Seven days to a holiday . . .

Oh yes, it's THAT time of year again. Time to start rattling around in the back of cupboards for knackered looking flip-flops and tired swimshorts. Time to haul the dusty suitcase down, still bearing the luggage lables from last year's distant memory of a vacation. Time to head off on holiday.

Of course, in the good old days, it all seemed so much easier. Well, it would do, given that by 'old days', I'm referring tonthe 1970s when my parents had to contend with all of the planning and packing. How I used to giggle at their endless checklists. Thirty-odd years later I find myself in a sea of paper and stick-it notes, attempting to manouvre myself from home to holiday. Looking at the billowing clouds and thunderous grey skies outside, I am resigned to packing everything from a pair of shorts to a Balaclaver helmet. There will be suncream, Lemsip, skinbalm and a raincoat. It's ridiculous. Did my parents ever go to such lengths? Well, yes they did.

A few of those glorious seventies holidays were located in self-catering caravans on the coast. Many is the time that the entire family, 'sans motor car', hobbled on to railway platforms clutching a set of bed sheets and a pressure cooker. I kid you not. Without coming over too 'Andrew Collins' though, those childhood vacations always seemed to be set against a backdrop of glorious sunshine. Actually make that blistering sunshine. Many was the time my badly sunburned legs came into contact with the over-heated plastic covered seating in the caravan.

The days were broadly organised the same wherever we stayed. A morning on the beach, a picnic meal, long walks along the coastline or a train journey to a nearby town, back for an improvised dinner or sea-front fish and chips, then "the club". The latter would always be some on-site, formica-tabled palace of entertainment, sporting a magician, a northern comic "Take my mother-in-law . . . no, go on take her", followed by a Rita Fairclough-style cabaret singer belting out "This is my life". We loved every minute and if we weren't swaying along to some slushy number then, as kids, we were darting in and out of the tables, glowing like neon lights with our worrying sunburn.

Our only dodgy holiday was the never-to-be-forgotten misery-fest in Caister, 1978. The caravan was seated in a field of mud to which more rain water was added each day. Well, apart from one where, under murky skies, we ventured to the beach and huddled behind a wind-break, dressed in jeans and heavy jumpers. The joyless episode was made worse by the dash back to the caravan in heavy rain which thundered down on the roof. In silence we watched Scotland play Peru in the World Cup. It couldn't get any worse.

These days, most of us work right up until the minute we leave the country, resulting in the first couple of days being given over to hyper-ventialting while we try to adjust to having no timetable. This follows the nightmare job of selecting clothes and then packing the grim articles. Clearing up the house is afforded a manic few hours of hurling the contents of the fridge into a bin bag and drenching every houseplant in a Niagra of water. Then there is the task of getting yourself from home to the airport and, once there, eating your body weight in all-day breakfasts while waiting for your flight. laden with purchases from Duty Free, Sunglasses Hut, Tie Rack and We Saw You Coming, you finally stagger to your economy class pigeon hole and so it all begins.

Maybe that caravan in Caister is still for hire . . .

Engelbert or bust . . .

By this time next week, we will know who emerged victorious in the 57th Eurovision Song Contest. As of this afternoon, the ladies and gentlemen of the press have had to endure, and possibly enjoy, over eighty rehearsals. Speaking from personal experience, I always found that the rehearsal process dulled, rathen than sharpened, my focus. Songs that began the week as a heap of festering nonsense suddenly became treasured old friends. The entries I'd pinned hopes on tend to wither on the vine and die. In other words, I've hardly ever picked a winner in the past thirty years. With that cherished thought in mind, here's who I think will progress to next Saturday's final in Azerbaijan, Land of Fire and according to some media outlets, Land of Compulsory Eviction. Onwards . . .

First semi-final

Iceland - Never forget by Greta Samóme & Jónsi

Big, old-fashioned shouty ballad tarted up with a bit of fiddle playing. Rehearsals have gone well but there is something worryingly antiseptic and bland about the whole package.

Latvia - Beautiful song by Anmary
Lyrically not a beautiful song at all with it's odd references to Paul McCartney and Mick Jagger. The melody is catchy though. In the rehearsals, Anmary was wearing a vile blue frock which made her hips look huge. The backing singers were dressed in pastel-coloured hotpants. Hello? 2012?

