Take a Shit
AFORMER landlord of the BBC bar has sensationally leaked a blacklist naming many of the corporation’s top stars whom he has been forced to BAN for unacceptable behaviour.
Ex-Beeb publican PENRITH KENDAL, who recently lost his job following a series of mainly unsubstantiated allegations including, but not limited to, serving drinks outside of licensing hours, theft from the till, being drunk while on duty, and the installation of surveillance cameras inside a vent in the ladies’ toilets, says that a rollcall of the broadcaster’s most highly paid personalities behaved so appallingly that he was left with no option but to forbid them from entering his premises.
Kendal told us: “It was my name above the door, and ultimately the buck stopped with me. I wasn’t going to allow the stars to carry on like that in my boozer, no matter how famous they were.”
“I used to run a proper, oldfashioned flat-roofer – The Albion – on a run-down estate in Essex, so I’ve dealt with a few difficult customers in my time,” he continued. “But compared to the stars who used to frequent my bar at TV Centre, they were saints, I can tell you.”
Now, after being given his marching orders by the BBC on what he claims are exaggerated charges, he has decided it is time to speak out and name and shame those who are really responsible for his downfall. he told us: “The BBC is run like an old boys’ club. And when I started barring the stars, they closed ranks and made sure it was me that got the heave-ho.”
“But I don’t regret what I did. The behaviour of those household names really was atrocious, and they deserved to get barred.” I’d only been in the job a couple of days when I was first forced to put my foot down and ban an unruly punter. It was ten o’clock on a quiet Monday evening. As usual, there were a couple of weathermen propping up the bar, and JEREMY PAXMAN and the University Challenge lads had just left after their regular post-show pie and a pint. My only other customers were MICHAELA STRACHAN and KATE HUMBLE, sat in the corner nursing a couple of small Merlots while they filled in the TV Quick crossword.
PACKHAM SHOWED WILD SIDE
“It’s my effing badger, and I’ll bring it in the bar if I effing want.”
Then CHRIS PACKHAM came in and spotted them, and that was when all hell broke loose.
He’d got a big cardboard box under his arm, and there was all scuffling and scratching noises coming out of it. He put the box on the floor, opened the flaps, and out came an angry, snarling badger. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a proper big one, and it had pissed while it had been in the box, so it stank to high heaven. God knows where he’d found it. Michaela and Kate screamed and jumped up on the banquette, and Packham grabbed the badger by the scruff of its neck and thrust it towards them, making them scream even louder. It was pandemonium.
I went over and pointed out that animals weren’t allowed in the BBC bar, except guide dogs. But Packham was having none of it. ‘Go eff yourself, four-eyes,’ he told me, which Strachan and Humble seemed to find very amusing. ‘It’s my effing badger, and I’ll bring it in the bar if I effing want.’ Only he didn’t say ‘eff’, he said ‘fuck’. He was showing off in front of the girls, and they in turn were egging him on.
Then things went from bad to worse. Packham started throwing Frazzles and Monster Munches at his badger. The E-numbers in the crisps seemed to be getting the poor animal even more agitated than it already was, and it was running around in circles, shitting everywhere and making a high-pitched barking sound.
I was furious. EMILY MAITLIS usually comes in for a couple of pints of Guinness on a Monday after Newsnight, and I didn’t want her getting bitten or going arse over tit after slipping in badger turds, as it would reflect badly on me in my first week in charge. I shouted to Packham to get his badger back in its box and out of my premises. To be fair to him, he did eventually do as I said, cornering the animal by the fruit machine and throwing TOMASZ SCHAFERKNACKERS’s anorak over it.
The unruly SpringWatch threesome eventually left, but they left yours truly
to clean up the unholy mess that the badger had left. I shouted after them that they were all barred. In the heat of the moment, I may have used some choice language which, with hindsight, I now bitterly regret; to be honest, I can’t remember.
Later, after I had calmed down a bit, I chalked their names on the “barred stars” blackboard I had hung behind the bar. They may have been the first names on my blacklist, but they were sadly not to be the last.
