The obvious joke is that this book would be a bestseller even if the only people who bought it were the writers who worked on Week Ending. On just one show, in fact.
To describe this remarkably detailed guide to a topical, satirical programme which was broadcast most weeks on Radio 4 for 28 years as a labour of love is too much of an understatement, especially as its authors, Ian Greaves and Justin Lewis, never actually contributed to the show themselves. They are, however, established and respected historians of broadcast comedy and have produced a work which not only begins with an extended article about the show’s history but also gives an episode guide to every broadcast: 1,132 regular episodes plus specials and compilations. Then there are the tables of the most prolific writers (apparently I am number 31 based on the number of shows I had material used on: 149), wavelength shifts, broadcasting timelines, the spin-off merchandising (remarkably little for such a long-running programme), the stories behind the four signature tunes, details of documentaries about Week Ending and even of the parodies that were done of a show which so often spoofed others.
Week Ending was first broadcast in April 1970 with a budget of £150, a frontman in the form of Michael ‘Nationwide’ Barratt and one writer, Pete Spence. It was taken off a few weeks later, not as a result of the atrocious reviews it attracted but because topical comedy could not be broadcast during a general election (although as the first producer Simon Brett points out in his introductory essay, satire was pretty unfashionable at this time anyway).
When the show returned, the anchorman idea was dropped and a regular cast gradually formed. Most significantly, a weekly spot by a guest journalist entitled ‘Next Week’s News’ was altered to a collection of snappy one-liners. Soon listeners were sending in their own gags for this feature, the writing credits grew longer and so began the ‘open door’ policy for new writers which Week Ending became famous for (although it wasn’t until years later that producer Griff Rhys Jones introduced open meetings for writers).
It’s well known that the show was a starting point for dozens of famous scriptwriters and performers: David Jason, Andrew Marshall and David Renwick, Guy Jenkin, Rory Bremner, Mark Burton and John O’Farrell, Rob Newman and David Baddiel and, during my time there, Stewart Lee and Richard Herring, Andy Parsons and Henry Naylor, Al Murray, Harry Hill, Mel Giedroyc and Sue Perkins, etc, etc, but I had no idea until I read this book that in Week Ending’s early days, it benefitted from help supplied by the already-established Tim Brooke-Taylor, Graeme Garden and Willie Rushton.
Many of the producers who worked on it have died in recent years: David Hatch, Harry Thompson, Jonathan James-Moore, and, just weeks ago, Geoffrey Perkins, who in 1976 took the show in a more hard-hitting direction. Amazingly, it wasn’t until the following year that the first female cast member, Sheila Steafel, joined (before this, it fell to an understandably reluctant Nigel Rees to supply the Thatcher impressions!)
It’s interesting to note how little some things change at the BBC. Bob Sinfield is quoted bemoaning the lack of typewriters in 16 Langham Street in the early 80s; I found myself taking my own on the train with me up from Bournemouth in the 90s and only last week I noticed a Facebook group called Can We PLEASE have New Computers in the Writers’ Room at Henry Wood House?
The book actually serves as a mini-manual for aspiring writers. Take this timeless advice given in the 80s by the show’s producer Paul Spencer: ‘Start small...Don’t try and write massive sketches, do quickies: Someone does this/Why do they want to do that?/Bang – Punchline’. The title, incidentally, is from what was considered the most clichéd way to open a Week ending ‘head-to-head’ sketch (formats were usually preferred),
In 1990, a new producer, Sarah Smith, deciding that the show was ‘heavy-handed s---‘, changed the style to make it faster, sillier – and funnier. She was the first to use any of my own sketches and her episode to mark the resignation of Margaret Thatcher was stunning. Other producers, such as Armando Iannucci, Jon Magnusson and Gareth Edwards also chose this style while more traditionalist producers reverted to slower versions in between.
This lack of consistency may have contributed to Week Ending’s eventual demise in 1998 but, as the book points out, it was probably more to do with increasingly inexperienced cast members and producers, the growing fashion for writer-performers in comedy shows and the appointment of a new Radio 4 controller, James Boyle, who was determined to scrap it.
One of the great things about this narrative is that it doesn’t flinch from detailing the behind-the-scenes clashes over the years, such as the rows between the cast and early producers who were frustrated performers themselves: Douglas Adams and Jan Ravens. I loved the anecdote about James Boyle sheepishly presenting actress Sally Grace with vintage champagne and her reply that she’d never seen a P45 shaped like that before. And I laughed out loud at producer Liz Anstee’s description of him as ‘the man with a whim of iron’.
In 1990, in one of a flurry of documentaries to mark Week Ending’s 20th anniversary, Griff Rhys Jones joked that the BBC would always have to keep making it whether they broadcast it or not because of the number of new writers it produced. Since its demise, there have certainly been far fewer ‘open door’ shows, particularly since the end of the News Huddlines in 2001. I think broadcast comedy everywhere is poorer as a result.
One show I would have liked to have seen mentioned was What On Earth?, a shameless attempt to get an immediate replacement for Week Ending on Radio 2 a few months later. The seven episodes were under-promoted (and, from the sound of the studio audience, under-attended) but they gave those of us who knew about them some welcome additional credits and income that summer.
Most of the rest of the book (500+ pages) is taken up by the episode guide which is a fascinating historical document; despite the punning/cryptic titles of many sketches, it is possible to see what was being satirised and when, complete with writing and performing credits and even the running times – a radio comedy anorak’s paradise!
Last year, Justin Lewis interviewed me as part of his research and stunned me by telling me that I’d had material used by 20 different producers over the eight years that I was a regular gag (and occasional sketch) writer for the show, Two hours just flew by as I remembered a funny and exciting time in my life. I’m sure many others will feel the same affection when they see this book – listeners as well as the many writers!
“Prime Minister, You Wanted To See Me?” – A History of Week Ending is available now.
(Reprinted from the Radio Magazine Issue 862, 15 October 2008)
Wednesday, 29 October 2008
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
Course remarks
Last year, I wrote a series of articles for the Radio Magazine showing presenters how to write their own comedy material but for seven years, I taught adult education comedy writing classes heavily biased towards radio (in those days the most accessible market for freelancers, thanks to the BBC’s ‘open door’ policy).
