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  ‘Yes,’ I admitted, rather lamely I thought.

  ‘I see, these tunes aren’t on your official playlist?’

  ‘Well … no … I just put them in when I feel like it.’

  ‘And which tracks do you use?’

  I use Coronation Scot a lot. Do you know it?’

  The old boy nodded. ‘And does someone make a note of this extra music so that the composers get their money from PRS?’

  I think I might have winked at this point. I know I wasn’t vulgar enough to nudge him. ‘Well, you know, when I remember.’

  ‘You will remember, every time.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said, you will remember every time. Not only am I the chairman of PRS, but I also wrote Coronation Scot.’

  If only Sir Vivien Ellis had introduced himself before kicking me into touch.

  Having said that, there were times when I was comparably wicked and, what was worse, there would often be an element of premeditation. Andrew Lloyd Webber and I set up one rather elaborate wheeze at the expense of impresario Robert Stigwood. Back in the mid ’60s, Stigwood had blown all his money on marketing and promoting a young singer called Simon Scott, who was cast in the mould of Cliff Richard. He had busts made of his protégé, paid for the front page of the New Musical Express and probably explored many other avenues in order to break the new singer. It didn’t happen and it cost Stigwood dearly. Unaware as he was of the phenomenal success that was about to come his way with the Bee Gees, it must have irked him that Simon Scott didn’t make it.

  The single had been a small hit, but nothing to set the world alight. I actually liked the song and had recently played it, so hit upon the idea, with Andrew, of pretending that, after all those years, the single was finding popularity with a new generation. On the day that Andrew was due to collect Stigwood at Heathrow and take him to lunch and a meeting in Mayfair, the traps were set. I’d had giant posters made that had been strategically placed on the route. These were to be subtly pointed out. With the car switched on to Radio One, I organised with Mark Page, who was doing the lunchtime show that day, to play the single at a specific time. Stigwood was apparently speechless. I had it played again later. Andrew had been sent a ‘new’ copy of Simon Scott’s bust which was prominently on display during lunch. It was, in fact, an original from the ’60s. Stigwood couldn’t get his head around it: Radio One playing the song, new busts, new posters and a whole new marketing strategy. Not only was he baffled, but he still owned the track and wondered, as an impresario would, who the hell was behind this new campaign when they didn’t even own the product. I assume that the word ‘litigation’ might have been playing on his lips by the time he and Andrew hit the cheese course. What fun.

  There are hundreds of tales I could tell, but too many for one book. However, I couldn’t write about my time on the breakfast show without mentioning one particular song and the stories that surround it.

  I am genuinely baffled that people are still fascinated by the saga thirty years on. When asked about it (three or four times a week on average) I offer the choice of truth or myth. The truth might be less interesting, but the myth clearly isn’t the truth. A tough call for any media journalist or presenter. The truth is, I had no plans to ban ‘Relax’. It was a good dance track that powered along. It was well produced and had firmly established Frankie Goes to Hollywood in the top ten. I’ve heard some rather splendid yarns that involve Anglo-Saxon words at whose meaning I can only guess and actions that would enhance the CV of a demented cage-fighter. For these outrageous tales to have even a grain of truth, there would have had to have been at least a hundred people with notebooks and a variety of recording equipment squashed into the Radio One studio. They would also have had to blag their way past Reg, our commissionaire. Not an easy task; Reg and his ilk had kept the Nazis at bay forty years earlier, so upstarts from a red-top on a mission were a pushover. No, the studio in Broadcasting House that morning, as I ploughed my way through the top twenty, contained only me, until Adrian John glided in behind me with a brace of teas from the canteen on the eighth floor. In those days the chart came out at lunchtime on Tuesdays, and we always repeated it on a Wednesday morning, but there was never time to fit all the tracks in. I had ten minutes left and four or five songs, as I remember. I was pondering what to drop, when Adrian pointed out a phallic picture and a few choice words on the back of the Frankies’ record, including the claim that they’d make ‘Duran Duran lick the shit off their shoes’. Hmm, hadn’t spotted that. Well, maybe if I was going to drop something, I’d drop that. It’d be in tomorrow’s show anyway. I don’t recall saying that I was going to ban it; after all I was a BBC employee and had no power to ban anything.

