My gran meets Steve Buscemi. It's the roaring 20s

I brought my girl an apple; she let me hold her hand.
I brought my girl an orange; we kissed beneath the band.
I brought my girl bananas; she let me squeeze her tight.
I'm going to bring a watermelon to my girl tonight.

My grandmother in c 1926, aged about 20

Lyrics to a Bonzo Dog song from 1966. But it was originally recorded in 1924 by the risque Billy Jones and Ernest Hare. It's the sort of thing that might have been found on my grandmother's gramophone record player. What the Bonzos did in the 60s was to scour the flea markets, find old 78 rpm records, and re-record them. And then, about 15 years later, in the early 80s, I started listening to them. And still do. So, the recordings live on. 

Steve Buscemi as Nucky Johnson in Boardwalk Empire 

And here we are talking about something that happened in the 1920s and those records give us a direct link back in time. But there's more. I mentioned to a colleague that I'd just started watching the box set of Boardwalk Empire (which starts in 1920) and we concluded that the roaring twenties were a great time for music; with the idea of lots of people being able to listen to recorded music in their own homes for the first time. And that included my maternal grandmother.

A '78' player, like my grandmother's (similar to the one on the left) was made between about 1898 and the late 1950s & played at a speed around 78 revolutions per minute

I remember Nana's wind-up 78 gramophone record player in her flat in Chislehurst. When she died, in 1991, it was still in pristine condition. That's because I reckon it was only me and my sister that ever played with it. Sadly, in 1991 it was sold on to a collector. I say 'sadly' because actually, in reality, what would we do with it? It was about three foot tall. So a bit impractical to have hanging around. But it was beautiful. 

Music and scenes from Boardwalk Empire 

So perhaps there's a direct link between me, my grandmother and Nucky Johnson, the character depicted in Boardwalk Empire by Steve Buscemi. And that link is those 78 records that define the era. 

Suggested listening

Boardwalk Empire soundtracks vols I, II & III

The Bonzo Dog Band - Cornology (Best of) 

Songs the Bonzos taught us 

Woody Allen - Wild man blues 

The Scambusters versus the world

Scott: 'Tony? It's Scott Chisholm calling from Talk Radio...'
Tony: Sighs
Scott: '.....again'.
Tony: 'Scott; I've got nothing more to say to you, mate'. Hangs up 
Scott: 'Tony. Tony. Tony!'
Producers in the operations room: 'Hooray!'

Talk Radio reunion, 5 Feb 2016.
Scott, Craig, Harry, Nat, Me, Foxy, Mike and Tom 

Just a normal, everyday call in 1999 on Scott's show on Talk Radio, which included the Scambusters hour. The reason for telling you this is that last week, those producers and that presenter had a wonderful reunion. 

The show was from 9am until midday every weekday; my involvement was on the consumer show, Scambusters. And the thing is: There's no note of the show online. There's no digital history of it. If we were on air today we'd have a social media presence, a website and maybe a Scam app. But there's no mention of what we did in 1999 if you do a search. So I'm writing this to redress the balance. 

It was a consumer show with attitude. We put nasty retailers on air and humiliated them live to the nation: Dodgy phone companies; cowboy builders; people offering non-existent contracts to aspiring models. Often their humiliation would be accompanied by Craig's Scamwall. These were a set of sound affects that would be played as the scamees tried to squirm their way out of their misdeeds. The ice in the glass, a line from the song 'I remember you' or the howling Scamdog, ready to be unleashed at Scott's command. 

Watchdog it wasn't. We did things our own way. For the modelling scam mentioned above, we asked the guy from reception, who had a heavy London accent and was in his 60s, to read out the leaflet: 'Hi. My name's Samantha. I'm an attractive, beautiful, 23-year-old model. And you can be too'. How could the scammers respond to that?

People who rang into the Scamphone would be put on air to state their case against the scam retailers. There were some amazing people, often at their wits' ends. And more often than not, we solved the problem for them. 

A handy explanation some of the team, drawn by a listener, 1999.

So we saved several people from being ripped off. It was so much fun and we were also providing a valuable public service. 

It was anarchic. At times, Scott would say, on air: 'This is a shambles'. But it was well-thought-out shambolic broadcasting. At the reunion, Scott told me that he still, to this day, has taxi drivers telling him how much they loved his show on Talk back in the day.   

At the reunion everyone turned up. It was special because everyone came to remember the sort of time you shouldn't really have if you're getting paid for it. But it was also great broadcasting. And what a team. What a reunion. 

The team
Presenter: Scott
Producers: Tom, Dick and Harry 
Studio production: Foxy
Scamwall: Craig
Trainee Scambuster (set for big things): Nat
Friend of the show: Motoring Mike Rutherford 
Other friends:Callers on the Scamphone, Ola & many others

The battle of the bulge

Blackburn and Bury have both been in FA Cup action this weekend and theirs are magnificent. Manchester City’s and Liverpool’s are horrid. 

