And here's this week's Number One...

In our school, bringing in a radio was an offence for which you could be hanged. It was even more serious than wearing platform shoes or the wrong colour shirt.  Nevertheless, just as in totalitarian states, we ignored the law because radio meant so much.

Admittedly, we only risked the wrath so we could hear the chart, rather than the latest news from the Empire. This was a period when Tuesday lunchtime was sacred. Paul Burnett would effortlessly run down the BRAND NEW chart.  

Anxious to hear who was up and who was down, we would assemble in frozen huddles, rather hoping the marauding teachers would pursue the smell of smoke from neighbouring miscreants rather than the sound of JAM jingles from our small crowd.

Back then, blackberries, apples and oranges were confined to orchards; and radio was the only way to get the news. 

Having caught the update between Geography and double Maths on a Tuesday, we could then look forward to Sunday.   It was actually the only exciting thing about a day on which all shops were closed; the lukewarm weekly bath was taken; and that back to school feeling would hit the pit of the stomach when the miserable theme tune to 'Sing Something Simple' rang out as you searched for your PE kit.

6.00 pipped, and mother busied herself ironing and prepared to watch 'Upstairs Downstairs'.  Meanwhile, in our icy bedrooms, we would crank up the radio to enjoy the FULL Top 20. It was broadcast in stereo.  Not that anyone had a stereo radio, but mono FM was certainly better than AM.  Back then, Radio 1 was not on FM, but hijacked Radio 2’s frequencies on occasions at the weekend, presumably when the Light's delirious management had gone home for a sherry.

Like Blue Peter presenters, you can tell someone’s age by the chart show presenter they loved the most.  Some respected radio brethren go dewy-eyed at the words ‘Bruno Brookes’. Others wet themselves if anyone mentions Tom Browne.

Sunday evening was self-evidently inspired scheduling for the chart.  It had not always been thus. When Alan Dell first took a Biro to a copy of the music press in 1957 and ran down the numbers that matter most, it was scheduled late on a Sunday night.   

David Jacobs then started to assemble something more akin to our current chart, broadcast on Saturdays, before AlanFreeman barged in and appeared to prefer to work Sunday teatimes.  From that moment, whatever its name or the programme in which it was housed, the ‘chart’ has been part of our Sunday evening ritual.

The BBC possibly thought, with good cause, that the fragmented commercial radio network would never be able to assemble  a nation-wide chart offering.  Some stations had charts. Some did not.  Trent in Nottingham was allergic to anything resembling chart shows in its early ‘credible’ era, before eventually installing one which peculiarly began with the Number One.

Eventually, commercial radio’s trade body (then the Association of Independent Radio Contractors) played Kofi Annan and co-ordinated a 'Network Chart' chart offering across the commercial network of stations.  Back then, networking was rare across any stations, let alone the whole country. 

In those pre-satellite days, the chart was originally despatched down the mono ‘IRN line’, so it sounded little better than ‘Dial a Disc’ (Ask your granny about dial a disc).

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David ’Kid’ Jensen was its first host, known as a ‘national name’ from his time at Radio Luxembourg  and BBC Radio 1.  Nescafe was to be its first major sponsor, although the coffee folk could not be mentioned in the programme title itself. The programme evolved, as the sponsor changed, to the Pepsi Network Chart, to the Pepsi Chart and then hit40Uk and now the Big Top 40.

It worked though. The commercial radio chart is now bigger than the BBC’s. Both are huge. 569,000 adults tune in as the BBC’s chart begins, with another 68,000 runny-nosed kids eavesdropping too.

There are few mass-appeal destination shows now on British music radio.  The days of gathering round to listen to ‘Music Whilst You Work’ are long gone.  The chart show remains the single best known appointment to listen.  It's ironic that maybe the only other is 'Pick of the Pops' on Radio 2, a retro version of the chart itself, bearing an original name.

If the BBC do re-paint this national treasure, I wish them well.  The great thing about BBC radio is that it can be first to try stuff out, without risking millions in revenue.  Rightly, their decision will be unaffected by my fond ramblings above and more influenced by the tastes and interests of a complex and savvy new generation. It would be an unnecessary cheap gag to suggest that some of those listeners nowadays would find counting to 40 a challenge.

Sunday night is a time when people are available to listen to radio, and that possibly means more than being ‘first’.  In the short term, I imagine commercial radio would benefit from the displaced audiences.  The new flavour of BBC chart would, however, find an important new place in a new generation's heart and would likely still be the one the TV shows come to when they want to do a piece about the Christmas Number One.

Presenting a chart well must merit a mention some loud applause here. It demands huge delivery skill, precision and rhythm. Maybe not quite as much skill as in bygone years, when one had to find the records, time them, then add up all their durations, and those of the ads, on the back of an envelope. 

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Every word counts.  As I played back Simon Bates's first Top 40, aired in November 1978, I observed he boomed 'This week's British..." before playing the 'Britain's Number One' jingle.  With a smile, I noted in the write up that he would have kicked himself for doing that.  He tweeted to let me know he had. Let it go, Simon. Let it go.

Whilst radio will remain powerful and special for a good few generations yet, I cannot help feeling that no 15 year old would ever bother breaking a rule for it nowadays.  What I am sure of, however, is that this very Sunday, some teenager would have listened to Marvin Humes or Clara Amfo and thought "that's what i want to do when i grow up".