  In the meantime, the video had been circulated. My Radio One producer, Paul Williams, arrived home to find his two young daughters watching a couple of sections of the video over and over again, and was horrified when he saw what they depicted. At the same time, it had arrived at TV Centre and found its way to the Saturday Superstore office. Our editor, Chris Bellinger, told me that the programme couldn’t be seen to be anywhere near it and as one of the faces of children’s TV, neither could I. Directed by Bernard Rose, the video was set in an S&M-themed nightclub and featured simulated sex, urination and a few other choice scenes that of course they couldn’t show on Saturday Superstore or Top of the Pops. The song had already been played on both the radio and TV, but in the light of the video it was reviewed. The BBC, I believe, also took the overt advertising campaign into account. I have no idea who took the decision to ban it, but I know who took the rap. The Frankies’ manager, Paul Morley, quite rightly exploited the situation for all it was worth, with me cast as Wicked Witch of the West. Fair enough, I’d have done exactly the same in his position. The myth that it went from nowhere to number one that week is, of course, exactly that, as was the story of me smashing it violently against the studio wall or uttering a string of expletives that would have made Johnny Rotten blush.

  It became de rigueur at any dance, disco or party, whether respectable or of ill-repute, to play ‘Relax’ as soon as I walked in. The expectation varied, apparently, between me wrecking the place, storming out, becoming apoplectic and breaking the record. I disappointed many an expectant throng by simply dancing – to the best of my ability, that is. There were erroneous reports that I’d punched the lead singer, Holly Johnson, and tales of heated arguments. Nonsense. I even gripped the olive branch and did the voice-over for their first album.

  Twenty or so years later I was at lunch with some silver-screen luvvies at the Cannes Film Festival. As I sat at a table on the beach with a glass of something that was warming up as fast as Icarus’s wing wax on his attempted escape from Crete, a smiling stranger plonked himself opposite. But he wouldn’t be a stranger for long, for it turned out that we shared a page of musical history. This was none other than Bernard Rose, the miscreant who’d directed that leather-laden video. The chance meeting, a few prawns, a hint of Chablis, a soupçon of verbal jesting and the circle was complete. What made the whole thing even dafter was that only Holly Johnson was performing on the single and the group strenuously and robustly insisted that it was about inspiration. But then, as Mandy Rice-Davis might have said, ‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they?’ Only after it had sold a couple of a million did they fess up that it wasn’t actually about inspiration. I saw Holly a year or two back in Soho and we posted a selfie on Twitter. Hell, we may even have invented the term that day.

  I was asked recently if ‘Relax’ would be banned in 2014. I had to think about it. In the ’90s or first ten years or so of the 2000s, no it probably wouldn’t, but I had to admit that ‘yes, I rather suspect the video would be banned in the current climate’. To that end I checked it out on YouTube, which revealed that after more than one and a half million hits, the video is now not available to view. Maybe that will catapult it back to number one.

  In May 1985, after five and a half years, my tenure of the brea
kfast show came to an end. There’s never a specific reason, these things just evolve. New bosses are appointed, new ideas are mooted and new brooms come in, ‘to sweep the dust behind the door’. The press eagerly raided their ‘damning vocabulary’ drawer and liberally spread words like ‘axed’, ‘chopped’ and ‘sacked’ across the headlines and front pages. Not strictly true, of course, as I was simply changing positions on the field of play. The main thing, as far as I was concerned, was that – for now, at least – the crazily early mornings were over.