Daytime courses attracted writers ranging from students to OAPs, with very different tastes in comedy, but we managed to find common ground. Some were instantly successful; a chap now in his seventies, who remains a friend, had material used on Week Ending, the News Huddlines and on TV by Rory Bremner before the course finished (I've never had anything used by Bremner!)
We covered many forms of humorous writing and had some great laughs. One lovely moment was when a lady (sadly no longer with us) with a real talent for comic verse sang a version of My Way on her last lesson, rewritten about how much she’d enjoyed the classes.
But not all my memories are fond ones. My first course attracted a harridan who only seemed to want to write bad taste material, rather like the ‘jokes’ that circulate after major tragedies. She would make disparaging remarks about myself and my clothes or would sit reading rather than paying any attention to what I was teaching. During one lesson, I asked the class to listen to the next edition of Week Ending, adding that I would give them details of how to submit material the following week. There was a sound reason for this: I wanted them to study the show first so that they would not waste the producer’s time with material that wasn’t suitable. My nemesis started loudly accusing me of deliberately holding back information (why would I?)
As the first half-term ended, she got a big laugh from everybody with a tasteless anecdote about a patient dying when she was (worryingly) a nurse. She never returned for the rest of the course; we felt as if a cloud had lifted. I later discovered that she had once made the front page of a newspaper by getting sectioned under the Mental Health Act after reacting in a novel way to a dispute over her housing benefit: by attempting to drive her car through the doors of the council offices. I still sometimes spot her out and about but she doesn’t recognise me. If she ever does, I relish the prospect of saying ‘Hi, ------, driven into any good town halls lately?’ Not that I’ve borne a grudge since 1997…
As the years went on, daytime classes became harder to fill, not helped by the service frequently omitting them from the brochure index. The minimum quota of students required to run courses seemed to increase in tandem with the number of highly-paid administrators being employed so I started teaching evening classes for the local college. These attracted younger students and were fine, provided I wasn’t being bawled out in front of my class by an obnoxious administrator for not noticing that a window was slightly open or being irritated by a caretaker hovering outside ten minutes before the lessons which my students were paying for were due to end.
I finished teaching for them after they paid me (public money!) to attend a meeting to arrange the timetable for my next courses – and then simply reproduced listings from the previous year, thereby advertising some on days when I wasn’t available and omitting others altogether. I sent my boss an email expressing my opinion that he couldn’t organise the proverbial distillery-based celebration.
So can you teach people to be funny? Well, you can certainly sharpen their talents. Adult education employers, on the other hand, just seem to be unintentionally comical.
(Reprinted from the Radio Magazine Issue 833, 26 March 2008)
Continuing on this theme of teaching comedy, I must just add that I thought the booklet about writing comedy which came free with the Guardian last week was excellent. There were a number of big-name contributors, the majority of it being a tutorial by Richard Herring. (and yes, it was mostly written by Richard Herring!)I predict numerous 'Wanted' appeals and copies of this freebie changing hands on eBay in the months to come. On the other hand, you could just read it here!
For those who prefer something longer, I think this is the best British book:
And here is a good US comedy writing manual:
Daytime courses attracted writers ranging from students to OAPs, with very different tastes in comedy, but we managed to find common ground. Some were instantly successful; a chap now in his seventies, who remains a friend, had material used on Week Ending, the News Huddlines and on TV by Rory Bremner before the course finished (I've never had anything used by Bremner!)
We covered many forms of humorous writing and had some great laughs. One lovely moment was when a lady (sadly no longer with us) with a real talent for comic verse sang a version of My Way on her last lesson, rewritten about how much she’d enjoyed the classes.
But not all my memories are fond ones. My first course attracted a harridan who only seemed to want to write bad taste material, rather like the ‘jokes’ that circulate after major tragedies. She would make disparaging remarks about myself and my clothes or would sit reading rather than paying any attention to what I was teaching. During one lesson, I asked the class to listen to the next edition of Week Ending, adding that I would give them details of how to submit material the following week. There was a sound reason for this: I wanted them to study the show first so that they would not waste the producer’s time with material that wasn’t suitable. My nemesis started loudly accusing me of deliberately holding back information (why would I?)
As the first half-term ended, she got a big laugh from everybody with a tasteless anecdote about a patient dying when she was (worryingly) a nurse. She never returned for the rest of the course; we felt as if a cloud had lifted. I later discovered that she had once made the front page of a newspaper by getting sectioned under the Mental Health Act after reacting in a novel way to a dispute over her housing benefit: by attempting to drive her car through the doors of the council offices. I still sometimes spot her out and about but she doesn’t recognise me. If she ever does, I relish the prospect of saying ‘Hi, ------, driven into any good town halls lately?’ Not that I’ve borne a grudge since 1997…
As the years went on, daytime classes became harder to fill, not helped by the service frequently omitting them from the brochure index. The minimum quota of students required to run courses seemed to increase in tandem with the number of highly-paid administrators being employed so I started teaching evening classes for the local college. These attracted younger students and were fine, provided I wasn’t being bawled out in front of my class by an obnoxious administrator for not noticing that a window was slightly open or being irritated by a caretaker hovering outside ten minutes before the lessons which my students were paying for were due to end.
I finished teaching for them after they paid me (public money!) to attend a meeting to arrange the timetable for my next courses – and then simply reproduced listings from the previous year, thereby advertising some on days when I wasn’t available and omitting others altogether. I sent my boss an email expressing my opinion that he couldn’t organise the proverbial distillery-based celebration.
So can you teach people to be funny? Well, you can certainly sharpen their talents. Adult education employers, on the other hand, just seem to be unintentionally comical.
(Reprinted from the Radio Magazine Issue 833, 26 March 2008)
Continuing on this theme of teaching comedy, I must just add that I thought the booklet about writing comedy which came free with the Guardian last week was excellent. There were a number of big-name contributors, the majority of it being a tutorial by Richard Herring. (and yes, it was mostly written by Richard Herring!)I predict numerous 'Wanted' appeals and copies of this freebie changing hands on eBay in the months to come. On the other hand, you could just read it here!
For those who prefer something longer, I think this is the best British book:
And here is a good US comedy writing manual:
Friday, 29 August 2008
Teaching comedy? How dare they?
When I used to travel to Broadcasting House to write for BBC radio comedy shows in the 90s, someone would occasionally produce details of a book or an advert for a correspondence course in (shock, horror) comedy writing!
