BBC History Lesson

Just been catching up with the wonderful series on Bohemia and have found out more about the artist Eric Gill than I liked. But in his defense, the naked "child" on the front of Broadcasting House is actually a 31-year actor called Leslie French who was appearing on the London stage as Ariel in The Tempest at the time BH was built.

I tracked him down when he was in his 90s as part of the BBC’s 75th anniversary celebrations. I even got him into the Council Chamber where the Queen was speaking, which he delighted in but was disappointed not to be introduced. 

Earlier in the day I had him photographed on the steps of All Souls church with the legendary wartime broadcaster Frank Gillard. I had figured two nonagenarians who had played such fascinating roles in the beeb’s history would be of interest to others, but I was on my own!

Leslie was a modest quiet man in his extreme old age, but he was hilarious about posing nude in a chilly studio, being fed cups of hot Bovril by Mrs G. And of course his manliness had to be whittled down… The story goes the headmaster of a boys’ school was sent up the scaffold to see if the “personage” was out of proportion. He deemed it was and needed reducing in size, much to the delight of Leslie who had been dining out on that story for years.

I felt so strongly the BBC unappreciated this lovely man's role in its history, that I found myself representing the Corporation at his funeral and paid for a huge bouquet of stunning white lilies, which I deliberately didn't claim for.

I have regularly dined out on that 75th anniversary as I was looking after the media that evening and charged by the Sun’s long-time royal photographer, Arthur Edwards, with making sure Mrs Windsor (the Queen) met Miss Windsor (Babs).

Among the many stories of that night, one of my favs is the lest we forget line-up of former and current Director Generals and Chairman situated at an angle inside the old BH reception.  I’m hiding on the floor, directly opposite the doors, keeping out of the photographers lens,  but nobody  had thought to greet the Queen’s car and as she walks in bemused all she sees is me crouched, tipping my head right and frantically gesturing with my eyes. She nodded and smiled in acknowledgement – only to smile seeing me on the floor again an hour or so later, keeping out of shot again as she met EastEnders…

I was a BBC person through and through but it’s always been incredibly cavalier about the staff that have made it so special. It’s never been very good at recognising the history and knowledge it lets walk out of the door. There are archivists yes for the papers and physical items, but wonderful anecdotes are disappearing daily as its storytellers slip off into the ether.

Ethiopia Mugged Me

I have  been mugged by the people of Ethiopia and I feel great about it. Let me explain.

Just nine months after joining international development charity Send a Cow (SAC), I was despatched to Ethiopia  to see the  programmes in action. It’s one of seven countries Send a Cow works in and the focal point of our current fundraising campaign – which is DFID UK aid matched - Planting Hope.

Now I have travelled pretty widely. I have seen and met many poor people struggling to survive, as well as those flourishing through the circumstances of their birth or the opportunities family connections have enabled.

But this was different. This was meeting people who wanted to improve their lives but genuinely didn’t know how to until SAC stepped in and working with the community, developed programmes that take people from extreme hunger to food security in a matter of weeks.

SAC’s approach is intensive on-the-ground training with community groups forming the bedrock of change. Our wonderful, in-country teams work through every aspect of changing a family’s future from household relationships, especially between couples, and farming techniques to the management of money, the concept of savings and the development of assorted income streams to future-proof life through enterprise.

And it’s working. Within a matter of weeks families were telling me they were able to eat regularly, sell the surplus and start sending their children to school. The seeds, locally sourced livestock and tools provided by SAC add to their ability to transform their lives, but it’s the knowledge they gain and the support they get from one another that makes their long-term transformation achievable.

So how come I was mugged? Well it wasn’t literal – it’s metaphorical. As I stumbled into the kitchen following an eight-hour overnight flight, desperate for a cup of tea I stood in a quandary wondering which mug I should use. And my mind flashed back to the mud dressers SAC farmers have been taught to build so their few cups, pots and platters are away from the floor.

I was struck by how ludicrously over-stuffed my relatively simple home is with possessions – how any one of those many mugs, cups, plates and bowls would be so much better deployed in Ethiopia than in the cosy confines of my English, SW village.

I can resolve not buy any more “stuff” until I genuinely need it – which probably means never as far as mugs are concerned… And I know working in a charity means I am doing my bit when you consider salaries in the third sector versus the commercial world.

But what this trip has really left me with is an overpowering sense of injustice and the urgent need for all of us to do something about it. We have all seen and heard the horror stories about aid in Africa, but I have just witnessed quick, tangible results that will change generations of families and communities forever. Its not about hand-outs - its about giving a hand-up and we are all mugs if we can’t see that.  