Grab a copy of my book 'How to Make Great Radio', published by Biteback

Gigs from Hell

I smiled when John Myers Tweeted that he had been booked to 're-open'  the refurbished Spar shop where he'd officially cut the ribbon twenty years before.  He'd probably been paid back then in Spangles.

On stage with Erica in Nottingham

When we get into radio, we dream of being booked to introduce our fave act on stage in front of thousands at the O2; but the truth is that the public appearances we do get invited to are a little more everyday.  

Most radio jocks are now, quite rightly, seen by listeners as 'normal people'; rather than as uncomfortable  'cheap, local  mini-celebs', so even the invitations to 'open' local events don't flow in at quite the same rate nowadays.  In short, just not quite so many coffee mornings and Summer galas to open as there used to be.  Phew.

Peter Tait, rest his soul (Trent/Aire/Magic), often related the tale of one event he'd been asked to open, where he was paid live on stage in full view.  "Just before we go, we'd like to say  a  big thank you to Peter Tait. Thanks, Peter for coming.  This is from the committee'.  As the PA crackled, they proceeded to count out crisp tenners from a dirty envelope into Peter's hand, whilst still on-mic:  "Here you go. Five; ten; fifteen; twenty....'. Applause.

There was a memorable baby show I once judged on a steaming hot 80s Saturday. Never judge baby shows.  You make enemies.  The organiser hissed in my ear just prior to my announcing my finalists, demanding I pick a blend of colours and continents amongst my finalists.

My forsaking the L plates on my Ford Escort came late in life, so I'd arrive at gigs by taxi.  When duties were done, I'd wave like a star before running round the corner to hop on the bus home. I always felt uncomfortable taking the usual £25 Trent  expense payment, so often refused it.  By the time I'd spent a few polite quid on the  tombola, I was  usually out of pocket anyway. How can you take £25 when you know they're probably only raising £150?

Invited to open a new bed-shop

And there was the police 'It's a knockout' I compered on the wettest day in history. Thames Valley Police v Leics Police.  In a bid to brighten up the proceedings, I was disparaging of all competitors throughout.  They took it in good spirit, until the end.  As  I made my final announcement, they nodded to each other and ran for me in a concerted terrorist attack.  Never try to escape from an entire police force.  Having caught me, I was lowered unceremoniously into one of the huge water obstacles.  I walked away from the event in a dirty old over-sized police track suit.

Isn't it frightening seeing women fight. I once opened a charity event in a pub in a less salubrious part of town: a rowdy 'do', where I had to shout to be heard.  In the absence of any stage or PA system, I balanced precariously on the two arms of an armchair to declare the event, such as it was, open.  Shortly afterwards some dispute erupted over by the trestle tables and I cowered in the corner as two women shouted, spat, slapped, thumped, hissed and pulled hair.

You get accustomed to having to organise events yourself. Whilst  some are beautifully choreographed, with a full briefing dispensed on arrival; others require that you take off your satin jacket with your name on - and turn into event manager. They have clearly given nothing any thought at all.  Similarly, they struggle to remember who you are and where you're from as they prepare to they introduce you.  On the luckiest occasions, they trouble to hiss quietly 'who are you again?' before grabbing the, usually faulty, mic.

Then, of course, the unreasonable requests. You've been asked to open a Summer Fete.  On arrival, you discover they want you to draw the raffle. In six hours time. There are seventy three prizes; and most winners have sensibly long since departed.

Not being a driver meant people gave me lifts home; or organised taxis.  I recall one afternoon after a  Summer's afternoon gig, waiting in the organiser's kitchen.  Being a well-brought up boy, after finishing my tea, I washed my cup.  The handle came off.  What do you say? And then, and this is 100% true, I waved farewell and got into the car which had slowed down outside. It turned out not to be the taxi I thought it was.  I know the listener still remembers, as she got in touch ten years later.

Don't remind me of compering Miss Radio Trent 1985. There I was in sparkly suit, with a blue-dicky bow and matching patent shoes, trying to lend a sense of occasion to the proceedings at Nottingham's Commodore International. That was the sort of venue where  orange fluorescent posters boasted all its on-stage musical acts as being 'the fabulous...'.  As I described the young lady's attributes, which had been usefully written down for me lest I not notice, her heel got caught in the hole between two of the stage blocks.  She fell over.  I laughed uncontrollably. She wasn't a happy beauty queen (not the one pictured).

Groupies too; some truly frightening (that's quite another blog altogether).  You get the one person who simply follows every movement in your life with alarming tenacity.  If you announce you'll be in a park in Arnold at 10.30, you know they'll be there at 10.00, armed with a carrier bag of dubious contents.  The innocent organisers, delighted to be getting enthusiastic  visitors, allocate them a front row seat.  If you are dismissive of the 'fan', you are seen as 'not very nice'. If you encourage them, well goodness knows what will happen.

Wish I could remember more about the dogs' fancy dress show I judged.

And what about Long Eaton Carnival?  They suggested they would fly me in by helicopter.  This was exciting.  This was the Big Time.  Not as it turned out, though.  On this grey windy day, after touchdown,  I descended from the helicopter, swaying and spewing.  This was not the Bay City Rollers arriving at a Radio 1 roadshow.