Ok my first blog knowingly written for an audience. Not because of the comments on here (what comments on where?) but because friends are mentioning things like the delay between blogs, of late, which presumably means that things are being read.
Well here it is, my version of being stage struck and tongue tied - which is to rattle off any old rubbish at an alarming rate of knots to fill the creeping internal sense of silence, and panic. Maybe I should have gone into radio. I do after all know very well how to twitter idiotically with the best masters of 'filling the gap between records' - although that shows my age. I doubt that even hospital radio has a seat-of-the-pants show anymore, I suspect everything is meticulously scripted from the playlist to the number of seconds in the gaps in between, with marginal room for ad-libbing. Isnt that why Chris Evans was so popular? Because he did his own thing? He was hysterically funny and succesful until eventually even he ran out of twitter and failed to notice his own dissatisfaction, or at least to correctly apportion blame for it, and started a downward spiral of pissing people off.
I could claim that as good enough reason never to 'go in to radio' but then again it may be that the man simply had an artistic depression of the kind that geniuses are allowed, albeit one that ought to have involved a lot of apologising later on. Spike Milligan suffered terribly with what-the-hell-am-i-doing-and-why-are-they-laughing-itis but as he could to a certain extent control whether and when he performed fo the public, it was conducted behind closed doors. I should imagine he effed and blustered and was just as caustic, if not moreso, but privately, with the comfort and balance provided by dissapproving friends rather than the giggles and titters of a bored public looking for someone else to be the bad boy in class.
Good grief. Two minutes bypassing the brain en route to the keys and I have just about mentally compared the Ginger One to George Best. In fact, probably all it would take to get Mr B Piper back on TV and therefore back in the good books of the media in general (and, baaah, who else I wonder?) would be a documentary-interview in which he admitted he had been an arsehole and pleaded that the fame and wealth and confusion at being so popular had thrown him off balance. He would come out as mature and fallible and therefore forgiveable. Kill the 'cocky' impression he once gave in one fell swoop. Heck he could even knock Beckham back off the top spot - being rude to people in public isnt bonking around in public, even though our ginger friend did more than enough of that, but he humiliated an unknown wife and a series of semi-vaguely-heard-of girlfriends and didnt shatter some plastic-perfect illusion that he had willingly conspired with the media to establish.
There then, all that because I didnt know what to say. Thank God I didnt rummage down the old document files for something I wrote last year. Or maybe not.