I ‘THEROUX’ LOUIS OUT ON ARSE
One day,
I became aware of a commotion in the corner of the bar. It was BBC Breakfast ’s Business editor STEPH MCGOVERN, and she was rocking the fag machine violently from side to side, effing and jeffing. It was 4 in the afternoon, and she’d been in since coming off air at 9.15 that morning. I went over to see what was up. ’There’s something lodged in the slot,’ she ranted, aiming an angry kick at the front
of the machine. ‘It won’t take my money, and I’m clemming for a tab.’
I told Steph to calm down and take a seat while I investigated what was wrong. It soon became clear what the problem was. Someone had sneakily attempted to fool the mechanism with three washers wrapped in foil instead of a £2 coin. And this wasn’t the first time this had happened. The offender had form; over the past few weeks I’d found several other crude counterfeits in the fag machine coin box.
But this time, by jamming the slot, the culprit had made a fatal error. The last customer to use the machine before McGovern had to be the faker. I knew that all I had to do was to review the CCTV footage to identify them. I went behind the bar and eagerly re-wound the tape, peering at the grainy footage on the closed circuit screen.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the unmistakable figure of offbeat documentarian LOUIS THEROUX standing by the cigarette machine. He was looking around furtively, checking the coast was clear before forcing his phoney coin into the machine. Then he seemed to panic, trying in vain to retrieve it using a penknife before skulking off guiltily as Steph McGovern staggered up to the machine.
I knew Theroux was still in the bar, so I decided to confront him. I told him what I’d seen him doing, and asked him to turn out his pockets. The fag machine takes four £2 coins, and the first one he tried had jammed, so I was pretty sure he’d still the three remaining fakes on him. But he was in no mood to play ball, and told me to go and eff myself. Although he didn’t say ‘eff’, he actually said ‘fuck’.
Well to me, that was as good as an admission of guilt. What’s more, the Weird Weekends film-maker had crossed a line, as I’ve never stood for bad language in any of the boozers I’ve managed. I told him to sling his hook. Although I may have used slightly stronger wording than that in the heat of the moment, as he had really boiled my piss.
Theroux stood up to confront me. He’s a tall lad, well over 6’2”, but he’s a big drink of water. I may only be 5’3”, but I had a serious weight advantage over him, and he knew it. He clearly had no appetite for a dust-up and he headed for the door. I always liked his documentaries, especially the ones about nutty Americans and sex perverts, so it was with a heavy heart that I picked up my chalk and added his name to my evergrowing list of barred stars.
WARWICK GOT TOKSVIG SHOCK
Over decades as a professional custodian of a drinking establishment, I’ve had to break up more pub fights than I’ve had hot dinners. It’s perfectly understandable. Tempers can easily flare when everyone’s had a bit to drink, and it’s the landlord’s job to step and call time on any developing argy-bargy. Indeed the vast majority of altercations end with the two parties shaking hands and buying each other another pint.
However, when big showbiz egos clashed in the hothouse atmosphere of the BBC bar, a simple disagreement could quickly escalate into ugly violence. And fisticuffs is something that I will not tolerate in any boozer with the name Penrith Kendal over the door.
The Weird Weekends film-maker had crossed a line.
Taking a final swig, she smashed the beer bottle down on the edge and pushed the jagged edge towards Davis’ face.
Having said that, many of the big BBC names clearly considered themselves above obeying the rules of my bar, and their resulting bad behaviour was a sight to behold. A case in point was QI presenter SANDI TOKSVIG.
Every week, after recording her light-hearted quiz show, Sandi would come in the bar for six pints of Greenall Whitley Mild. We would line the bottles up on her favourite table in the corner and she would neck them one after another as a means of ‘coming down’ from the adrenaline high of presenting the show. Regulars knew to leave her well alone while she went through her boozy routine; as long as nobody bothered her she was absolutely fine.
However, one night she was just about to down her last bottle when she was approached by WARWICK DAVIS off Tenable. Unwisely, Davis decided to tease his fellow quizmaster over a wrong answer she had given on the previous week’s QI.
According to Davis, after asking ALAN DAVIES the formula for
the surface area of a sphere and receiving a ‘pass’, Toksvig had given the actual answer as 3πr². ‘It’s actually 4πr². Where did you get your Maths O-Level from? Out of a Christmas cracker?’ he quipped.
Everyone in the bar held their breath as Toksvig rose slowly to her feet. ‘Oh aye, do you fucking want some?’ she hissed. Davis was clearly taken aback. ‘I don’t want any trouble…’ he stammered. But it was too late, he had lit Sandi’s famously short fuse. Taking a final swig, she smashed the beer bottle down on the edge and pushed the jagged edge towards Davis’ face.