Albania - Suus by Rona Nishliu

First goosebump moment of the contest. This is a very dark song, emoted rather than sung by the bun-haired Rona. There are some very big notes in this performance and it is a cut above much of the other frippery on offer. Will probably fail horribly . . .

Romania - Zaleilah by Mandinga
Cheap and cheerful holiday music with a catchy (bordering on irritating) tune. The throwaway simplicity of the song should get it into the final and possibly to the top spot.

Cyprus - La la love by Ivi Adamou
She's only seventeen and looks as though she is having fun. Again, this is music to live your summer vacation too - cheery, catchy and well-performed. Cyprus has never won the contest - this could do very well for them in 2012 though.

Denmark - Should've known better by Soluna Samay
The Danes tend to steer a very safe course through the contest with bland, safe, middle-of-the-road slices of pop. 2012 is no different and this mundane number will offend no one. Well, perhaps me.

Russia - Party for everybody by Buranovskiye Babushki

Six old grannies have the time of their lives, gathered around a bread oven, looking twinkly-eyed. The generic Europop dance track is pure rot but Europe will love these little old ladies so it's a contender. President Putin may ever break into a grimace . . .

Hungary - Sound of our hearts by Compact Disco
A downbeat song which sounds as though it should be a Depeche Mode b-side. Despite goood rehearsals, this is only seen as a borderline qualifier.

Moldova - Lautar by Pasha Parfeny

This is the kind of cheery turbo-folk nonsense that goes down well in the former Soviet nations. Pasha and his cohorts perform this very well and rehearsals have been good.

Ireland - Waterline by Jedward
This is the kind of entry that sounds as though it has been written by a computer programme. It's safe and ridiculously bland. The twins are as irritating and, if the rehearsal footage is to be believed, woefully off tune at times. All that aside, it would be a major surprise if this did not qualify.

Are you still with me? Shall we plod on to semi-final two? Ok . . .

Second semi-final

Serbia - Nije ljubav stvar by Zeljko Joksimovic
This is a Balkan ballad-by-numbers, all moody verses and plaintive chorus. Definitely a case of the performance being better than the song but this is a big shoe-in for the final.

Netherlands - You & me by Joan Franka

Dubbed Indiana Joan by the delegates in Baku, courtesy of the Native American head-dress she is sporting. The song is catchy in a Eurovision 'oompah' way. Maybe Joan is channeling 1976 through her feathers . . .

Portugal - Visa minha by Filipa Sousa
This romantic slice of fado may just scrape into the final list. Filipa is a classy performer and she makes a good job of this ballad.

Ukraine - Be my guest by Gaitana
This one is all shrieking horns and beats. If we're being kind, then the performance is vivacious. If not, it's a mess.Either way, it's on it's way to the final.

Slovenia - Verjamem by Eva Boto

More Balkan melodrama from a 16 year old girl with an amazing voice. The song builds nicely to a big finish. The rehearsals exposed a nasty frock though, covered in sewn on flowers. Oh dear!

Sweden - Euphoria by Loreen
It's the favourite to win but to date, Loreen's rehearsals have been worryingly underwhelming. Her piece of mid 90s trance may not be the shoe-in voctor that most were expecting.

Georgia - I'm a joker by Anri Jokhadze
Larger than life performance from a powerful, if effete, singer. This song jumps from cod opera to disco with ease. It's weird enough to appeal. Probably . . .

Estonia - Kuula by Ott Lepland
This is a big atmospheric ballad that builds nicely and is presented gimmick-free. Possibly the classiest song of the year but than by no means guarantees a victory.

Norway - Stay by Tooji

He seems to be camper than Liberace's clutch purse but this booming piece of dance music is well performed. One journalist descibed the backing singers/dancers as 'rough' which seems a little harsh . . . if true.

Bosnia & Herzegovina - Korake ti znam by Maya Sar
A lovely, gentle ballad whose chances seem to have been wrecked by a harsh stage setting and a frock horror. Full length black lace with shoulder pads anyone?

Enough for now! We'll take a look at Engelbert and the other qualified finalists during the week.

Baku to 1993 . . .

And so the plucky journalists from around Europe are heaving their suitcases to the airport as they prepare to cross about 42 time zones in search of Eurovision joy in Baku. Do I envy them? Maybe not as much as I would have done almost twenty years ago. Back in the day, Eurovision was a very different animal. There were no semi-finals, no super-sized arena and the likes of Luxembourg rather than Lithuania were taking part. 1993 - a momentous year as I joined the throng and travelled to Eurovision as an accredited delegate.

