A Moments Silence Please

It is with deep regret, ladies and gentlemen, that I have to announce a death in the Hennegan Birmingham household. Yes, after many years, dear people, a beloved pet has passed over. I am now a house without any fish. None. Not a single one. Apart from the fish fingers in the freezer, but it would be as tasteless as they are to mention them at this point.

Yes, dear friends. A great shock.

What can I say about Flappy the GoldFish.? Well, for a start, his name was not really Flappy. No. Many years ago, when the sun seemed brighter, the days longer and the grass greener, I skipped gaily into King Heath and purchased two fish and a bowl for a fiver. Neil and Buzz as they were known to one obsessed with the moon landing, cost 50p each. The folly of a child, naming fish after two of the most famous humans on the planet. Or it would have been had I not been 42 years old. But no matter. It was obvious who was who. Neil was a mustard coloured fish that seemed contemplative and solid. He'd gently fin his was round the bowl. Buzz, on the other hand, was bordering on manic. He'd shoot round the bowl like a thing possessed and was rarely still. Not an inch of the bowl was unexplored by Buzz. Although it was a small bowl. And their fishy personalities matched their famous humans. Neil Armstrong, arguably the most famous man ever, since that eventful day in 1969 has rarely given interviews, shuns publicity and lives quietly. Buzz Aldrin, on the other hand, got back from the moon and shot around like a mad thing, glorying in everything and picking up the odd addiction along the way.

There is one big difference with my Neil and Buzz, mind. Neil only lasted a week or so. He probably bored himself to death. Buzz, on the other hand just kept manically swimming everywhere and growing and growing. And when my lovely lady Rebs saw him, knowing more about animals than I do (if not an actor, she would have liked to have been a vet. She deals with me quite well...) she instantly commented on the size of his fins and the fact he flapped around a lot. Hence the nick-name Flappy. I think she thought Buzz was a stupid name..

John Slater saw Flappy about a month ago.

"Woah! Big goldfish", he said. And he was right.

The end, when it came, was quick. He'd been a bit off colour for a week or so. No, not off Gold colour. We fish owners just know. I played with his aeration for a bit, but it was to no avail. He did his belly up thang and although I left him for a day or so ( he did it once before and recovered. An attention-seeking ruse, I think) and I tried some medicine, it was to no avail and he passed away officially last night. He is now at rest with the other Hennegan pets - Andropov the Mexican Red Kneed Tarantula - in the Hennegan Pet Plot. Up the garden. Not buried, ju st chucked up the garden and left for nature.

I couldn't flush Flappy down the loo - he'd have blocked a main sewer, the size of him. Obviously I am distraught and yet my pain is eased by the fact that the sodding thing cost me a fortune in fish tanks, filter, pumps and other tackle. His last set up cost about five hundred quid in total! EBay, here I come!

A-hem. Please feel free to attach any tributes/comments to this post. He didn't get out much, but Flappy had a good innings, as they say. Amen.

Flappy/Buzz in happier times. He was a good fish. We shall not see his gigantic likes again. (Unless I nip down the fish shop of course.)

As I was Saying

I've done almost everything this month, and jolly good fun it has been too. After my one appearance as John Slater's driver/stand in Lighting bloke a few weeks ago, he called again last Sunday as he'd been let down. This time it was a less glamorous job - Van Driver And Bloke Who Dropped Off Set/Cloths/Lights At Various Places In London. Now when I say less glamorous, I mean the title was, but scooting round the Opera House, Royal Ballet and various other central London locations was actually, to a theatre anorak such as myself, quiet exotic. And John lead in his posh van. And it was great to do a job where I had no responsibility. Plus, as someone who occasionally lives in London and therefore never drives in town, it was a real novelty! And if, like me, you never drive in central London, let me tell you the congestion charge has worked a miracle! You can almost get into second gear in the centre now. Of course, the Euston Road and other routes just outside the zone are another matter...

So that's that. In addition I had an interview for a Masters Degree at a University in London. This is pretty cool, considering education and society generally had written me off as a child when I failed my 11 plus. (I think I might be dyslexic with figures - I would often get letters the wrong way round. But now we have calculators it doesn't matter. )

Then, I finally got my remortgage through which, although it was less than I needed at least allows me to put £10k into Maverick Theatre and give it a chance of life. There are 2 or 3 dear people that Maverick still owes money to. I won't name them, but they were involved with the creation of the Henry V - Lion of England tour and the relaunch of the company and although they will probably never work for me again, they will also probably never know how grateful I am that they understood our particular problems and when they could have got very shitty indeed, they decided to give me the benefit of the doubt and just be patient. It's not what typical commercial businesses are supposed to do and it is so brilliant that they decided not to be typical. Be assured, I have a list in me head of people who have been kind to me and Maverick and if we ever do make any real dosh, they will get first choice of everything.

We may have an established venue prepared to co-produce Hancock's Finest Hour. That too is very good.

