and tonics, the door bell rang. She peered out of the window and very quickly ushered me into the back garden.

      ‘Slight problem,’ she said. From the safety of the pitch-black garden, I was able to see her problem. He was one of my occasional co-presenters on Today, famous both then and now, and seemed most put out when he was fairly hastily dealt with and shown the door. I was retrieved from my hiding place and it was explained to me by my date that he was just a friend and he had arrived on this occasion uninvited. Off we went to the cinema and the incident was never mentioned again, although for some time afterwards every time I saw him I was sorely tempted to ask him if he fancied the lady in question.

      In my radio days I was sent up to Hampstead one morning to do an interview with Dudley Moore for the Today programme.

      I was quite nervous about it. Dudley and Peter Cook were hugely famous at the time and I was a big fan. I had first seen them in their satirical hit ‘Beyond the Fringe’ at the Theatre Royal, Brighton, during their pre-London run.

      Dr Jonathan Miller, one of the famous quartet – the fourth of course was Alan Bennett, once told me that the local theatre cognoscenti who came back-stage after a performance were of the opinion that while the show was attractive it had its limitations. Apparently one old, rather camp theatre regular told him ‘whatever you do, don’t even think about taking it to the West End.’ Of course, it had a record-breaking run in London.

      By the time I was to interview Dudley, he and Cook had been delighting television audiences with their shows and were at the peak of their popularity.

      I arrived at Dudley’s home and he came to the door himself. ‘Welcome,’ he said. For some reason his facial movement as he said the one word, made me laugh. ‘I’ll have to write a sketch around the word “welcome”,’ СКАЧАТЬ