With Lewis Hamilton and David Cameron we lined up Sir Ian McKellen whom I encountered again a couple of days later when he presented me with the Variety Club’s Lifetime Achievement Award. I was particularly honoured that he dressed up in tuxedo and black tie for the event because the last time we were together at a formal occasion his choice of clothing was what you might call eccentric.
We were in Sydney and I was asked to invite him to the Sydney Cricket Ground to watch a day/night fixture. I told Ian that, although he was invited to a sporting event, it was quite formal and he would require a jacket and tie. He said he would dress appropriately.
I was in the box at the SCG talking to one of the bigwigs when I saw him look over my shoulder in horror. I turned to see my friend standing in the doorway wearing what looked like a white umpire’s coat, a baseball cap and purple clogs. ‘I thought I’d come as Dickie Bird,’ said Sir Ian.
We did a music special towards the end of the series with Rod Stewart and Michael Bublé in the studio and a host of clips recalling the important part music had played on the show over the years. The range of guests was remarkable, everyone from Artur Rubinstein to Liberace, Pavarotti to Joe Cocker, Yehudi Menuhin to Stéphane Grappelli. We had paired the two great violinists on the show and the result was a long friendship and half a dozen albums.
Yehudi Menuhin had been booked to appear and the researcher reported that, while visiting him, she saw an album by Stéphane Grappelli on his desk. She enquired if he was a fan and Menuhin said he had been sent the album but was not aware of Grappelli’s work. We called Stéphane, who was working in a club in Paris, and asked if he would appear on the show with Menuhin. He was uncertain. ‘He is a maestro, I am a humble fiddle-player,’ he said. We convinced him and he flew in to meet Menuhin who, by this time, had listened to Grappelli’s album and was insisting that if they played together they must first rehearse at his house.
Stéphane arrived, straight from his stint in the nightclub, and was whisked off to meet Menuhin. He was very nervous. He returned three hours later, his face wreathed in smiles. We asked him how the rehearsal had been. Stéphane said, ‘How did it go? I tell you. Five bars into “Lady be good” who is the maestro?’ Menuhin was in awe of Grappelli’s effortless improvising, something he found as impossible to achieve as it would have been for Stéphane to play the Brahms Violin Concerto.
It is hard to imagine two more diverse personalities – Menuhin, an infant prodigy, a protected species from childhood; Stéphane, a child of smoke-filled rooms, who never had a formal lesson in his life and created, along with Django Reinhardt and the Hot Club, a sound as enchanting and fresh as any in all of jazz.
He told me a wonderful story of the Hot Club being hired by a very wealthy man to play at a party in the South of France. The catch was the host said it was a nude event and they would have to play in the buff. Money overcame modesty and they agreed. Stark naked except for their instruments, they were placed on the bandstand behind a velvet curtain and could hear the babble of the guests in the ballroom. As they started to play the curtain parted to reveal the guests resplendent in tails and ballgowns. As Stéphane said, it was all right for Django because he was sitting with the guitar in his lap, but the nude violinist had no means of covering up.
What happened? ‘It went very well. They asked me back to do a solo spot next year,’ said Stéphane.
When we reached the very last talk show I imagined I ought to feel differently from the way I did, which was relieved. The last time I gave it up I always knew there would be a way back. Now there was no chance of that happening and I was somewhat content and fulfilled by the knowledge. I had also given up the Radio 2 show because I always saw it operating in conjunction with television and, in any case, after twelve years, it was enough. To publicise the show a photo shoot for a magazine had been arranged. When I got to the studio I found they had constructed a large wooden box and were suggesting I step into it, and I did feel that was a bit premature.
The line-up for the final TV show was Billy Connolly, Dame Judi Dench, Sir Richard Attenborough, Sir Michael Caine, Peter Kay, Dame Edna Everage and David Beckham. They all had their own particular place in the history of the show and had contributed greatly to its success and my enjoyment. Peter Kay decided to wear a tie for the occasion but didn’t know how to tie a proper knot. I obliged with a large and flamboyant Windsor. Dame Judi sang me a song and Dame Edna seemed smitten by David Beckham. It was all very jolly, which is how it should be.
As to the inevitable questions about how I felt, I was reminded of Fred Trueman’s reply to the same question when he took his 300th Test wicket. ‘How do you feel, Fred?’ they asked. ‘Knackered,’ said Fred.
I had one more appearance to do to wrap things up and that was to link a compilation programme featuring just a few of the great stars and moments from about eight hundred shows. When I walked on to the set I discovered that the backstage area where the guests relaxed before walking down the stairs had already been cleared of furniture and fittings. Even the photos on the walls had been removed. It was then I realised that this was the very last time I would stand at the top of those stairs and be blown on by the big band, and never again would I sit in that black leather chair and feel the energy of the audience. I remember thinking, as I sat down, I’m going to buy this chair, otherwise they’ll sell it off along with everything else.
I felt oddly forlorn, and the job of reliving the moments with Ali, Welles, Ustinov, Billy Connolly, Woody Allen, Paul McCartney, John Lennon and the rest did nothing to lighten my mood. In the audience were people who had been significant to the show over the years – Mary, my family, John Webber and James Erskine, my wise agents and friends, Dabber Davies, another mate who never missed a show and who can be heard laughing on every one from Bob Hope to Peter Kay. Missing was Richard Drewett who helped create the show at the very beginning and who was a special friend. He had been suffering a debilitating illness for years, facing it with the same humour and determination he put into everything he did. We invited him to the show and, against all expectation, he said he would come. Entering the building he fell and fractured a hip and later died in hospital. At his funeral his son told of visiting him in hospital and asking if there was anything he could do for him. ‘How about an upgrade?’ said Richard.
Some time later I went up north and revisited the old haunts, including a working-men’s club I used to frequent with my dad. There was a very old man in the corner whom I recognised. I went over and introduced myself. He seemed baffled. I said,‘You remember, Mike Parkinson, used to live down Darfield Road. Jack’s lad.’
‘Oh, I remember now,’ he said. ‘Jack’s lad. Not seen you for a very long time. What you been up to?’