Man City, standard net, San Siro 70s and lower league net

The net. The onion bag. This is important stuff. The ball has to nestle in the goal. There used to be nets at the San Siro in Rome where the net just hung down. When Italy scored yet another goal against England in a qualifier I had to begrudgingly admit that it looked sublime. 

But Manchester City and Liverpool may as well have iron hanging down from the goals. When someone scores, it really does take away from the moment. Blackburn and Bury have done a clever thing. It’s the newer, bigger net that has become Premier League / Championship standard over the last few years, but there’s some added girth/ slack so that ball nestles in nicely. 

All sides in the Premier League and championship have those standard nets, but most are still pretty tight for my liking. Manchester City and Liverpool’s are painted in their colours, so you don’t see any buoyancy. You just get a nasty dull thud. 

Back in the 1970s, Wembley, Chelsea, QPR and West Ham all had tight nets. Most other grounds had the net hanging down from two stanchions; many lower league teams still adopt this beautiful thing. Lots of nestling possibilities. 

I’m sure that Chelsea once had a goal ruled out because the referee thought the ball had hit the post. In fact, it had actually rebounded back from a terrifically-tight net. (This is the opposite of a ghost-goal)

Millwall had a lovely set of nets last season. Loose as anything, with a bit of blue in. Pleasing to the eye. They’ve now reverted to the standard, bigger net with moderate give. 6/10.

There are more important things in life, obviously. But the whole point of football, our number one sport in the UK, is to run down the pitch and get the ball in the goal. If it looks great, doesn’t that make us all feel a little bit better? Thank you Blackburn and Bury. I hope they're bulging with pride. 

The campsite toilet & the incandescent man. Kenya 1991.

This is a short version of this blog. 

A man got very angry with me, by the side of a pool, exactly 25 years ago. Mrs Steve and I were in Kenya in January 1991 and I’ll tell you about our livid friend in a moment. But before we could relax poolside, we had to put up with privations, going to see African animals. I worked in a travel agency and although we got cheap flights, the spending money was our own cash. So we booked a budget safari.

Kenyan safari on the cheap. January 1991 

And we got to the campsite on the first day. Well, I say ‘campsite’ but that’s perhaps an exaggeration, especially given the state of the toilet. Well; I say ‘toilet’ but it was a massive hole in the ground. Well, I say ‘ground’. And that’s what it was. 

I remember seeing a Japanese tourist, obviously at her wit’s end, running into an open field, dropping her jeans and parking a large one then and there in front of me, twenty yards away. People have asked how I could have possibly have watched, but, Your Honour, it all happened so quickly.

The problem for Mrs Steve is that she too wanted to ‘go’. At night; when you fear that hungry lions may be roaming around. We left the tent, clutching a rudimentary torch, and then Mrs Steve had to make like our Japanese friend and basically let go a few yards away from the canvas. It was practically touching cloth.

And I couldn’t resist shouting, just as things were coming to a nice conclusion: ‘Lion!’ The result was that Mrs Steve panicked and trod in it. She was wearing flip-flops and poo squelched up her leg. I told her that she had to stick the limb out of the flap of the tent all night. I said it might even give the lion something to gnaw on.

To recover, we sought luxury. In the resort town of Malindi, we headed straight for a hotel and its pool; and a couple of British families were there. I did that thing where you duck under water and just before your body disappears, you overhead-bicycle-kick a ball to show off your skill.

The pool in Malindi. Don't look back in anger

This British holiday-maker was standing by the side of the pool and the ball I’d kicked smacked him right in the face. 

As I surfaced, he was shouting: ‘You fucking bastard! I can’t fucking believe it! What the fuck do you thing you were doing, you fucking wanker?’ I said: ‘I’m so sorry.’ He said: ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’

And a kid from the other family asked me: ‘Is that your Dad?’

The other Steve Palmers

I used to occasionally get emailed and asked to do things like mend Chris Moyles's radio studio. That's because an engineer shared the same name as me when we both worked at the BBC. I used to reply: "Well, I've got a toolbox under the stairs and I can take a look..."

There are several other Steve Palmers out there. Including the stress expert. But more of that particular namesake in a moment. 

On the left: Steve Palmer. And on their right, Steve Palmer

First though: a few of the Steve Palmers in my life. I was chased down the road at university by animal rights activists because a Steve Palmer was conducting experiments on little fluffy creatures. I tried to say it was a case of mistaken identity but anger can make people unreasonable. 

My dentist nearly performed root canal treatment on me when there was absolutely no need. Another Steve Palmer, though, was in agony. And the day I was writing this I had a mystery call asking for Councillor Steve Palmer from somewhere in the Scunthorpe area.

The picture above shows Steve Palmer and Steve Palmer, together at an event held by the charity where I’m a trustee. Steve tells me that we have a namesake making life safe for people in Stockport.

And when I was at BBC London, the sports journalists thought it was hilarious to get me to read out the Queen's Park Rangers team news on a Friday, because the club had a striker with my name. 