Even the most successful colleagues seemed to react with fury at the idea that anyone would claim to be able to teach people how to write humour. I saw a similar reaction from a highly successful comic to the mere mention of a stand-up course in London. Whatever the credentials of the tutors, it was apparently always a case of '...and those that can't, teach'. In the end, I concluded that even the most established writers or performers were insecure enough to feel threatened by others being given a little help instead of relying totally on trial and error or being permanently discouraged by the mystique surrounding professional comedy.
In the years since then, the number of books and courses has increased. I even spent seven years teaching comedy writing for adult learning providers myself and I still give talks and workshops for writers' groups (taking care only to focus on markets which I have experience of selling material to).
It was refreshing to follow a link recently from Writers With Humour to a Writers Digest article where a number of established writers willingly gave advice to newcomers. Although it is based on American markets, it makes interesting reading for any aspiring humorist.
Even the most successful colleagues seemed to react with fury at the idea that anyone would claim to be able to teach people how to write humour. I saw a similar reaction from a highly successful comic to the mere mention of a stand-up course in London. Whatever the credentials of the tutors, it was apparently always a case of '...and those that can't, teach'. In the end, I concluded that even the most established writers or performers were insecure enough to feel threatened by others being given a little help instead of relying totally on trial and error or being permanently discouraged by the mystique surrounding professional comedy.
In the years since then, the number of books and courses has increased. I even spent seven years teaching comedy writing for adult learning providers myself and I still give talks and workshops for writers' groups (taking care only to focus on markets which I have experience of selling material to).
It was refreshing to follow a link recently from Writers With Humour to a Writers Digest article where a number of established writers willingly gave advice to newcomers. Although it is based on American markets, it makes interesting reading for any aspiring humorist.
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
Not a ghost of a chance
Someone was advertising recently in my local paper for a ghostwriter to work on a book. Now, in theory this should be right up my street; fourteen years running a daily prep service certainly constitutes ghostwriting, as do my uncredited scriptwriting for cabaret acts, speechwriting, copywriting…
But nowadays an ad like this just sets alarm bells ringing. It might be perfectly genuine but I have had enough unfortunate experiences with would-be writers to put me off such collaborations forever.
There was a dear old lady in Southampton who had written some excellent songs for a musical set locally during World War II and was looking for someone to script the ‘book’ for it. The problem was that she wanted it ready for the VE Day Anniversary in 1995 and this was late 1994! She also expected me to act as an impresario and get it staged. Even if it could have been written, funded, cast, directed and rehearsed in time, a weekend at a community centre might have been the best case scenario, provided she had shed-loads of publicity and relatives, but it turned out that what she had in mind was the 2300-seater Mayflower Theatre! I felt bad for her but just quietly walked away from the project.
When I advertised in the Stage, I frequently got calls from loud wide-boys inviting me to work on their ‘sitcom’ ideas. They would bellow about some character they knew whose life experiences would, apparently, ‘make a good comedy’. In the exceedingly unlikely event of their half-baked ideas being commissioned by any broadcaster, they were prepared to offer me half the proceeds for doing all the work but nothing for wasted time otherwise! One wanted to meet me so he could reveal his brilliant concept in person but warned that I would have to sign a legal document binding me to secrecy about it. Another said he thought we could start off with a two-hour movie followed by several TV series as a spin-off! They all had pound signs in their eyes but not a clue about the requirements of TV or radio (not that radio’s rates of pay would have been of any interest to them). Of course, I never got involved with these people but simply returned to my (guaranteed) work; they probably returned to their market stalls.
But on one occasion, an impatient old man nagged me to read his sitcom. He led me into his ground floor flat. Halfway along the hallway, we walked up three stairs then down three the other side. There was absolutely no reason for them to be there; I soon began to identify with them…
Rather than simply write a synopsis, he had actually scripted six full episodes – of unequal length! Some were fifty minutes, some ninety. He obviously felt that TV or radio would disrupt their schedules to accommodate this blockbuster. There were no strong characters, subplots – or jokes! The storyline involved gambling and there was one scene where the hard-up hero told his partner that he was just off to use the week’s housekeeping to try out a new betting system. Her reply? ‘OK’…
I read through all this, returned (negotiating the six superfluous steps again) and gently offered my opinion about why it was a non-starter. I’d brought detailed written feedback as well.
I asked for some money for my time. I suppose I felt sorry for him; why else would I have asked for little more than minimum wage? He knocked a third off, saying he couldn’t afford any more as he’d just booked his holiday.
Then he showed me a page of a novel he was writing. It described an explicit and energetic sex scene. Looking at him, I assumed that it wasn’t autobiographical.
I left very shortly afterwards, resolving (unlike him) to stick to known quantities.
(Reprinted from the Radio Magazine Issue 829, 27 February 2008).
But nowadays an ad like this just sets alarm bells ringing. It might be perfectly genuine but I have had enough unfortunate experiences with would-be writers to put me off such collaborations forever.
There was a dear old lady in Southampton who had written some excellent songs for a musical set locally during World War II and was looking for someone to script the ‘book’ for it. The problem was that she wanted it ready for the VE Day Anniversary in 1995 and this was late 1994! She also expected me to act as an impresario and get it staged. Even if it could have been written, funded, cast, directed and rehearsed in time, a weekend at a community centre might have been the best case scenario, provided she had shed-loads of publicity and relatives, but it turned out that what she had in mind was the 2300-seater Mayflower Theatre! I felt bad for her but just quietly walked away from the project.
When I advertised in the Stage, I frequently got calls from loud wide-boys inviting me to work on their ‘sitcom’ ideas. They would bellow about some character they knew whose life experiences would, apparently, ‘make a good comedy’. In the exceedingly unlikely event of their half-baked ideas being commissioned by any broadcaster, they were prepared to offer me half the proceeds for doing all the work but nothing for wasted time otherwise! One wanted to meet me so he could reveal his brilliant concept in person but warned that I would have to sign a legal document binding me to secrecy about it. Another said he thought we could start off with a two-hour movie followed by several TV series as a spin-off! They all had pound signs in their eyes but not a clue about the requirements of TV or radio (not that radio’s rates of pay would have been of any interest to them). Of course, I never got involved with these people but simply returned to my (guaranteed) work; they probably returned to their market stalls.