The contest was being staged in the tiny village of Millstreet, County Cork as Irish broadcaster RTÉ wanted to try something a little different - and boy was this different! A showjumping arena had been transformed into a state-of-the-art music venue and broadcast centre. Yours truly dragged himself to Stansted for the flight to Cork and then the never-ending bus journey to Killarney. The following morning, another forty minute bus journey to the venue in Millstreet where everyone was accredited in the local primary school.

As well as the accredited press, the venue also seemed to have more than its fair share of nuns! They were everywhere, other than conducting the orchestra and singing the songs. En mass, they whisked through the auditorium, clutching press packs and Sonia CDs. Oh yes - this was the year when Sonia braved it for the UK. Her press conference performances were legend. When asked what European language she would like to record her song in, she burbled "Japanese" to a gasping audience.

One keenly anticipated moment was the daily totting up of delegate votes as they all tried to predict who was going to win. How uncomfortable it was to see the grim, uimpressed faces of the Danish delegation as their entry slid to the bottom of the scoreboard. Or the weary looking duo from Luxembourg, a country which hasn't participated since. Sonia polled in tenth place with the delegates and grinned inanely at the scoreboard until someone wheeled her away.

Politics reared its head at the 1993 contest. We were all rather amazed at the appearance of the delegation from Bosnia & Herzegovina, given that war was raging in the country at the time. Steely-faced head of delegation, Ismeta Kravavac when asked "How did you manage to get out of Sarajevo twice?" replied "Because I am a very fast runner sir". Indeed. The world's media gathered for the Bosnian press conference and Ismeta reminded them that the delegation were attending as musicians not politicians. We didn't really believe her. A few were worried that they sympathy vote would swing Bosnia's way and take the 1994 contest to a warzone. Saturday night would prove otherwise ...

Aside from the songs, Eurovision is also about partying and alcohol. Much alcohol. As well as music, countries are also rated on the quality of their party. The UK's, as ever, was a lacklustre affair. Dear old Auntie provided a free bar for around five minutes and wowed the international delegates with a selection of crudities smothered in Primula spread. Belgium cut to the chase and seemingly handed everyone a crate a beer at their party. Happy faces all round, although not on the faces of the Belgians on Saturday night as they headed home with just three points. The star party was given by Iceland who ensured that all attendees downed a vicious shot of something called Black Death before they had even entered the room. Result? Most people  staggered into the night and remembered little the next day.

Always fun are the odd (in more ways than one) delegates who turn up. Slovakia sent a team of one, Mrs Jasemova, to prepare her nation for its song contest debut in 1994. Resplendent in a designer jacket, Mrs Jasemova (and indeed the aforementioned jacket) became one of the enduring stars of the Eurovision circuit for a few years. A round of applause too for the husband and wife team commentating for Korea (presumably South . . .) and the British journalist who had travelled down to Millstreet in a camper van because his publication refused to foot the bill for expenses!

For the singers, taking part seemed to be a mixed experience. Sweden's teenage boyband, Arvingarna, looked perpetually bored and were accompanied everywhere by their parents. Burak Aydos, representing Turkey, had the air of someone who was out of his comfort zone. His song was disliked by the majority and his press conference was a lacklustre affair made worse by the song being handed to the press on cassette tape only. Other singers though were a total joy. The Netherlands' Ruth Jacott topped the delegates poll and shone in the way that only a true professional can. Patrick Fiori, representing France, proved to be fun and personable as did the Irish singer Niamh Kavanagh who had a ball on home turf. Portugal's sixteen year old Anabel was innocence personified but what a voice!

As for me, I made a beeline for the fearsome singer from Israel, Saraleh Sharon. Or Sara Lee Shalom as one fellow journo managed to pronounce it, making the poor woman sound like a bar mitzvah celebration cake. Anyway, old Saraleh was a scary piece of work, ordering her fellow singers around the stage like a headmistress with a bad attitude. Divisions grew as the week went on until one of Saraleh's co-singers barked "Does she not realise that I am an artist too?" rather loudly after one otwo sweet sherries. As contest night drew closer, the other singers hatched a plan. Those of us in the know kept quiet but I decided to seek out the harridan-in-charge for a cosy 'getting to know you' chat. Did she have any words of wisdom to impart for the viewers of Europe. Saraleh pulled me closer with a wintry smile and snarled "Sing and the whole world sings with you." I couldn't really argue with that.