That's Show business

Just been listening to the comedian Les Dawson on the radio and I’m instantly transported to Blackpool.

One of the facts of life at the BBC – especially when you start out in Manchester and later find yourself working on Radio 1 and light entertainment TV - is you get to spend a lot of time in Blackpool.

As a normal person, instead of a lady from the BBC, I recall seeing the fabulous Illuminations in the late 70s. Lights with wonderful muted colours; teacups and saucers, old style cartoon characters and even flowers. All reminiscent of a much gentler, less brazen time.

A few years later I was driving through them in a huge old gold Volvo with the sunroof open so some small friends could marvel. The boys kept slipping off the leather seats but nothing could dim their delight.

Goodness knows why I went to the Tower in the mid 80s, possibly for the Travel Show, which came from BBC Manchester. Up we went in a lift. Took a peak at the famous Ball Room – not quite so famous outside the North West in those days. It took Strictly Come Dancing to re-ignite that particular Tango.

I found myself blindly following the presenter, a cameraman and a man from the Tower up winding stairs, past the viewing deck and up more stairs and a ladder  – this time outside.  Then a “go careful” as I am treading on a thin plank of green painted wood loosely connecting two metal struts.

The wind whips around us and I look up for the first time to see I am way up in the air.  I always thought I had a touch of vertigo and this confirmed it. No hard hats, no safety wires, and no real warning. Just a spectacular view I hadn’t expected to see and never want to see again. And I am in the way of the cameraman who is desperate to get the shots and go back indoors.

I must have jiggled out of the way and somehow re-traced my steps, but I think I have blotted it from my memory.  Just another of my nine lives.

But back to Les. He and Barbara Windsor are the kind of characters you want to spend time with in Blackpool.  Babs, pre EastEnders, was on the celebrity circuit and very bubbly with a big blond curly wig and that wonderful wicked giggle. We did a picture call at a famous chippy and Barbara grabs the bright red plastic lobsters and hangs them off her ears. She knows how to charm the locals.

I met Les way too early in the morning, not many years before he died. It was barn of a room with a stage and a piano. Acting grumpy, dressed in a black tracksuit he demanded coffee to start the day and as I brought him a cup he started bantering and playing the piano out of tune. Wow I loved that man!

Forgotten Friends

A Facebook post from a far-flung “friend” re- introduces me to a book. He’s looking for an early guide to London and I have several interesting publications including Coming to London.

Red, hardback, gold print on the spine its one of a handful of books I bought when the BBC was selling off various libraries. Its says 12 and 6 on the flyleaf but even I’m not that old. It will have been pence when published in 1957 in “Charing Cross, W.C.2” 

I must have bought it for the short essays on the London experiences of Leonard Woolf, J.B.Priestley, Christopher Isherwood and Edith Sitwell. But as I sit reading it one Saturday morning, decades on from my forgotten purchase, I use the internet to explore its contents further. I’m not interested in the geography, I know London and its history pretty well, but I am fascinated with these people who lived there.

The book is brimming with characters I have never heard of; John Middleton Murray, V.S.Pritchett, Jocelyn Brook and Rose Macaulay. Now I had a pretty basic education – destined only for nursing, teaching, banking and a home - so I’m never that surprised by what I don’t know, especially literature and the arts.

But on investigation I realise this is a bohemian set of intellectuals from across the social landscape of Britain and beyond.  They were really important personalities at the time. A-listers of their generation; wielding their brains, pencils and wit with confidence. 

And they will have known one other. My research reveals this is a bit of an “it” crowd. Some helpful producer from years gone by has helped me connect the dots by scrawling on the inside cover page“Lehmann, John, ed”.

I send myself down a blind alley thinking he is a BBC editor but of course he’s not. Lehmann is the lynch pin bringing these talents together – the man who knew them all. And while the publishers, Phoenix House, didn’t see fit to give him a credit, or even explain the purpose of this book with an introduction - he did appear on BBC radio programmes.

Thinking about being remembered, I am stuck by how many of these souls have been forgotten and how often it happens, even now. You hear an item on the news and think ‘goodness, is he dead – I thought he died years ago’. Then there is Facebook, keeping so many people and their lives alive. Names from your past, which would have slipped from memory if they weren’t friends of friends – liking your pictures from afar.

So now I wonder, would the forgotten Coming to London crowd be using Facebook today?