But on one occasion, an impatient old man nagged me to read his sitcom. He led me into his ground floor flat. Halfway along the hallway, we walked up three stairs then down three the other side. There was absolutely no reason for them to be there; I soon began to identify with them…
Rather than simply write a synopsis, he had actually scripted six full episodes – of unequal length! Some were fifty minutes, some ninety. He obviously felt that TV or radio would disrupt their schedules to accommodate this blockbuster. There were no strong characters, subplots – or jokes! The storyline involved gambling and there was one scene where the hard-up hero told his partner that he was just off to use the week’s housekeeping to try out a new betting system. Her reply? ‘OK’…
I read through all this, returned (negotiating the six superfluous steps again) and gently offered my opinion about why it was a non-starter. I’d brought detailed written feedback as well.
I asked for some money for my time. I suppose I felt sorry for him; why else would I have asked for little more than minimum wage? He knocked a third off, saying he couldn’t afford any more as he’d just booked his holiday.
Then he showed me a page of a novel he was writing. It described an explicit and energetic sex scene. Looking at him, I assumed that it wasn’t autobiographical.
I left very shortly afterwards, resolving (unlike him) to stick to known quantities.
(Reprinted from the Radio Magazine Issue 829, 27 February 2008).
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
Growing My Own Arty Jokes
I know, I know: even by the standards of the titles I give these blog entries, that one’s a real shocker but, as always, it should at least give you some clue as to the content of the post to follow and its tenuous link to radio comedy.
I was at Broadcasting House one day, chatting about what I planned to be doing during the summer months while the topical shows I contributed to were off the off the air and one of my colleagues, a blunt Yorkshireman (is there any other kind?), remarked ‘Gardening? You don’t seem the type!’
I’m not sure exactly what the ‘type’ is but it’s hardly unusual for writers with a connection to radio humour to be have an interest in gardening. The prolific Mat Coward, author of the highly-acclaimed Pocket Essential Classic Radio Comedy, has been a regular contributor to Organic Gardening magazine since its inception exactly 20 years ago, while the first novel by Lynne Truss was called With One Lousy Free Packet of Seed and actually came with one attached to the cover (plus, I am sure, some perfect punctuation).
One of the questions I am most frequently asked at speaking engagements is who are my favourite comedians? I’m sure those asking always expect me to run off a long list of classic sitcom stars and stand-ups but I always answer that, although my influences are people renowned for using humour effectively, they are not always people you would think off as comedians. Groucho Marx certainly was a comic but the late Blaster Bates was a brilliantly funny speaker while Patrick ‘Call My Bluff’ Campbell was a wonderful purveyor of written wit which his stammer prevented from delivering (except in the smallest of doses) on TV. And then there is Geoffrey Smith.
I think that name always takes them by surprise but when I was listening to Gardeners’ Question Time circa 1994, just after the entire panel left to present Classic FM’s Classic Gardening Forum, the incoming independent production company put together a new team which included Mr Smith and I loved his off-the-cuff humour. Many great laughs in the current shows come from County Down’s vegetable-hating John Cushnie.
But vegetable growing is what I hope to be doing again this year (at my girlfriend Val’s place; I don’t think the Residents’ Association in the block where I live would appreciate it if I started digging up the communal gardens to put runner beans in). The weather in 2007 meant a washout for gardeners all over the UK and it probably also cost me a lot of creative ideas.
You see, another question I get asked a lot at talks is whether all comedians are depressives (audiences always think about Hancock and Spike Milligan in this regard). I answer that some seem to be, some don’t; then I go on to explain that creating humour is not a 9 – 5 job; whether you are a performer or a writer, you are always thinking about that next joke, observation – or magazine article! Whether you are walking along the street, doing the shopping or waiting for a train, you are constantly mulling over ideas and this distraction may look like depression to the outside world.
Which reminds me of the time when my late mother visited her local corner shop shortly after my extrovert younger brother. The shopkeeper spoke very good English but had an occasional, slightly unusual turn of phrase.
‘Your jovial son has just been here’, he said.
‘Ah’, replied my mother, ‘As opposed to the miserable bugger?’
And if I’m up to my knees in mud and stinking of compost and nettle juice feed, I can concentrate on humorous ideas and no-one accuses me of looking depressed because no-one wants to come near me at all.
(Reprinted from the Radio Magazine Issue 837, 23 April 2008)
I was at Broadcasting House one day, chatting about what I planned to be doing during the summer months while the topical shows I contributed to were off the off the air and one of my colleagues, a blunt Yorkshireman (is there any other kind?), remarked ‘Gardening? You don’t seem the type!’
I’m not sure exactly what the ‘type’ is but it’s hardly unusual for writers with a connection to radio humour to be have an interest in gardening. The prolific Mat Coward, author of the highly-acclaimed Pocket Essential Classic Radio Comedy, has been a regular contributor to Organic Gardening magazine since its inception exactly 20 years ago, while the first novel by Lynne Truss was called With One Lousy Free Packet of Seed and actually came with one attached to the cover (plus, I am sure, some perfect punctuation).
One of the questions I am most frequently asked at speaking engagements is who are my favourite comedians? I’m sure those asking always expect me to run off a long list of classic sitcom stars and stand-ups but I always answer that, although my influences are people renowned for using humour effectively, they are not always people you would think off as comedians. Groucho Marx certainly was a comic but the late Blaster Bates was a brilliantly funny speaker while Patrick ‘Call My Bluff’ Campbell was a wonderful purveyor of written wit which his stammer prevented from delivering (except in the smallest of doses) on TV. And then there is Geoffrey Smith.
I think that name always takes them by surprise but when I was listening to Gardeners’ Question Time circa 1994, just after the entire panel left to present Classic FM’s Classic Gardening Forum, the incoming independent production company put together a new team which included Mr Smith and I loved his off-the-cuff humour. Many great laughs in the current shows come from County Down’s vegetable-hating John Cushnie.
But vegetable growing is what I hope to be doing again this year (at my girlfriend Val’s place; I don’t think the Residents’ Association in the block where I live would appreciate it if I started digging up the communal gardens to put runner beans in). The weather in 2007 meant a washout for gardeners all over the UK and it probably also cost me a lot of creative ideas.