Come May 15th and it was contest day itself. The previous night's dress rehearsal had been a disaster with delegation after delegation complaining about the camera direction and hostess Fionnuala Sweeney being less than happy with her, it has to be said, nasty pink party frock. Would it be all right on the night? Due to the lengthy journey into Millstreet and the security lockdown at the venue, we all had to travel in full evening costume first thing in the morning. It was a long day with only the final dress rehearsal to sit through plus a meal in a distant catering tent. By 7pm the place was filled with the local glitterati, the Irish PM and of course, Wogan. Would Sonia make the top ten? Would the delegates favourite Ruth Jacott top the scoreboard and could the downbeat Danes avoid last place?

The early leaders included Switzerland's Annie Cotton, belting out a halting mid-tempo number and incredibly tall Norwegian teenager Silje Vige who seemed to be channeling something Greek. However, it soom became a two-horse race, appropriate in this venue, between the host nation's Niamh Kavanagh and a surprisingly polished perfomance from the UK's Sonia. Not being a fan of the cheesy British entry and having already met the somewhat wonderful Niamh, I prayed for an Irish victory. The voting to-ed and fro-ed between the two and it was only the very last vote awarded by Malta that ensured the title stayed in Ireland. Relief!

The immediate after-show reception was something else. Jubilant bar staff were handing people not just a glass of champagne but a whole bottle. Not that I was there long before being herded on to a coach bound for the official winner's reception in Killarney. There I was, on a coach filled with inebriated journalists and performers. From the loud, unpleasant backing singers from one country to the indiscreet conductor from another, we all sang our way to a festival of even more booze. At the hotel, the singers began to pour in, some deflated, others jubilant and all relieved. It had been a long journey for most of them in more ways than one. For the sombre Danes, no last place but relegation. For Israel's Saraleh Sharon, an onstage revolt planned by her co-singers didn't bring any more than a sorry 24th place.

For me, the cold light of day brought the prospect of a journey back to Derbyshire. It had been an amazing week and one brought to a successful conclusion by a highly professional team from RTÉ. Rather than sit on their laurels, these same people now had to plan something even better for 1994.

Saturday night's all right . . .

Saturday night telly! Ah - I could rattle on for hours about the joys of yesteryear. In fact, why don't I do that anyway. Let's bathe the 1970s in golden sunlight and wistfully remember how wonderful it all was back in the day. Or was it?

I'm Inspector Darblay and I'm a woman

For me, the opener to the evening was always Final Score as Frank Bough and his comb-over led us through the footie highlights of the day. With tea (never dinner) out of the way, we could settle down to an evening of predominantly BBC1 fare. Doctor Who was still in its imperial phase, with Tom Baker clowning around for the kids and Leila and her bra top providing the entertainment for dad. Then on to the Generation Game, both the Brucey and Larry versions. The former, the consumate all-round entertainer. The latter, a beffudled camp comic from Nuneaton. I loved them both. Scores on the doors? After this frippery, BBC1 would usually serve up a drama. More often than not, this would be Juliet Bravo. Brave times for the Beeb as they depicted a woman - WOMAN - police inspector battling life in a 'grim up north' police station people by overweight middle-aged men. They would call her 'ma'am' (rhymed with 'spam') and roll their eyes every time she issued an edict. Aforementioned lady police inspector would then dash home at 6pm to get a casserole for her understanding (and usually feeble) husband.

"And it's goodnight from . . . oh you known the rest . . ."

The Two Ronnies was another fave in our household. Always the same week in, week out. Two sets of specs at a newsdesk, a couple of sketches set in corner shops or cocktail parties, some serialised story forever starring Diana Dors, Ronnie Barker in a frock and a song from the lovely Miss Barbara Dickson. That's entertainment!

I'm not going to suggest that these halcyon days have returned but at the moment, Saturday nights have shown a distinct improvement. BBC1's The Voice has, to date, performed better than expected. Unlike the dreary X Factor, the BBC have provided a panel who actually seem to care about music. OK, Will.iam may be a bit of a twonk but the other three are enthusiastic enough. Reggie Yates continually falls into the Dermot-like falseness of calling the lads 'feller' but other than that, well done the BBC! I feel an e-mail to Points of View in the offing.



A Bridge too far . . .