  I was certainly getting opinionated after leaving the breakfast show. The headlines were full of my immediate plans: ‘Bossy Read aims to revive tired Radio Two’. I’m surprised no one pushed me up against the wall and uttered dark threats. ‘They are doing everything wrong at the moment,’ I opined, ‘it’s all bits and pieces with all sorts of odd bods working there. Teenagers don’t want to hear Donald Peers.’ (Donald Peers was a Welsh singer first recorded by the BBC in 1927 and, unaccountably, still enjoying regular outings on Radio Two nearly sixty years later.) ‘The departure of disc jockeys like David Hamilton and Johnnie Walker have left the place in a shambles,’ I ranted. I made some pretty rash statements. ‘I would lay down guidelines which would guarantee Radio Two the biggest audience in the land.’ This was risible stuff at the time, but the vision I had gradually happened and the unthinkable occurred. Radio Two now consistently beats Radio One in the ratings. Always listen to the crazy man … you never know, he might just be right. I was always that guy, the one with the flag, first out of the trenches with more ‘gung-ho’ than actual planning. Do it first and think about it afterwards.

  As it turned out, I stayed at Radio One until the end of 1991. I did weekend shows, I did evening shows, I depped on daytime shows. I fronted the newly devised Sunday Roadshows, which got fantastic ratings, but when my then producer, Chris Lycett, pointed this out to a less-than-impressed controller, the reply was, ‘Yes. Ironic, isn’t it?’ At that time I’d co-written Cliff Richard’s latest hit, featured heavily on Slade’s new single (their first top thirty hit for seven years), and was producing the premiere of my Oscar Wilde musical. These days, when multi-tasking is encouraged and is often financially essential, it seems strange that Radio One was suggesting that I should decide whether I wanted to be a broadcaster, a songwriter or a stage producer. I was having to choose between apples, oranges and grapefruit, but I couldn’t eat them all. What nonsense. I needed my ‘five a day’ before it was advocated.

  I’d had a couple of meetings with Capital Radio’s Richard Park, as he was trying to encourage me to jump ship to his outfit, who’d got the nod that they would be given the franchise for the first national commercial radio station in the form of Capital Gold, their oldies station. Always to be relied on for a good sporting analogy, Richard affirmed, ‘I’d like you to open the batting for us.’ After two false starts, I signed up. It made sense … go when you feel the time is right. In doing so I avoided the infamous ‘Blood on the carpet’ moment when the chariot wheels of the new Radio One Controller, Matthew Bannister, scythed down several of the station’s broadcasters. Only once I’d leapt across the great divide did Capital decide against going for the national franchise. Great. However, the station had a strong line-up including Tony Blackburn, Kid Jensen, Paul Burnett, Kenny Everett, David Hamilton and Dave Cash, so all was not lost.

  I arrived at Capital Gold at the tail end of 1991, in time for the station’s third birthday. Richard Park commented, ‘It’s great to welcome Mike to our all-star line-up. He has a huge following and his presence can only add to the success enjoyed by Capital Gold.’ I was hired to present the drivetime show, and I also fronted up Capital Gold’s Work Experience Scheme, which was designed to help schoolchildren to prepare for working life. This was becoming increasingly important both for London’s young people and for prospective employers, so the idea was to provide pupils approaching their last year at school with short periods in various organisations in order for them to get a taste of the working world and what might be expected of them. Hopefully people became more switched on.

  That can’t be said of everyone at the station, though. On one occasion I was at an awards ceremony, sharing a table with a mix of sales, management and broadcasters. As something indescribable but creamy appeared on our plates, looking like a mass entry for the Turner Prize, the sales guy I’d been sitting next to all through lunch wiped his mouth and cheerfully asked, ‘Well, Mike, what are you up to these days?’

  ‘Me? I’m on the drivetime show every day from four o’clock.’

  ‘Really? Which station?’

  ‘The one that you do the sales for.’

  My drivetime slot meant that I followed Kenny Everett. The studio, once Ken was done with it, was like delicatessen fall-out, but after a quick mopping-up process while Kenny said something surreal like, ‘Ooh, I’m going home to count my toes,’ all was presentable again. Kenny shared a passion with me for the Lettermen’s version of ‘The Way You Look Tonight’. Every so often he’d shoot me a sly glance, take a deep breath and whisper, ‘May I borrow it again?’ The problem was getting the single back from him. It was like tug of love with a vinyl child.