You see, another question I get asked a lot at talks is whether all comedians are depressives (audiences always think about Hancock and Spike Milligan in this regard). I answer that some seem to be, some don’t; then I go on to explain that creating humour is not a 9 – 5 job; whether you are a performer or a writer, you are always thinking about that next joke, observation – or magazine article! Whether you are walking along the street, doing the shopping or waiting for a train, you are constantly mulling over ideas and this distraction may look like depression to the outside world.
Which reminds me of the time when my late mother visited her local corner shop shortly after my extrovert younger brother. The shopkeeper spoke very good English but had an occasional, slightly unusual turn of phrase.
‘Your jovial son has just been here’, he said.
‘Ah’, replied my mother, ‘As opposed to the miserable bugger?’
And if I’m up to my knees in mud and stinking of compost and nettle juice feed, I can concentrate on humorous ideas and no-one accuses me of looking depressed because no-one wants to come near me at all.
(Reprinted from the Radio Magazine Issue 837, 23 April 2008)
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
Oh! The deadline stage is always a bit of a pain...
It’s appropriate to paraphrase a lyric from the musical Calamity Jane when writing about deadlines because their approach often carries the fear of impending calamity, such as a producer using another writer’s material, a DJ having nothing to say, or even (by far the most alarming) an empty page in the Radio Magazine!
I find that fitting writing deadlines around a busy public speaking schedule can be an interesting challenge, although the acquisition of a Blackberry has made emailing topical prep gags a lot easier. In the past, I have faxed material from copy shops, libraries and hotels in various parts of the UK. After speaking at a lunch in Winchester, I dashed out and asked the staff on the reception desk if I could send off a handwritten sketch. It arrived at the BBC bang on the 3pm deadline, was typed up at their end and got broadcast.
The trouble with deadlines is that they have a habit of changing. It’s bad enough when a new radio comedy producer suddenly decides to bring a long-established deadline forward by an hour without them also having a watch that seems to be ten minutes faster than mine!
Mind you, the pressure of a deadline can be very good for creativity. When I write topical material, I study various news sources and make brief notes about any items which I feel could inspire a joke or observation. Sometimes an idea comes to me straight away, fully-formed. Or there might be the germ of an idea which I will develop later. Then there are stories which are just crying out for a gag but nothing occurs to me – until the deadline.
In 1994, I was in a dressing room at the Paris Studios, Lower Regent Street, writing last-minute gags for the live recording celebrating the News Huddlines becoming the longest-running audience radio comedy show in broadcasting history. I’d submitted a number of items to Tony Hare, the script editor, and I knew that several would be used, but there was one news story that just kept nagging me to come up with something.
It was about a gang who had nicked all the pizzas from a delivery man. I read the details again and again: nothing. Then, just as Tony was completing the Stop Press script, this came to me:
‘A delivery man was devastated when his entire vanload of pizzas was stolen. He even tried topping himself – but the cheese kept rolling off his head’.
Yes, it’s a pun – but Roy Hudd loved it and it got one of the biggest laughs of the night. The Pebble Mill cameras were in filming and they showed it in their piece about the show, giving me a sort of TV debut, and the clip was also used when BBC TV South did a feature about my work. So thank you, Dr Deadline.
But I must go because the deadline for another day’s prep is looming; in other words (with further apologies to songwriters Sammy Fain and Paul Francis Webster):
Setting up jokes, setting up jokes, setting up jokes...
(Reprinted from the Radio Magazine Issue 766, 13 December 2006)
I find that fitting writing deadlines around a busy public speaking schedule can be an interesting challenge, although the acquisition of a Blackberry has made emailing topical prep gags a lot easier. In the past, I have faxed material from copy shops, libraries and hotels in various parts of the UK. After speaking at a lunch in Winchester, I dashed out and asked the staff on the reception desk if I could send off a handwritten sketch. It arrived at the BBC bang on the 3pm deadline, was typed up at their end and got broadcast.
The trouble with deadlines is that they have a habit of changing. It’s bad enough when a new radio comedy producer suddenly decides to bring a long-established deadline forward by an hour without them also having a watch that seems to be ten minutes faster than mine!
Mind you, the pressure of a deadline can be very good for creativity. When I write topical material, I study various news sources and make brief notes about any items which I feel could inspire a joke or observation. Sometimes an idea comes to me straight away, fully-formed. Or there might be the germ of an idea which I will develop later. Then there are stories which are just crying out for a gag but nothing occurs to me – until the deadline.
In 1994, I was in a dressing room at the Paris Studios, Lower Regent Street, writing last-minute gags for the live recording celebrating the News Huddlines becoming the longest-running audience radio comedy show in broadcasting history. I’d submitted a number of items to Tony Hare, the script editor, and I knew that several would be used, but there was one news story that just kept nagging me to come up with something.
It was about a gang who had nicked all the pizzas from a delivery man. I read the details again and again: nothing. Then, just as Tony was completing the Stop Press script, this came to me:
‘A delivery man was devastated when his entire vanload of pizzas was stolen. He even tried topping himself – but the cheese kept rolling off his head’.
Yes, it’s a pun – but Roy Hudd loved it and it got one of the biggest laughs of the night. The Pebble Mill cameras were in filming and they showed it in their piece about the show, giving me a sort of TV debut, and the clip was also used when BBC TV South did a feature about my work. So thank you, Dr Deadline.
But I must go because the deadline for another day’s prep is looming; in other words (with further apologies to songwriters Sammy Fain and Paul Francis Webster):
Setting up jokes, setting up jokes, setting up jokes...
(Reprinted from the Radio Magazine Issue 766, 13 December 2006)
Saturday, 7 June 2008
Corpse Remarks
I may have missed hearing it go out live but I certainly had plenty of further opportunities soon afterwards to enjoy newsreader Charlotte Green’s fit of giggles on the Today programme after she had just sat through the (unidentifiable) first recording of a human voice dating from 1860. Other BBC programmes and message boards rapidly picked up on the story and very soon sound clips had been posted on You Tube.
There were numerous references to her 1997 collapse while delivering news about a stranded sperm whale just after she had heard a reporter mention Papua New Guinea’s chief-of-staff Major General Jack Tuat (as if any number of fancy titles could distract from a name like that one) and there were links to Radio 2’s John ‘Boggy’ Marsh’s problem when an item about a youth who injured himself by attempting to launch a firework from his bottom instead of a bottle (so easy to confuse the two) was followed by news about some education inspectors who discovered that a school near Hyderabad contained only chickens.