However, the real gem on Saturday is BBC4's wonderful The Bridge. I'm not the biggest fan of Copenhagen but maybe this superb drama will help reel me in again. The two lead characters are a joy - the overweight, fag-smoking laconic Dane and his uptight, socially inept female Swedish counterpart. I think the BBC should revive Juliet Bravo and have Saga Noren dispense some of her logic to the fat, northern policemen. And remember - don't call her ma'am.

Terry Wogan and a coffee table . . .

Hurrah! So the warmer days have arrived then. Fair enough, they have more or less disappeared overnight and the doom merchants at the Met Office are forecasting a White Easter. Oh well, it will bring me joy to see kids morosely looking for chocolate eggs under three feet of snow.

For me, Easter and sickly confectionery always heralded a high point of the Eurovision season. Yes folks, the songfest is on the horizon and some countries have been busy preparing their ditties. As is common song contest practice, they have also produced an accompanying preview film with which to whet the appetite. These tend to be slick, MTV-standard offerings but that wasn't always the case . . .

"And from Turkey this year, the Modern Folk Trio, a quartet"

Back in the 1980s, I would almost vomit in anticipation of the Easter goodies on offer from the BBC. Over two consecutive Sundays, the joys and horrors of that year's Eurovision would be laid bare. The action would take place in a depressingly small, and often beige, BBC studio. The camera would home in on Terry Wogan and a coffee table. Wry grin and best wig in place, Tel would meander through the entries and surpress a chuckle at the international preview videos. Looking back over those halcyon years, it would be easy to stereotype the films offered by many of the participating countries. For example . . .

Finland
Entrant wearing the pelt of some slaughtered animal, wandering around in the snow. Backng singers would emerge from pine forest and form a line behind her.

Germany
40,000 people gathered in an aircraft hangar near Munich, clapping politely as a hausfrau belts out a Teutonic anthem

Luxembourg and/or Monaco

Woman in vile evening dress superimposed against a backdrop of Monte Carlo or, oh the glamour, Luxembourg airport.

Greece
Singer is shown against a backdrop of white Orthodox churches on Mykonos and then later, bobbing around on a boat withe an eye painted on the prow.

Ireland

Usually filmed in very weak colour, the singer is seen pararding around an eerily deserted Dublin Zoo or stranded by a waterfall. In the rain.

France
Young woman, given a make-under by a make-up artist with conjunctivitis, staggers out in front of a screeching violin-dominated cabaret band, wearing a brown or mustard-coloured frock. Centre parting optional.

Portugal
The stuff of which nightmares are made. Woman travels down the side of a hill in a basket, jumps out, rolls the rest of the way down to a beach, jumps over a camera to reveal her undergarments and then settles down and lights a fag.

Israel
All performers are dressed in white and must re-enact Hava nagila at high speed. The set usually consists of numerous pieces of plastic on bits of string, violently swinging.

United Kingdom

Singers are seen in some dull part of London i.e. the Embankment, clutching umbrellas or wearing M & S macs. Against grey, leaden skies they do anything other than actually mime to the song.

Turkey
Filmed in garish colour, the entrants are forced to pose with, on or under the Bosphorus suspension bridge before mysterioulsy pitching up in Ephesus where they emerge from behind 1000 year old stone pillars.

Italy
A tedious head and shoulder camera shot of the singer wearing over-sized earphones and reading the lyrics to the song from a piece of paper. Apart from 1992 when they didn't bother with any video and just submitted an elderly picture of the singer.

Malta
Singer shown in soft-focus due to their advanced age/humungous girth/receding hairline. Lots of meandering down side streets before huge plugs for Air Malta for the remainder of the film.

Sadly the BBC preview shows were axed many years ago. The last of the Wogan Euro shows was in 1994 and was filmed in front of a live audience and, oddly enough, yours truly was on stage with him. Why? Well, that's another story.

Of course, it's all much more professional now and this year we have been treated to some stark mini-drama from Iceland, a Bosnian woman on a steel girder playing a piano and a Montenegrin bloke running amok with a donkey. Somewhat reassuringly though, Italy's Nina Zilli is resplendent with over-sized earphones and a page of lyrics. She gets my vote . . .

Here comes Summer!

