WALKING ON AIR
Velvet-voiced former SABC radio great Paddy O’Byrne visited SA recently. Carlos Amato caught up with him
What annoys you about contemporary speech?
People who say “I’m good” when asked how they are. It makes me think: “That wasn’t the question.” Or else, “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
You once had a hellish interview with Marlene Dietrich …
Oh God, she was a cow. She really was. Everything I suggested to her, she pooh-poohed. She was aloof and distant. At the time she was carrying a big torch for her musical director Burt Bacharach. And she was very fond of Adrian Steed. She adored him. I wasn’t her type. Adrian was extremely handsome. I was alright to look at; I wasn’t repulsive.
Where did you radio chaps drink in the ’60s?
At the Federal Hotel, aka The Fed, halfway between all the newspapers and the SABC on Commissioner Street. It was patronised in equal measure by both crews, and I learnt some very nasty drinking habits there. But now I’m abstemious — almost pious. A boring old fart, in other words.
What are your memories of your protégé Vuyo Mbuli, with whom you hosted an SAfm show in the ’90s?
We got on like a house on fire from the word go. We used to slag each other off, but in a nice way so that people knew there was genuine affection. I was impressed by Vuyo’s sense of humour, and the absence in his work of that vile doctrine of political correctness. He used to refer to me as “The Duke of Parkhurst”. He was a born performer.
How did you get into the radio game?
I came to SA from Ireland in 1958 to work for an insurance company, where I ended up as a junior clerk. It was a sh*t job. So I entered and won “The Voice of a South African” competition in 1961. It was all because of the number of people who complained to the SABC and The Star that nobody on the airwaves spoke proper English. To win, I read from a novel by a bargain-basement Jane Austen called Georgette Heyer: Sprig Muslin. The prize was £200, a trophy and a contract.
You were sometimes a bit rude, weren't
you?
I was always getting ticked off for doing the unspeakable, and always pleaded the fool’s licence. In those days, if you wanted to talk on air, you pressed a button and you got microphone from the control suite. But if you just wanted to talk to the engineer, you pressed three times. One Saturday I did so, but he was half asleep and only heard the last beep. So he put me on air, and I said to him: “I’m bursting for a crap, have I time before the next song finishes?” So in the next day’s Sunday Times the headline read: “Announcer in
Somebody rang me up and said: ‘Hey Paddy! Is it true you said f*** on the wireless?’
trouble over four-letter word.” Somebody rang me up and said: “Hey Paddy! Is it true you said f*** on the wireless?”
Did you ever enrage the Nats?
Not really. But when Max Bygraves came to SA, we posed for a photograph in front of a statue of the then president, CR Swart. When it appeared in print, I devised the caption: “O’Byrne, Bygraves and friend.”
What have you missed about SA?
The people, the craic and the rugby. I was a season-ticket holder at Ellis Park, and most welcome at Loftus and Boet Erasmus.
What’s the secret of great radio?
To be articulate and well-informed. Know a little bit about everything and a great deal about a couple of things. The voice is important, of course. I was a lovely talker then, I hadn’t gotten this old man’s voice. And the ability to take the piss out of yourself and everybody else.
Which song have you played most often in your career?
Henry Mancini’s Two For the Road. I was always concerned with the presentation of music: posh, mediumbrown and downright common, and all shades in between. And I took a lot of pride in that.