Yes, it was unfortunate that the item that Charlotte was reading concerned the death of a very worthy film-maker and, of course, there were the predictable comments about her ‘unprofessional’ conduct from the po-faced/media wannabes, as if corpsing badly twice in eleven years somehow makes her the Radio 4 equivalent of ITV’s Fern Britton, whose on-screen giggling fits are now becoming a tad predictable. (I refuse to include the occasions when Charlotte loses it on the News Quiz because that’s meant to be – and is – a funny show).
As far as performers cracking up during comedy programmes is concerned, this can be a blessing or a curse. The first radio sketch I ever had broadcast that actually ran into a second minute (thereby qualifying it as a sketch rather than a quickie) only did so because a performer lost his place in the script and everyone corpsed. The result was a much better audience response, double the fee for me (I was paid per minute or part of one) and my finally being rewarded with the retained writer status that I had been working towards for months.
The downside is that it can destroy a comic creation for good. America’s long-running Saturday Night Live introduced a character called Debbie Downer, played by the hugely talented Rachel Dratch. Ms. Downer would spoil any happy occasion, such as a family reunion, by always bringing the conversation around to disasters, diseases and death. During the live broadcast, Rachel dissolved into hysterics several times, quickly followed by most of her fellow players. The studio audience loved it and the media analysed the incident in great detail but no other Debbie Downer sketch ever seemed as funny afterwards.
The all-time classic, of course, has to be the infamous Ian Botham ‘legover’ commentary from Brian Johnston in 1991. It’s always funny, however many times you hear it. Years later, I saw Radio 2 comedians Parsons and Naylor lip-synching as Johnners and Aggers on a telethon and one audience member quite literally fell off her seat laughing. When Johnners himself wrote or spoke about the worldwide response to his on-air giggles and wheezes, he seemed most proud of the fact that it got selected for Pick of the Week!
To all those newsreaders who occasionally let the world hear their human side, I say keep up the bad work – it brightens our week.
And it’s not just listeners who should be grateful; Google the name of that chap from Papua New Guinea and you will discover that, more than a decade later, he still has quite an internet presence – nearly all of it thanks to Charlotte Green. Isn’t it lovely to see a Tuat getting so much exposure?
(Reprinted from the Radio Magazine Issue 833, 9 April 2008)
Postscript: I was saddened to read of the passing last week of Harvey Korman, another performer who was apt to dissolve into giggles. Here is a fabulous clip of him with Tim Conway in a classic sketch from the Carol Burnett Show. Towards the end, he just completely gives up trying to keep a straight face or keep his laughter inaudible!
There were numerous references to her 1997 collapse while delivering news about a stranded sperm whale just after she had heard a reporter mention Papua New Guinea’s chief-of-staff Major General Jack Tuat (as if any number of fancy titles could distract from a name like that one) and there were links to Radio 2’s John ‘Boggy’ Marsh’s problem when an item about a youth who injured himself by attempting to launch a firework from his bottom instead of a bottle (so easy to confuse the two) was followed by news about some education inspectors who discovered that a school near Hyderabad contained only chickens.
Yes, it was unfortunate that the item that Charlotte was reading concerned the death of a very worthy film-maker and, of course, there were the predictable comments about her ‘unprofessional’ conduct from the po-faced/media wannabes, as if corpsing badly twice in eleven years somehow makes her the Radio 4 equivalent of ITV’s Fern Britton, whose on-screen giggling fits are now becoming a tad predictable. (I refuse to include the occasions when Charlotte loses it on the News Quiz because that’s meant to be – and is – a funny show).
As far as performers cracking up during comedy programmes is concerned, this can be a blessing or a curse. The first radio sketch I ever had broadcast that actually ran into a second minute (thereby qualifying it as a sketch rather than a quickie) only did so because a performer lost his place in the script and everyone corpsed. The result was a much better audience response, double the fee for me (I was paid per minute or part of one) and my finally being rewarded with the retained writer status that I had been working towards for months.
The downside is that it can destroy a comic creation for good. America’s long-running Saturday Night Live introduced a character called Debbie Downer, played by the hugely talented Rachel Dratch. Ms. Downer would spoil any happy occasion, such as a family reunion, by always bringing the conversation around to disasters, diseases and death. During the live broadcast, Rachel dissolved into hysterics several times, quickly followed by most of her fellow players. The studio audience loved it and the media analysed the incident in great detail but no other Debbie Downer sketch ever seemed as funny afterwards.
The all-time classic, of course, has to be the infamous Ian Botham ‘legover’ commentary from Brian Johnston in 1991. It’s always funny, however many times you hear it. Years later, I saw Radio 2 comedians Parsons and Naylor lip-synching as Johnners and Aggers on a telethon and one audience member quite literally fell off her seat laughing. When Johnners himself wrote or spoke about the worldwide response to his on-air giggles and wheezes, he seemed most proud of the fact that it got selected for Pick of the Week!
To all those newsreaders who occasionally let the world hear their human side, I say keep up the bad work – it brightens our week.
And it’s not just listeners who should be grateful; Google the name of that chap from Papua New Guinea and you will discover that, more than a decade later, he still has quite an internet presence – nearly all of it thanks to Charlotte Green. Isn’t it lovely to see a Tuat getting so much exposure?
(Reprinted from the Radio Magazine Issue 833, 9 April 2008)
Postscript: I was saddened to read of the passing last week of Harvey Korman, another performer who was apt to dissolve into giggles. Here is a fabulous clip of him with Tim Conway in a classic sketch from the Carol Burnett Show. Towards the end, he just completely gives up trying to keep a straight face or keep his laughter inaudible!
Friday, 30 May 2008
Cracking over the papers
Since the previous posts first appeared in the Radio Magazine, I now spend rather less time in cafes and a lot more researching news stories for topical gags at home on the internet. This more recent piece describes this (often mind-numbing) process...
During my brief spell as a stand up comic there was a fellow comedian at London clubs who would begin his act with ‘Which do I use: HP, Daddy’s, Lee and Perrins? I’m not telling you; a good comedian never reveals his sauces’. Confidently delivered, this Tim Vine-style wordplay got a laugh.