‘Come on, let’s have it then, fucker!’ Toksvig screamed, lunging forwards. Fortunately, ZEINAB BADAWI and GRAHAM NORTON were at a nearby table, and they leapt up to restrain her just in time. Although they both received cuts and bruises as they wrestled the veteran Number 73 presenter to the ground and prised the broken bottle out of her fist, it was only thanks to their quick action that Davis was saved from a nasty glassing.
Moments later, she stumbled out of the bar, pinballing off the furniture. ‘I wouldn’t drink in this shit-hole again for a gold fucking clock,’ she slurred. But I wasn’t taking any chances, and as the door slammed shut behind her, I chalked her name up on the blackboard… Barred!
TALE OF BROTHERS GRIM
The first time the DIMBLEBY BROTHERS – David off BBC1’s Question Time and Jonathan off Radio 4’s Any Questions – came into the bar, I was very excited to meet them. I’d been a big fan of both their shows for years, and they were exactly like you’d expect; two charming, urbane gentlemen. I poured them each a complementary single malt and we chatted amiably about current events. They told me how good the place was looking.
Then suddenly, without warning, the mood soured and the friendly smiles fell from their faces. ‘Yeah, it’s a nice bar,’ said David.
‘It would be a shame if anything happened to
it, wouldn’t it Jonathan?’
‘It would, Dave,’ he replied icily, as he nonchalantly nudged his glass off the bar with his elbow, sending it crashing to the floor where it shattered into a thousand pieces. ‘But accidents happen. Things get broken. Things catch fire. People get hurt.’
David Dimbleby leaned in close. ‘Do we make ourselves clear, sunshine?’ he asked, his inquisitorial tone familiar from a thousand episodes of Question Time.
I have to admit that they had indeed made themselves clear. They were running a protection racket. They were nothing better than a pair of two’penny ha’penny Kray Twins wannabes.
But the Dimblebys didn’t scare me. I had dealt with scums like them, and worse, on a daily basis back when I ran the Albion, and I answered them in the only way they’d understand. I drew back my fist and punched Jonathan squarely in the nose. I may even have hit him a few more times. I can’t remember, but what I can remember is that it was definitely in self defence.
As Jonathan staggered back from the bar with
blood streaming down his face, I grabbed his elder brother by the collar and told him he could expect more of the same if he didn’t get out of my bar immediately. In the heat of the moment, I may have used slightly stronger language than that, although I can’t quite remember the exact words I used.
As I was adding their names to the blackboard, my line manager came in. She was very agitated, as the Dimblebys had just been in to see her, claiming that I had attacked them. According to them, they had been sitting quietly at the bar enjoying a whisky when Jonathan had accidentally knocked a glass onto the floor. They claimed that I had come running over and launched an unprovoked attack on them, during which Jonathan Dimbleby had lost a tooth and had his glasses broken.
They furthermore alleged that I had been drunk, which was certainly not the case. I had only had a couple that particular evening, and very few earlier in the day, and the only reason I may have smelled strongly of drink was because MOIRA STEWART had thrown a full glass of whisky over me that afternoon when
I was
ejecting her from the premises.
Not surprisingly, my manager sided with the Dimblebys and I was sacked on the spot. It didn’t help that I was already on a double final warning on a series of other trumped-up charges where I had allegedly hit celebrities whilst under the influence of alcohol. My protestations of innocence counted for nothing against the misinformation, half-truths and downright lies coming from the biggest names on the BBC payroll.
Yesterday, Penrith was back behind the bar of the Albion, the flat roof pub he managed before his move to TV Centre. He told us: “It’s true I left here under a bit of a cloud, but it’s rough as arseholes round here and the brewery couldn’t find anyone else willing to take it on.”
And he extended a warm welcome to any new customers who fancy popping in for a refreshing pint, a warm pie and a go on the quiz machine. “Keep your head down, don’t look any of the regulars in the eye and you should be fine,” he told us. But he had this message for any BBC stars who have found their way onto his blackboard of shame. “If you’re barred from one of my boozers, you’re barred from them all.”
They were nothing better than a pair of two’penny ha’penny Kray Twins wannabes.