Читать книгу It’s Not What You Think and Memoirs of a Fruitcake 2-in-1 Collection - Chris Evans - Страница 35

10 Ronco Buttoneer

9 Stylophone

8 Casio calculator

7 Two-tone trimphone

6 Music centre

5 Panasonic video recorder

4 Portable television

3 Remington Fuzzaway

2 Clairol 2000 hairdryer (my sister’s pride and joy)

1 Grundig 350 deluxe reel-to-reel tape recorder (my brother’s former pride and joy)

I remembered my brother Dave had a tape recorder, it was a huge grey thing that weighed a ton—a Grundig 350 Deluxe reel-to-reel machine. It was notable also as the only thing other than my marvellous Mini that I remember Mum ever going into debt to buy.

No longer living at home, my brother had left his beloved Grundig behind. After enquiring as to its whereabouts Mum informed me that she thought it was probably at the back of the big cupboard in the second bedroom. Of course that’s exactly where it was.

The next thing I needed to do was see if it worked. I clunked on the power, optimistically, and the machine hummed back into life. I even managed to get it playing—Carly Simon’s ‘You’re So Vain’ (my brother kept that one quiet!). The rest of the simple controls were easy enough to figure but crucially there didn’t seem to be a microphone.

I shot off with the machine to an audio/music shop and hauled it up onto the counter with a mighty thud. The guy behind the counter looked at it somewhat bemused.

‘Wow man, what-is-that?’

What I wanted to say was, ‘That, my man, is my passport to a fully blown real-life conversation with my radio idol. Please can you provide me with something that might facilitate the possibility of it ever recording again—thank you!’

What I ended up saying was something far more panicky and less articulate—even though it was only lunchtime I could already feel the pressure of my first broadcasting deadline approaching fast.

The man could see my distress and kindly set about all he could do to help, eventually finding something equally as grey and antiquated as my machine that claimed to be a microphone.

‘There that should do ya,’ he declared almost triumphantly. ‘Oh and you’ll be needing a new spool of tape,’ he added. ‘I think that one’s well shot.’

Earlier on he’d tested the mighty 350 Deluxe for me, unfortunately hearing Carly Simon in the process. I was quick to point out that this was my brother’s tape machine and it was his recording of Carly Simon. He sympathised and carried on, though I’m not sure he believed me.

With my recording equipment now up and running, after the flat-tyre debacle of the day before I decided to leave the car at home and take the train into Manchester—also something I had never done before, let alone with the mass of a small land mass in tow. The Grundig was like a dead body. What in the blazes did they put inside these things to make them work?

The beginning of my journey at the Warrington end was not so bad, the car park being quite close to the platform, but the walk from Piccadilly train station in Manchester to Piccadilly Gardens seemed like an eternity. Why these two places bore the same name yet were so far apart was beyond me.

When I finally arrived at the other Piccadilly station—the radio station as opposed to the train station—I thought my right arm was going to drop off; my right thigh was bruised with the banging of the Grundig’s bloomin’ great hulk and the fingers of my right hand had turned blue with the deep imprint of its wide shiny metal handle.

I was a mess but I was an early mess and that was good—three hours an early mess to be precise.

Timmy waltzed in through reception around about an hour before his show. There was no Adam Ant outfit this time but instead a multicoloured stripy tank top over a bright orange shirt; he was also wearing a big fur coat and a beret. I didn’t know what it all meant but I quite liked it.

He recognised me from the night before and politely said that he’d send somebody out for me when he was ready for the interview. I waited patiently for about half an hour until the tall, sharp-looking kid from the fun bus appeared. It was quickly evident to me that this individual was someone I could perhaps learn from, he was supremely confident and I couldn’t help thinking he looked like a member of Depeche Mode.

Hurriedly he led me through several corridors—something I was finding hard to cope with as The Grundig was now back banging against my leg. Between the pain and my audible wincing I remember thinking how surprisingly unglamorous the place was, looking more like an office pool than a throbbing radio station—again showbusiness was proving to be more ‘business’ than ‘show’—when was I going to learn? Half a corridor later, we reached the office where the Great Mallett was to be found, head down, writing away—the master preparing.

The tall kid wafted out. It was now only fifteen minutes before Timmy on The Tranny went on the air for this Monday night, Timmy was still totally focused on what he was writing,

‘Won’t be a sec,’ he muttered.

I went to lift my machine onto his desk in readiness so as not to waste any time.

‘Shit, what-is-that?’ Timmy exclaimed, looking at what looked like a small building that had just been plonked in front of him.

‘It’s a Grundig 350 Deluxe—it’s my brother’s,’ I replied proudly.

‘Oh…I see,’ remarked Timmy, somewhat unsure of what to make of both it and me. ‘Alright, you ready?’ he asked.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I replied, my voice now quivering nervously with the prospect of my first question.

My interview with Timmy was really a thinly disguised list of questions designed to solicit advice to help me get his job one day. I have since been a victim of such ‘interviews’ myself—you can spot them a mile off. Whether Timmy knew what I was up to at the time I could only guess, though I suspected he probably did.

I can’t remember exactly what my questions were, although I think I have a feeling the tape may actually still be on the machine and I think the machine is still somewhere in Mum’s loft. Dare I get it out? I’m saying no—for now at least.

What I do remember vividly is the tall kid coming in again, several times in fact, always to deliver a concise piece of information or ask a quick question about the forthcoming show, speed and economy seemed to be everything between these two—there was a very no-nonsense atmosphere.

I looked at the big white clock on the office wall above the desk where we were sitting, as it ticked towards seven o’clock it counted down the time I had left with my hero. My questions would have to stop soon as Timmy on the Tranny was about to take to the air once again. I thought it best to wrap things up voluntarily.

‘This has been Pete James interviewing Timmy Mallett for Warrington General Hospital Radio. Timmy, thank you.’

Pete James, eh—what was all that about? Pete James was the name I had decided upon using as I sat on the train that afternoon. Why? I don’t know but for some reason I thought it sounded good, much better than Chris Evans. I thought it was the kind of name a DJ might have. I even practised the autograph.

The only question I really remember asking Timmy that night is the one I asked after the ‘interview’ was over, just before Timmy left for the studio to go and do his show.

‘Who is that boy who keeps coming in to tell you things?’

‘Oh, you mean the one who looks like he should be in Depeche Mode?’

‘Yes, him.’

‘Oh that’s Andy, he’s my assistant, he’s fab but he goes back to university next week—now must dash, well done, good luck—byee!’

‘Bye, thanks,’ I replied to Timmy as he disappeared.

I made another mental note, much quicker and bigger than I had ever done before.

‘The big kid is leaving—who’s gonna replace the big kid?’ I thought to myself.

By this time, back in Warrington, I had left Ralph’s to become assistant manager of a small group of rival newsagents so I was already an assistant of sorts, but Andy was assistant to my hero and was leaving at the end of the week.

I couldn’t help feeling that Timmy had volunteered this additional information when there was absolutely no need to do so. He could have just told me that Andy was great and he was his assistant but he hadn’t, he had extended to me the knowledge that Andy was leaving and soon. Why had he done this? Was it merely an unconscious and natural extension to the conversation or did he want me to know this for a specific reason? I couldn’t take a chance, I had to presume it was the latter.

The walk back to the train station was a blur of excitement, all I recall is that I swapped the Grundig over to my left side so at least I would be equally bruised come the next day—the day I would write off for my first job in radio.