My fickle friend fame

Not sure who first said; “No matter how popular and famous you are, when you die, the number of mourners at your funeral will depend very much on the weather.” More famously, Andy Warhol opined, “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.” Just a thought, Bradley Walsh, time's up? When his phone rings, I swear he answers; “I'll do it.” He flies around hither, thither and yon, like a mad woman's breakfast.

Don't get me wrong, as a young buck I wanted fame, fortune and to be a rich women's plaything like the Shake & Vac wench (Jenny Logan) on that dim distant TV commercial dancing around in high heels shaking the powder on the carpet while singing; “Do the Shake 'n' Vac, and put the freshness back.” Is this just a little too weird for comfort?

At school, The Dr Lectar Sec. Mod (a tough school, we had an inhouse coroner) our careers master when he asked of my future employment plans, scoffed when I told him I wanted work in the F1 pits of Maserati with Stirling Moss or be a pop star. “Lad, you can barely speak The Queen's English let alone Italian. On top of that, I've seen your cack-handed attempts in the metal work classes, and your singing sounds like a chain coming off a motorbike. The closest you'll get is as a back-street garage grease monkey – singing along with the radio.”

With that ringing endorsement, although he was right about the Italian lingo, I thought I'll show him, so showbiz it had to be. My debut occurred in a venue the size of a living room - in fact, it was a living room – ours. The audience comprised of my Granny Gertie – who by that time had entered the 'The Fabled Land of Ga Ga Grannydom.'

Still, an audience is an audience and the show must go on. While Gran carried on muttering about Mafeking, I started into my routine. Well, I say routine; it was me and a plastic ukulele running through the Lonnie Donegan songbook. I figured if a diminutive whiny voice Scotsman banging on about chewing gum on the bedpost overnight can get young women chucking their flimsies on stage – the boy Ashley was on his way. He certainly was all the way to the back-street garage.

But, my dreams did not wither on the vine among the Swarfega, Redex and antifreeze. No sir, if you look back to a ramble dated August 18th, 2017 – you will find an article (which I'm sure you devoutly cut out and pasted in your scrapbook, 'snort') about the skiffle group I formed with Bazza and Sparky.

Barry was a handsome cove, never cursed with zits or nits. There was a whiff of danger about him and the looks of a young Elvis. Sparky and I looked like members of the 'Bash Street Kids' - since you ask I was Plug, you know, the lanky one with buck teeth and sticky out ears. Sparky was Wilfrid to a tee. The one with the green jumper up to his hooter.

We carted our gear around on a Southdown bus and there was the added humiliation of being charged an extra fare by a gloating Blakey clone for the tea chest bass. We lasted about one summer and Brian Epstein or George Martin had shown zilch interest. I had one more brief flirtation with the groovy group scene as part of a poor man's surfer band. Even when I lived in Australia, I never surfed. I find it hard enough to keep my feet under me on God's own earth without adding waves and a glorified ironing board to complicate things even further.

In a morbid way, my lack of surfer dude cred is slightly lessened by the fact the Beach Boys didn't ride the wild surf, other than Dennis Wilson – who, with bitter irony, drowned. The closest I got to fame was through nearly 50 years of playing pop and spouting prattle on the radio. In 2004, along with a fine team, we won a Sony Gold Radio Award (outside of the broadcasting world it means as much as a politicians promise). But, heigh-ho, it means a jolly to London for an awards ceremony at the Grosvenor House Hotel. As I lumbered up the red carpet I spotted Rod and Penny – Sir Terry – Elton and assorted reality TV bods and, oh! there's Bradley.

The paparazzi were going bonkers. “Terry, wiggle your wig. Penny, gives us a flash. Elton, don't give us a flash.” Then I appeared, preening and my brief flirtation with fame was kicked comprehensively into the long grass, as I heard one of the cameras wielding clodhoppers snarl, “It's okay, it's a nobody.”