I had a phone call from a former colleague and now a chum and I am going to be doing some inserts into the breakfast show of Smooth-fm in the West Midlands for three weeks soon. I also have a couple of standing tickets for David Tennant (Dr Who) and Patrick Stewart (Star Trek) at the RSC I can't use. They are apparently like Rocking Horse Dung, so I might head for EBay.

And I still get the odd mail about BRMB, and having gone to a doo last week maybe I should do a bit about it. But it's too late now. Although when I first met John Slater....

Phew! What a month. Or how to Do All Things.

I've been a van driver this month. Slater must have been desperate because he phoned me up. "What are you doing for the next three days?" He needed someone to drive a van and help get in for a dance tour he is managing. But I'm known for not being the most technically adept! Although I started in theatre as an amateur lighting person.

And I'm writing this instead of finishing my film treatment. There's a deadline. So here's a picture of my P.O.V (good film term, eh!) in van situ. I shall get on with my treatment and finish this tomorrow. Probably.

FADE TO BLACK.Can't find the pic I wanted. So here's me doing another job. Not for Slater. For Chrysalis.

Fade again.

Bad Blogger Sells-Out!

I've been a bad lad - I wanted to keep this blog up at least monthly, but now there's the Maverick website this seemed a little surplus to requirements. After all, I only really started this to get the Maverick Theatre message on-line. Then a cheque for fifty quid arrived from Google! Suddenly I thought I should keep on here. You're not supposed to mention that if anyone clicks on most of the links on this blog, I get nought point nothing of nunkpence, which after decades amounts to the price of a pint. But there are obviously more people reading this than I thought. I don't have the figures - I think I can do something about that - but thanks very much, you! 50 quid in a year and a bit. Not a good rate of pay, granted, but better than the proverbial poke in the eye.

I shall eat curry and drink beer tonight, gentle reader, and it will all be down to you!

In fact here's one I had earlier, in Stratford-Upon-Avon...

I shall now post this, and begin another piece that talks about the interesting, but financially challenged month I have had. It is a tale of theatre, films, writing, missed parties and being credit crunched. And, I think vastly overdue, a tribute to John Slater. Dour Scotsman with a heart of gold and a middle England accent; once a much beloved broadcaster of this parish at BRMB in Birmingham and former Maverick cohort who is now much in demand as a Production Manager on the national and, nay, international, stage.

Ah... the 'dotes, dear loves, the 'dotes.

Goodbye Broadcast, Hello Bottom Line

It's the beginning of the end for local commercial radio as we know it! And its already having a big economic effect on me. Eh? Let me explain.

For years, commercial radio has been subject to regulatory controls. OWNERSHIP has been the subject of regulation. If you wanted to own a radio station in the UK, one of the conditions for holding the license was your commitment to the local scene, whether that be speech, music or community. And it followed, therefore, that you needed to be a company with your roots in that community. Or at the very least the country the community was based in - i.e. the UK. Not any more. The government or whoever it is that has final word on these things, did away with the ownership rules just last year. Anyone from anywhere in the world can now own your local commercial radio station. Let the Market Decide. (Didn't we go there with fairly disastrous consequences in the 1980's?)

Already the (I would argue) catastrophic effects of this seemingly logical legislation is being felt. The big regional stations throughout the UK are now dropping programme makers, d.j's, producers and journalists with a haste that can only be described as ferocious. It's nothing to do with quality or even broadcasting, actually, but with the bottom line. It's obviously far cheaper to have 1 production team based in London broadcasting a network programme to the dozens of their other radio stations throughout the UK than to have to pay dozens of local production teams. Listen to a radio station in the day anywhere in the UK and more and more the chances are you are listening to a programme originated and presented from London. With local commercials of course. And surely with all the controversy we've seen recently about misleading the public, is this not another form of gentle deceit?

The reason for all this, I hear from commercial operators, is that "we've got to compete with the BBC." This, I think, is complete bollocks. (Technical term.) For years commercial radio has done a very good job of competing with the BBC and indeed, generally trouncing them in the listening figures - particularly when local stations fight against the BBC networks.

This cull of creative talent is simply about the bottom line. Now that big overseas companies can move into our lucrative UK radio market, you can bet your Dow Jones they certainly will. And indeed they are. And although there are some monopoly rules, the current radio groups can see what is coming and so are preparing for the takeovers that will and are happening, hostile and otherwise. The more profitable they can make their companies appear, the more attractive they will be to potential buyers. So get rid of many overheads as possible, especially people. The regulation is now so light it's proving easy.

I fear in a few short years what's left of our radio industry will be as globally corporate as all the other bland, soulless, money making brands in the world and Commercial FM UK will be owned by one or two massive international groups, probably based in America or Japan. And as elsewhere it will be the bottom line that matters. Sad days indeed. And of course national commercial radio will become a pale imitation of the BBC networks. Instead of something vibrant, with its own local - and I certainly don't mean parochial - identity. It is possible to have a popular contemporary station with a local slant as has been proved time and again. It means radio will all but disappear as an industry and we shall return to the dark days pre- 1974 when radio was a small, London-based enclave. And the days when commercial radio was introduced to offer the listener a choice will be virtually over.

