The Archers Again

'The Archers' this week gave us another Golden Radio Moment (c) when the satanic infant George fell into Neil Carter's pig sty. He was shocked but unhurt, sadly.

I worked up at BBC Birmingham recently, in the brand new Mailbox building. You pass 'The Archers' studio on a landing on the way into the newsroom. It has a big window so you can see the equipment and control booth, but when they record they draw down big blinds so you can't see the actors. I'm glad about that as I have specific visual images of many of the cast nurtured over twenty five years. They include:

Joe Grundy: Almost indescribably hairy, red faced, hook nosed and illegally smelly.

Matt: Sideburns and bad breath.

Jennifer: Dark shoulder length hair and a martyred expression.

Shula: Dark shorter hair but the same martyred expression as Jennifer.

Lillian: Silverish bob, blue eyes and the foxy manner that's made her the favourite character at Hendo Towers.

Clarrie: Traditionally built (see Alexander McCall Smith), and yes, rosy cheeks.

George: Blond hair, tiny, with a tiny '666' tattooed somewhere only a professional exorcist can find it.

End of an Era

I've spent the last month based in Birmingham as a roving producer. Now it's at an end, and as I clear out the old Diet Coke bottles and Wellington Boots (purchased, William Boot-like, in case of floods) from the pool car I feel a twinge of regret.

There will be no more pulse racing when the mobile rings, no more fumbling in the rucksack for the GPS. (I changed the voice from 'Pam' who's a bit upper cut and repressed, to 'Ken', an Aussie whose manly brogue seems strangely comforting when threading through the Spaghetti Junction at rush hour. One instinctively trusts an Aussie in vexed situations)

There will be no more grim garage sandwiches and bags of Doritos seized for an instant carb fix in a spare minute. The hands free mobile, which once received sixty eight calls in one day, can go back to receiving one call a day, that most likely being from my Dad. I will no longer regret not having a Blackberry.

I will be highly respectful of anyone who does this job permanently. It is exhausting, not least the driving. I now have a favourite motorway stretch (M40 in Warwickshire - lovely in Summer evenings), and a least favourite stretch of suburbia (Kings Heath at school turning out time).

I won't miss the hotels; they ceased to be a novelty very early on. The Malmaison was the most tolerable but had nowhere decent to exercise. Jury's Inn was the worst; a sort of hotel answer to Ryanair. Avoid.

Above all I will miss the Brummies and the other Midland Denizens. They were all very friendly and invariably responded positively to me smiling at them and asking them for soul baring on the national news; I was rather falling for them by the end.
NB This is High Praise from a Manc.

** Thanks to Mrs Magpie for correcting my Waugh reference.

Back On The Road Again

Back in my hotel in Birmingham where I'm on attachment for a while. The end of a glorious day, of real heat warming up Emma's christening, and a splash of pink sunset as I headed up the M40. Tomorrow, Stoke Magistrates.