I was on Loose Ends on Radio 4 this evening (still available to listen to on
iPlayer). It used to go out live on a Saturday morning, but now goes out in the evening. They still record it, pretty much as live, in the morning though - it's easier to get guests in at 10.30 then at 5.30. There, another magical illusion/BBC lie snapped in twain.
As the cab dropped me outside Broadcasting House I saw the usual gaggle of autograph hunters waiting outside. They come down here every Saturday, knowing that Loose Ends is not live and that there will be some high calibre guests coming through those doors. Today I was going to be on with Victor Meldrew, Joe Mangel, Will Young, Shaun Parkes, Natalie Haynes and host Clive Anderson. All good autographs to get if that's the kind of thing you're into.
My heart sank a bit as I saw this gaggle of slightly unusual looking people, mainly middle-aged men who looked like they might still live with their mums, huddling outside the door. Whilst I have no problem at all with signing things for people who like my work and know who I am, I am slightly perturbed by the kind of autograph obsessives who want to collect every single autograph in the world, even if they don't know or like the person they are trying to get it from. Three years ago I talked about
the sudden spate of emails from people from abroad asking for my autograph (the debacle continues over the next few days). Some of them are just completists and I don't mind them quite as much, understanding how you can get sucked into an impossibly difficult and pedantic hobby, but others are surely just getting every possible autograph they can, something which costs them nothing (very few of them send stamped addressed envelopes). Statistically speaking some of the people they get will go on to be massively famous and they will have something worth a couple of hundred pounds or more.
Anyway, I wasn't looking forward to running the gauntlet of nerds and hoped they wouldn't know who I was, but suspected they might just collar everyone who passed. I kept my head down and decided I would only give them what they wanted if they actually addressed me by name. Or if they addressed me by a different name, mistaking me for Charlie Boorman or Brad Pitt, then I would sign their name.
As it happened though, the waiting group of obsessives didn't give me a second look and I got inside entirely unimpeded.
As I notice I did last time I was on.
Though I really hadn't wanted to be stopped I now felt slightly put out that I hadn't even been worth bothering with. It's great to snub people who want something from you, but not much fun to be snubbed by the kind of people who would happily get a scribble from anyone remotely famous.
It made me laugh to myself.
On the whole though, I think it was better to be ignored. I left the building after the show in the company of Will Young, who was stopped in his tracks for five minutes, whilst Natalie Haynes and myself were able to slip through the net undetected and get to the pub. Ah sweet anonymity.
I have been on Loose Ends a few times, the first couple of times back in the nineties when Ned Sherrin was still the host. For some reason he always Stewart sit in the seat next to his. I liked Ned very much, despite him snubbing me as a potential bit of fluff. He always remembered that I was from Somerset and would chat about the county with me and of course he had been involved in many amazing projects over the years. After the show we'd decamp to the pub for a beer and a selection of stodgy pies and fried food.
I am delighted to say that the tradition continues, despite Ned's sad demise and I munched on disgusting onion rings and potato wedges as I chatted to the other guests. I was also pleased to see that a photo of Ned hung above the table - a fitting memorial to the great man. Interestingly it was in rather bad condition, as it had been rescued from the embers after a fire in this pub. Ned Sherrin's beaming face had somehow survived the conflagration, if not in perfect state, then at least still recognisable. It made for a haunting presence above us, as we ate the food that would hasten our own demise.