OK, so British Summer Time has arrived. Hurrah! Like most people, I've spent the morning drearing around, changing clocks and moaning about a missed hour's sleep. We'll get over it. Plucky old Britain. On the horizon, or at least we hope so, a gently evolving summer of hot days in the garden and balmy evenings with a cold beer or a glass of wine. Preferably both. The gentle sound of Sunday gardeners mowing their lawns, the evocative noise of a transistor radio commentating on Wimbledon tennis . . . hang on a sec, I seem to be thinking about summer 1977. Let's get real . . .

To begin with, the mere sniff of summer seems to have spawned a rather nasty rash of shorts and flips flops. M'lud, please take a look at exhibit A, Waitrose this afternoon. The usual cast had gathered - harrassed yummy mummy in her jogging bottoms , hair yanked back in an elastic band. Carefully unshaven daddy, bald head and square designer specs loitering over an Observer. The kids - oh God, the kids, pushing their mini trolleys around, screeching at each other and ignoring yummy mummy's plaintive cries of "Cressida, please don't do that". Amongst this bunch this afternoon, I also spotted the bearers of Summer Sadness, predominantly middle-aged men decked out in shorts and flip flops. Lads, it was 10 degrees outside! I'm sorry, half an hour of sunlight over north London does not a summer make. There seems to be some engulfing desperation that propels these loons to don summer attire the minute the clocks go forward. Please no - one of them was even sporting a white trilby. Enough already.

The spirit of the idyllic summer of '77 is unlikely to return, save for the drought of course. The soundtrack to the 21st century summer seems to be dominated by the screams of children, forced into to the garden minus their electronic games, blinking and gasping like albino rabbits. There is also the all-encompassing stench of burning carcass (and no, I don't mean her from down the road slapping on the factor 5). The dreaded barbecue. How anyone can celebrate friendship by offering up slices of botulism to their mates is anyone's guess. Add to this the vaguely threatening sound of ice-cream van music, dogs barking, Bland FM blaring out the hits of yesteryear plus some demented bint bellowing into her mobile and voila! An English summer has been served.

When do the clocks go back?

What's the Point?

Admittedly, I'm a sucker for a TV studio. This is probably because I am quite nosy and like to see what's going on. Over the years, I've been lucky enough to visit on or two studios and have seen life there from both sides of the camera. Oh yes, I've rubbed shoulders with the great and the good.I also met Gloria Hunniford. Away from the stars though, there are the usual studio 'types' to contend with. You will always find a semi-demented researcher with a clipboard stapled to her hands, juggling a coffee and getting your name wrong. There is usually an overly-jolly make-up woman who insists on telling you who she 'did' last week, thinkking that you'll be impressed by the mere mention of Judith Chalmers. Also on the roster is the floor manager, balancing the technical requirements of the studio with the 'loves' and 'darlings' taking part in the production. It's a fascinating and, often, bizarre world.

Armstrong & Osman making a Point

Last night I dragged myself off to BBC Television Centre to see a recording of the cosy tea-time quiz show, Pointless. True to form, the audience was kept waiting on a desperately cold Wood Lane until it was time to be herded in the direction of the BBC Shop. Fifteen minutes later we were rounded up again and shoved in the direction of Studio 4. Amongst the assorted grannies and student-types, there was the usual screeching about how tiny the set was. On came the warm-up guy, a nervous but likeable comic called Josh who kept reassuring us that he wasn't gay. Whatever. He was funny though even when he had to coach us in cheering and whooping like loonies for the contestants. Ah - the contestants!

No one had realised that this was a celebrity edition of Pointless. Necks were craned to get a glimpse of the glitterati. OK so it was Lionel Blair, Angela Rippon, Steve Pemberton, Colin and Justin (do they have surnames?), Konnie Huq, Anjellica Bell and some actor called Sam. Sorry but I have not a clue as to who he is. Presenter Alexander Armstrong entered to much applause but not quite as much as his sidekick Richard Osman. He is one heck of a tall man!

Anyway, a jolly old time was had by all. There were one or two re-takes due to fluffed lines and Angela Rippon continually moving out of shot or even walking off the set. What I really liked though was the manner in which Armstrong and Osman chatted with their guests between takes and even laughed along and aplauded warm-up Josh. I've been at other productions where the presenters smile and courtesy has disappeared as soon as the camera lights went off.

We'lll miss it when it's gone . . . perhaps

A fun old night then and of course, I didn't pay a penny for the ticket. I for one will be a bit sad when TV Centre closes for good. There is something special about the Concrete Donut in Wood Lane.