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I hate BBC TV Centre having been turned into flats for yuppies. Especially as Yuppies all died out in the 1980s. But having some experience of the Shepherd's Bush housing market I was astonished to discover that a one-bedroom flat in the old home of the BBC costs £645,000. And presumably they've had to knock some money off of that because of all the disgraceful crimes that might have taken place in your kitchen (I didn't think Savill's would be able to sell any of the flats, but apparently they are doing so, even though that must make everyone feel really uncomfortable). I don't know what kind of monster would want to own a flat where so many sex crimes occurred, but I think the complex should be name Paedo City. Let's see if that helps bring the prices down.
I bought my first flat in Balham in the late 90s, where a deposit of £10,000 and a mortgage payment of £1000 a month made getting on to the housing market possible (I was getting paid £2000 a month at the time, so was earning a princely £24,000 a year despite being on telly). Imagine that young people.
I say this not to show off about my good fortune (though I acknowledge my luck - to be honest I very nearly just carried on renting), but to show how ridiculously far things have gone in two decades.
It's incredible and sickening to think how much money someone would have to be earning now to afford what I assume is a pretty modest property in a dressing room where Jimmy fixed it for some kids to have their lives ruined, or a board room where an executive decided not to give Fist of Fun another series.
I am genuinely surprised that young people are not revolting in the streets right now (though I am sure many of my 50+ friends would agree that they are). Revolt young people. The old are destroying your future. Though at least when they die, some of you will inherit their homes. Which is probably your only hope.
Arriving at Kings Cross ahead of the final podcast record of series 13, I noticed a huge group of people queuing and realised they were waiting to have their photo taken by the sign for platform 9 and 3/4 outside the Harry Potter shop. I imagined if there was a terrible train accident or a terrorist attack and these people were killed where they stood. And then as they went to Heaven they'd have to explain how they died: they were queuing to have their photo taken by a piece of wall in front of a totally fictional train platform… were you there with your kids? … no, no, we were all adults.
What a terrible last moment of life that would be.
And the high standard of the 13th series continued with two really enjoyable podcasts with the thoroughly charming crew behind the unbelievably successful “My Dad Wrote A Porno†podcast (they are playing the Albert Hall in June and have practically sold it out already - how come my podcast isn't working like that?) and a man who is still standing up after 35 years (and producing the best work of his career) Mark Steel.
The Porno guys are incredibly sharp and witty people: three pals messing around together, but coming up with gag after gag. They're all great, but Alice Levine is particularly impressive. It was a predictably filthy chat. And the Mark Steel podcast was a fitting finale to the series. His spontaneous command of language is unbelievable and there were lots of interesting tales to be told. I only called him Andrew once. It looks like a joke, but it was a genuine error.
A white van man took me and the show chairs home after the performance. He didn't seem in a chatty mood and was a big, burly-looking fellow and I had a bit of a headache so we shared a quiet drive to the countryside. We put the chairs in my garage and I gave him a tip and wished him luck on the drive home. “I don't have to go back through that jungle again do I?†he asked - I presume referring to the wood you need to drive through to get to my village, “That was so scary.â€
Never judge someone by their appearance.
My daughter had been sick this morning - I thought from all the chocolate, but she'd been turning down her food even before the first egg was cracked (and left a fair amount of chocolate too, which made me question if she was my child). Now, as I got home, I too started feeling nauseous and my stomach was playing up.
Was this going to be another birthday in Ipswich? I was halfway there before bed.