But I thought I would tell you about the endless daily news sources I have to trawl through to come up with the quota of (generally pun-free) show prep that I write for radio presenters.
It’s not so bad when I’m on my way to speaking engagements; I just buy a Sun, Mail (and, if it’s a long journey, a Telegraph as well) at Bournemouth station and hop on the train. I block out the chattering of Brockenhurst College students and announcements from overly descriptive buffet stewards and just concentrate. Ideas seem to form pretty rapidly; gags and observations are noted down and then sent by Blackberry before or after my talk.
But if I’m at home in front of a screen with access to ALL the news sources… You’ve heard of Parkinson’s Law that work expands to fill the time available? Well, so do newspaper websites!
I start with Ananova. Now, I know there are those who say it’s overused by presenters but it is irresistible, especially the Quirkies. The majority of these stories seem to come from either China, where, let’s face it, there are a lot more people available to take part in peculiar activities, or Croatia, a significantly smaller country where they just seem to do weird things anyway.
Then I look at showbiz news on Digital Spy Wire which takes entertainment stories from all the UK and US media. The trouble is, the headlines only include surnames so you have to click on them and investigate the story further. Take today, for example: ‘Lloyd dates businessman in Paris’. Which Lloyd? Emily Lloyd, the award-winning actress? Wendy Lloyd, the DJ-turned-singer songwriter? Surely not a misspelled Loyd Grossman? No, it’s Danielle Lloyd. Not even interesting. But I usually get the odd idea from somewhere on DSW.
The Daily Mirror site has a strange new habit of putting people’s names in headlines there, even if they’re not well-known, so I will read something like ‘Bill Bloggs leaves wife for postmistress’ and wonder whether this Bloggs chap is an important public figure who I’ve somehow missed hearing about rather just some randy vicar.
Where next? Oh yes, the Daily Mail. If only they wouldn’t distract me with their serialised books or the furious readers’ comments under some item about political correctness/petty officialdom.
Next stop: the Sun. Always good for a broad range of stories but I can’t help noticing that by now I’m taking ages longer than when I write on the train using just a couple of hard-copy sources and I’m still nowhere near my daily quota of material!
After this, I’ll look at the Evening Standard which posts new, mostly London-based stories – but I have to wait until around midday for them.
Nearly there. I love the Telegraph’s current (and perhaps, for them, surprising) in-depth reporting of men having sex with inanimate objects: a bicycle, a Henry vacuum cleaner, a lamp-post... (Mind you, one of the dodgiest gags I ever had broadcast by the BBC was about a story I once saw in that paper in 1995 about a man in Ghana caught having sex with a cow because he didn’t want the health risks of having sex with a human. Punchline: he’s now UHT positive…)
The quota has, at last, been reached but I can exceed it if I also read the Times, Guardian, Independent, Sky and BBC News online. Then there’s Reuters, Associated Press, Exchange & Mart...
Perhaps I should just buy a few papers each morning and get on a train – regardless of whether I have a talk to go to or not!
(Reprinted from the Radio Magazine Issue 831, 12 March 2008)
During my brief spell as a stand up comic there was a fellow comedian at London clubs who would begin his act with ‘Which do I use: HP, Daddy’s, Lee and Perrins? I’m not telling you; a good comedian never reveals his sauces’. Confidently delivered, this Tim Vine-style wordplay got a laugh.
But I thought I would tell you about the endless daily news sources I have to trawl through to come up with the quota of (generally pun-free) show prep that I write for radio presenters.
It’s not so bad when I’m on my way to speaking engagements; I just buy a Sun, Mail (and, if it’s a long journey, a Telegraph as well) at Bournemouth station and hop on the train. I block out the chattering of Brockenhurst College students and announcements from overly descriptive buffet stewards and just concentrate. Ideas seem to form pretty rapidly; gags and observations are noted down and then sent by Blackberry before or after my talk.
But if I’m at home in front of a screen with access to ALL the news sources… You’ve heard of Parkinson’s Law that work expands to fill the time available? Well, so do newspaper websites!
I start with Ananova. Now, I know there are those who say it’s overused by presenters but it is irresistible, especially the Quirkies. The majority of these stories seem to come from either China, where, let’s face it, there are a lot more people available to take part in peculiar activities, or Croatia, a significantly smaller country where they just seem to do weird things anyway.
Then I look at showbiz news on Digital Spy Wire which takes entertainment stories from all the UK and US media. The trouble is, the headlines only include surnames so you have to click on them and investigate the story further. Take today, for example: ‘Lloyd dates businessman in Paris’. Which Lloyd? Emily Lloyd, the award-winning actress? Wendy Lloyd, the DJ-turned-singer songwriter? Surely not a misspelled Loyd Grossman? No, it’s Danielle Lloyd. Not even interesting. But I usually get the odd idea from somewhere on DSW.
The Daily Mirror site has a strange new habit of putting people’s names in headlines there, even if they’re not well-known, so I will read something like ‘Bill Bloggs leaves wife for postmistress’ and wonder whether this Bloggs chap is an important public figure who I’ve somehow missed hearing about rather just some randy vicar.
Where next? Oh yes, the Daily Mail. If only they wouldn’t distract me with their serialised books or the furious readers’ comments under some item about political correctness/petty officialdom.
Next stop: the Sun. Always good for a broad range of stories but I can’t help noticing that by now I’m taking ages longer than when I write on the train using just a couple of hard-copy sources and I’m still nowhere near my daily quota of material!
After this, I’ll look at the Evening Standard which posts new, mostly London-based stories – but I have to wait until around midday for them.
Nearly there. I love the Telegraph’s current (and perhaps, for them, surprising) in-depth reporting of men having sex with inanimate objects: a bicycle, a Henry vacuum cleaner, a lamp-post... (Mind you, one of the dodgiest gags I ever had broadcast by the BBC was about a story I once saw in that paper in 1995 about a man in Ghana caught having sex with a cow because he didn’t want the health risks of having sex with a human. Punchline: he’s now UHT positive…)
The quota has, at last, been reached but I can exceed it if I also read the Times, Guardian, Independent, Sky and BBC News online. Then there’s Reuters, Associated Press, Exchange & Mart...
Perhaps I should just buy a few papers each morning and get on a train – regardless of whether I have a talk to go to or not!
