Further evidence of getting old - example number 417.
Putting aside the fact that I keep forgetting to blog, which is a sure sign in itself, I have realised I'm on the way out. The reason?
I've come to the conclusion that two of my big heroes should be put out to pasture.
When I was 15 (years not stone - though the two probably coincided) I appeared on Brucie's Big Night (BBN) on London Weekend Television. BBN was an ITV vehicle for Bruce Forsyth who had been lured away from the BBC's Generation Game by pots of cash and the handing over of Saturday night primetime tv.
BBN started at about 7pm and went on until 10. It featured all manner of things Brucie - including gameshow segments - plus guest singers, dancers, comedians and interviewees. It was probably the last example of variety on tv, save for the annual shindig in front of her madge.
For the period of my segment - I was a contestant not a dancer I should point out - I effectively became Bruce's straight man, both on and off camera. Even when the camera wasn't rolling, the audience were, in the aisles - as Bruce was never off duty.
He was also incredibly kind to me off-stage and generous too. I warmed to him greatly and have been a huge fan ever since. Sadly, even I have to admit, his time as a mainstream entertainer may be coming to an end.
He is 81, after all, and has done well to last this long. But his recent performances on Strictly Come Dancing have been bordering on embarrassing. He has slurred his words, mixed up his words and, one can only assume by the quality of it, insisted on writing his own material.
As much as it pains me to say it Bruce old darling, it's time for you to go. Pick up your knighthood on the way out and enjoy your retirement on the fairways - you deserve it.
I was actually on BBN twice: the first time as a regional contestant by phone from the Southern TV studios in Southampton. I won the regional part of the competition to qualify to go up to LWT the following week.
In the preamble to my participation, Brucie asked me what I wanted to do when I grew out, I mean up. I told him I wanted to be a football commentator, and, when prompted, said John Motson was my favourite.
Motty was usurped in my affections a few years later by Barry Davies, but I still remain a fan of his knowledge, if not his nonsensical ramblings. I'm afraid his commentaries are just banal now.
"Well, you have to say," he says excitedly, with that trembling giggle he persists in utilising, "that that has to go down as a save."
Yes John. When the goalkeeper gets a hand to the ball, deflecting it on to the crossbar that generally does go down as a save.
And, it has to be said John, that, at this stage, you're playing your own equivalent of added time at the end of an extraordinary game.
Nurse! Another knighthood over here please and then put Mr Motson to bed.
No comments:
Post a Comment