I'm not against anyone making a profit, by the way. Far from it. But is this not just another case of a unique British industry being decimated to protect fat cat shareholders? Bugger the quality, feel the profit.

And how has it affected me? I just took in a lodger who works on the breakfast show of a major West Midlands radio station. And the Private Equity company that now owns the lodgers radio station have just made him and dozens of others he works with redundant. They are now going to network most of the programmes from London. Just like the other big radio group in the Midlands... !

My Wireless life

When I started this blog it was supposed to be about how the Maverick Theatre Company progressed, but one of the progressions of the MTC is that it now has its own website and blog. When I started this, it hadn't. So I think I may make this more personal, perhaps. Or at least as personal as you can on the www.

I've had lots of emails about me on the radio, so I thought I might give a quick run down here about the start of my occasional, much loved career. With occasional pictures!

This pic, above, is me outside the studios of what was Radio Thamesmead, in about 1977 ish. I've obviously not changed much...!

Left school with CSE's - on my estate you had two choices of career - British Leyland (Rover) or, if you were tall, the Police who were fairly desperate and badly paid in the 70's. I was tall. I lasted about a year.

Worked as a dispatch rider/tea boy/junior copywriter for Moore Associates in Hall Green.

Aged 17 I met and lived with a woman who was 39 and had two kids, the eldest 15! An interesting time that lasted a couple of years. Then, for emotional reasons, I had to get out of Birmingham!

Secured a job as a residential social worker in South London.

Looking for a hobby, I offered to help the local scouts (they never got back to me) or start a band (difficult because I worked shifts) before I finally, on the advice of a colleague, went to Radio Thamesmead as a volunteer.

In a month I ended up doing the breakfast shows under the name Nick Mobbs - because I'd have mobs of people around. I'd leave the doors open and see who came in. Characters included The Pub Singer (later used in a similar incarnation on a national station!) and Morph The Thing, someone who used to grunt poetry for kids. I think you had to be there...

There you go. That's how things started. Fascinating innit! Or maybe not...

Off down the dole now. See if they've got any radio jobs.

A Last Christmas at Chrysalis - Part Deux

What a fabulous technological world we live in. I'm under the cosh a bit at the moment - hence my lack of blogging - and I've also had a sniff from a publisher who thinks my cavortions might sell a book and would rather I didn't appear here. Or am I dreaming... ? Anyway, no matter, because I just came on here and realised I hadn't published my last post. So I've just pressed the button and here it is. Well below here. Reading it again I realised I wrote it at Sam's Brasserie in Chiswick. A fine establishment. And here I am, writing this at the Hare and Hounds in Kings Heath, Birmingham. Another fine establishment. Both, of course, with free Wi-Fi. And both serve booze. Spot a pattern?

But the title of this is an homage (notice AN homage, not A homage. Pha! Good me) to my former colleagues who read my entry about my final Chrysalis Xmas Radio party. I don't think I should say Global - the new owners and the people who sacked us all - in case of some legal feedback. Just in case, Global, this post is Without Prejudice. Ta.

And this is kind of an apology to the foul-mouthed star of my Xmas post. Because of her appearance - I described her appearance - I had a guilt-striken text from a lass who said, "I think it was me. But I was a bit drunk and I don't remember. But I'm so terribly sorry for being like that."
I replied and told her not to worry we were all a bit 'tired with the wine'.
I had another text almost immediately again apologizing "But I'm never like that. I always really worry about other people."
Again I replied she was not to worry.
Again I had another guilt ridden text. Poor her. She was really giving herself a bad time.
And so this is MY apology. I felt sorry for K, (noooo I'm not going to tell you her name) after those texts. We were all pissed. But it was great for me, because after the fact, her throwaway, drunken, insignificant action allowed me to insert a bit of drama into a situation I had been very undramatic about. Redundancy really is a big deal and although my cup is always half full rather than half empty, at the Xmas party I became more moved by the End of the Arrow. It was the kindness and the compassion of those not on the Arrow that allowed me to drop the brave face. it wasn't just about me. Apart from Alan, I was the only one at the party who had been laid off. And of course, why would those laid off attend? Dave and Bev are a married couple with two young children. They both worked on the Arrow and were both made redundant. Alan was - and actually still is - a brilliant radio programmer who was instrumental in making the radio group that the new company bought. And so I suddenly realized that it wasn't just about me. My cup is always half full.

And so a personal moment like that meant I was able to come home and think about individual personalities. It allowed me to sit and write about what happened. And had K not made that casual, unmeant comment I would never have had the impetus to write what I felt when I did. And got a really positive reaction off so many people. So bless you K. I'm so sorry I made you feel bad. But you helped me to deal with redundancy better than any councilor could. I was able to write my grief. So thanks. I owe you a drink! xxx