  I heard the announcement that he had HIV when I was on my way to the studio, so I stopped at a florist in Oxshott and bought a small bunch of flowers. At Capital I walked into the studio with them. ‘Damn! You’re still alive. I wasted money on flowers.’

  He teetered between the emotional and the comic. ‘Thank God for someone with a sense of humour,’ he said, and gave me a hug. It seemed that no one had come into the studio as they hadn’t known what to say or do. He then proceeded to lie on the floor, placing the humble bouquet on his chest. ‘So this is what it feels like to be dead! I’ll kill that bloody waiter when I get up there,’ he said, referring to the guy who he assumed had infected him.

  When the day of reckoning came for Kenny, and one assumes a second reckoning for the waiter, Richard Park asked me to put together a tribute. With only an hour’s preparation, we dug out songs he’d recorded such as ‘Knees’, his TV theme tunes, clips of him on the pirate ship with Dave Cash, sections of his radio cartoon serial, Captain Kremmen, multiple sketches and characters from his TV show and some of the songs that I knew to be his favourites, including, rather inevitably, ‘The Way You Look Tonight’. It could have been emotional, but like a funeral, you’re too busy to grieve. That comes later.

  In 1994 Capital Gold overtook Radio One in the ratings for the first time, their share going up to 7.6 per cent in London, while Radio One’s went down to 5.8. Pretty decisive. The press release announced: ‘Drivetime host Mike Read has increased his audience by a phenomenal 41 per cent.’ At this time I was also writing a weekly showbusiness column for the Tonight newspaper, Mike Read’s Capital Chat Show, and interviewing many American artists who I’d never met. Among the most engaging were Johnny Tillotson, who’d topped the UK chart with ‘Poetry in Motion’ and whose ancestors included Oliver Cromwell, and John Denver. John was a great storyteller as both songwriter and interviewee, as was Roger McGuinn, who even let me sing and play with him on the Byrds classic ‘Mr Spaceman’.

  Way before TalkSport, Richard Park laced the station’s output in the later part of the day and the evening with football talk and football commentary. In some ways he was a visionary; in others he had his own brand of leadership that wasn’t everybody’s idea of man management. I know that several of the broadcasters felt intimidated by his style. One DJ went to talk about a rise and emerged delighted to still have a job. Another, who had been at Capital for almost twenty years, was frog-marched from the station without being allowed to collect anything from his desk.

  I was asked to have a think about doing the breakfast show. I wasn’t happy with that because Tony Blackburn was presenting it and, for my money, doing an excellent job. I was then informed that there was going to be a change round, just to mix things up a bit. Well, that happens, so I promised I’d think about it over
the following week. I was still in need of some guidance when the day of the meeting arrived. ‘I have been thinking about it,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter, I’ve already made the decision.’

  Well, at least that shows positive management. ‘And the decision is?’

  ‘You’re fired.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’re fired.’

  ‘But you’ve asked me to think about doing your flagship show.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘But hold on … my ratings are good.’

  ‘Yes, not bad.’

  ‘So this is the reward for working hard, getting good ratings and being a team player?’

  Emerging from the meeting I was met by a sea of expectant faces. ‘Well, are you doing breakfast?’

  ‘No, I’ve been fired.’

  Gales of laughter.

  ‘No, seriously.’

  More gales.

  ‘I can’t even hang around. I have to leave the building immediately.’

  Stunned silence.

  I drove home listening to someone I’d never heard of presenting my show. I seem to recall one or two others left the building that day as well. Even before my somewhat abrupt departure from Capital Gold I had misgivings. When I started, the station had some six or seven producers, but by the time I left it had one. My main frustration was a lack of musical input as we were fairly straitjacketed on that front.

  I drove home listening to someone I’d never heard of presenting my show. I seem to recall one or two others left the building that day as well. I won’t spoil the memoirs of others shown the red card by repeating their even weirder stories here, as those tales will be more credible from their own mouths, although en passant I recently heard from one senior broadcaster who was fired and not even allowed to collect his headphones from the studio. They were sent on by car the next day. In my book, not only does this bespeak a total lack of respect and decency towards a very experienced, much-admired and diligent professional, but it is bad for the image of the industry.