(Reprinted from the Radio Magazine Issue 831, 12 March 2008)
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
Food for thought (or punchlines at mealtimes)
The debt-ridden novelist Honore de Balzac wrote many of his 85 masterpieces in French cafes. An impoverished J K Rowling completed her first ‘Harry Potter’ manuscript in coffee bars, making each beverage last an hour, like the pensioner in Ralph McTell’s ‘Streets of London’. And, somewhat further down the literary food chain (but no less hard-up), the Radio Gagster comes up with many of his topical jokes while sitting in a Subway, a McDonald’s, or, if he’s actually been paid by a presenter, a Starbucks.
What is it about writers and cafes?
Is it that we’re outsiders who like to observe others’ everyday lives and eavesdrop on their conversations for inspiration? Or could it simply be that many of us live in conditions that would make the producers of BBC 1’s ‘Life of Grime’ shudder, so that even the grottiest greasy spoon would seem like the Ritz by comparison?
I first got into the cafe habit at Broadcasting House where many BBC Radio Light Entertainment writers probably started going up to the canteen because it was less stressful than trying to buy anything from the tea bar at 16 Langham Street.
One woman who served in there was absolutely terrifying. From the moment a customer appeared at the door, she would glare at them and bellow ‘WHADDYA WANT?’ As soon as they’d made their hurried selection, she would hold a hand out for payment a millimetre under their nose, stare at the coins suspiciously, deposit them in the till with a grunt, and then move on to her next victim.
The writer would return to the task of fearlessly scripting satirical sketches to bring down the Establishment - while still quaking from their encounter with the BBC tea lady.
The BH canteen was situated on the eighth floor and commanded spectacular views. It was open 24 hours a day and, despite being the butt of so many jokes over the years, served food that was perfectly acceptable, reasonably priced (i.e. subsidised) and very varied. There was one problem, however: you couldn’t always tell what you were getting. Savoury dishes seemed to be cunningly disguised as desserts, and vice versa.
A colleague, Ben Francis, was a vegetarian. One day he dished out runner beans along with what appeared to be a savoury white sauce. This turned out to be custard. It will perhaps give you some idea of the eccentricity of radio comedy writers if I tell you that he actually said to me, in all seriousness, ‘I didn’t half feel ill by the time I’d finished it’.
Things weren’t much better if you knowingly bought the stuff. A BH canteen cashier once accidentally dropped £1 change straight into my custard. Instead of apologising, she simply came out with a perfect, seventies sitcom-style ‘OOH-ER!’ She really should have been performing on radio, not serving its writers.
Nowadays, as I work on my material in a cafe, there is often an ILR station playing in the background and this is useful, not only for breaking news as I approach a deadline but also for keeping me up to date with presenters’ styles.
And if I find a place that’s conducive to coming up with ideas, I’ll go there most days for months, sometimes years on end. Proprietors get used to seeing me with my pile of newspapers, my notebooks and my anxious glances at the clock. They tolerate me, just as I sometimes have to tolerate them…
A café owner who was obsessed with keeping dogs once spent some considerable time explaining to me, in full gory detail, the complete process for castrating a King Charles spaniel. It was difficult trying to write after that with my legs so firmly crossed.
But then that’s a different kind of Ball-sac…
(Republished from the Radio Magazine Issue 734, 10 May 2006)
What is it about writers and cafes?
Is it that we’re outsiders who like to observe others’ everyday lives and eavesdrop on their conversations for inspiration? Or could it simply be that many of us live in conditions that would make the producers of BBC 1’s ‘Life of Grime’ shudder, so that even the grottiest greasy spoon would seem like the Ritz by comparison?
I first got into the cafe habit at Broadcasting House where many BBC Radio Light Entertainment writers probably started going up to the canteen because it was less stressful than trying to buy anything from the tea bar at 16 Langham Street.
One woman who served in there was absolutely terrifying. From the moment a customer appeared at the door, she would glare at them and bellow ‘WHADDYA WANT?’ As soon as they’d made their hurried selection, she would hold a hand out for payment a millimetre under their nose, stare at the coins suspiciously, deposit them in the till with a grunt, and then move on to her next victim.
The writer would return to the task of fearlessly scripting satirical sketches to bring down the Establishment - while still quaking from their encounter with the BBC tea lady.
The BH canteen was situated on the eighth floor and commanded spectacular views. It was open 24 hours a day and, despite being the butt of so many jokes over the years, served food that was perfectly acceptable, reasonably priced (i.e. subsidised) and very varied. There was one problem, however: you couldn’t always tell what you were getting. Savoury dishes seemed to be cunningly disguised as desserts, and vice versa.
A colleague, Ben Francis, was a vegetarian. One day he dished out runner beans along with what appeared to be a savoury white sauce. This turned out to be custard. It will perhaps give you some idea of the eccentricity of radio comedy writers if I tell you that he actually said to me, in all seriousness, ‘I didn’t half feel ill by the time I’d finished it’.
Things weren’t much better if you knowingly bought the stuff. A BH canteen cashier once accidentally dropped £1 change straight into my custard. Instead of apologising, she simply came out with a perfect, seventies sitcom-style ‘OOH-ER!’ She really should have been performing on radio, not serving its writers.
Nowadays, as I work on my material in a cafe, there is often an ILR station playing in the background and this is useful, not only for breaking news as I approach a deadline but also for keeping me up to date with presenters’ styles.
And if I find a place that’s conducive to coming up with ideas, I’ll go there most days for months, sometimes years on end. Proprietors get used to seeing me with my pile of newspapers, my notebooks and my anxious glances at the clock. They tolerate me, just as I sometimes have to tolerate them…
A café owner who was obsessed with keeping dogs once spent some considerable time explaining to me, in full gory detail, the complete process for castrating a King Charles spaniel. It was difficult trying to write after that with my legs so firmly crossed.
But then that’s a different kind of Ball-sac…
(Republished from the Radio Magazine Issue 734, 10 May 2006)
An excellent article about topical monologues
Many comedy fans in the UK will be familiar with the Tonight Show with Jay Leno or Late Night with Letterman but may well have missed this superb article by Sam Anderson in New York magazine about their different approaches to the recent writers' strike in the United States. It includes some acute observations about the daily grind of producing a quota of topical humour.
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