But it’s the stress expert that I most remember. Part of the BBC job was to ring up guests and tempt them onto radio shows, to speak in response to an item in the news. This is how the conversation went with Dr Steve Palmer’s personal assistant:

Me: “Hello. I’m calling from the BBC. We’d like to ask Dr Steve Palmer onto our show to talk about an item in the news on stress.”

PA: “That sounds interesting. He is in today and I’ll try and put you through. Can I say who’s calling please?”

Me: “I’m so glad you asked me that...”

Leopard skin, sneakers and great pop songs

So there I was sweating in the Camden Palace moshpit, dancing to someone whose name is Mahlathini Nezintombi Zomgqashiyo. Oh, and he groaned. So far, so obscure. But it’s one of the top five gigs I’ve ever been to. It was 1989. And this morning I realised that I feel so grateful that I got to see this band. 

Mahlathini and the Mahotella Queens

Obscure? I’m here to tell you that Mahlathini and the Mahotella Queens were totally funky and danceable, with wonderful, joyful pop songs.

Try this one for size: Melodi Yala 

They were one of the first bands introduced to me by Charlie Gillett (see previous blog). If Paul Simon encouraged the world to listen to South African music - and I still love Graceland - then a much bigger influence for me were Mahlathini and the Mahotella Queens and other bands.

If you don't know where to start, try the three Indestructible beat of Soweto albums. Here's a link to information about volume one. Mahlathini and the Mahotella Queens featured heavily on these albums. 

It was the late 80s and all this was being played against a backdrop of Apartheid coming to and end. Some preferred the bullet. These musicians preferred the penny-whistle. Oh, and the guitar. Because these were really accessible pop songs. And here's my Spotify 'best of' playlist.

But I maintain that Mahlathini and the Mahotella Queens were nothing without each other. Here was a strange man groaning away wearing a chief's regalia on stage – a leopard skin over his chest, fur armlets and leggings, a skirt of animal tails and beads around his head; with three women who danced around in huge red circular Zulu hats, skirts of leather and beadwork, leotards and sneakers. 

And when Mahlathini died in 1999, that synergy died too. I'm sure the Queens are amazing on their own and they still tour. 

It's just that I got to see the Real McCoy. I'll never forget being at that gig, staggered that so many other people loved them, and were singing along: "This music is produced from the same pot, the same pot. Everybody knows". 

The style of music is called Mbaqanga. But if you're not bothered about that, then at least do give them a go. And I hope you, like me, start tapping your toes and feeling good the moment their songs start. 

Subbuteo - Milan in my bedroom

My eldest loves to Xbox; my youngest his iPad.

I had it worse. Forty years ago, I became completely obsessed with Subbuteo.

1970s Subbuteo, with the unrealistic nets, balls and players

Some great goals flew in; some amazing saves were made; and the woodwork (well, plastic) was pinged by the ball on many occasions. 

But did I take this all too far? Well the conditions had to be just right. The ball was as tall as the players, so I remember buying a smaller ball to make it more realistic. Because obviously, people standing on plastic moulds with their arms dangling down by their sides; well, that was really realistic, wasn't it? 

That wasn't the manufacturers' fault. But what was inexcusable was adding an extra line a few centimetres from the penalty box. You could only shoot from within this line. That wasn't realistic at all. 

However, the first Subbuteo sets came onto the market in 1947, so my expectation of 'reality' has to be placed in the context of a post-war rationale. No flashy long-range shots allowed. Austerity football. And the line stuck. You can see why: a kick from a player had power. I could have shot from my sister's room and it would have gone all the way in. 

And talking about my sister, I was beside myself when she kneeled on my goalpost. And then ecstatic when I realised that she'd clipped of the bottom of the post and now the goals were flush with the ground; just like real goalposts. So I sawed off the bottom bits of the other goal. I also had to have the nets drape down, not taut like the manufacturers made them. What did they know? I had the San Siro stadium, Milan, in my bedroom. The ball nestled in the net beautifully when it flew in. 

It was all about realism. Occasionally I'd do like my sis and inadvertently kneel on a player. No problem. I had glue. But, once dried, the players would invariably sink into the glue and end up being much shorter than the other players. Again; no problem. One such sinkee was in claret and blue strip. So, he was the diminutive Billy Bonds for West Ham and the tiny Brian Little for Aston Villa.

And I have to admit to sometimes dragging the ball, rather than flicking it. I enjoyed cheating, with no one judging me. 

Because the thing is, I can hardly remember playing Subbuteo with anyone else. No; this was a solitary activity. I played entire tournaments, rigged games so that my preferred team would win and put real snow on the pitch when it snowed outside (it was a good excuse to use the orange ball). Always with commentary. From me. I was totally on my own. 

I remember my dad having a quiet word with me in about 1978, suggesting that I'd probably become a bit too old for this. And I listened to him. But I'll never regret my obsession - or the broken plastic. Now - where's the electronic device?