Wogan - The Day Job

RETRO CLASSICS
is a collection of facsimile reproductions
of popular bestsellers from the 1980s and 1990s

The Day Job was first published in 1981 by Macdonald General Books

Re-issued in 2012 as a Retro Classic
by G2 Rights
in association with Lennard Publishing
Windmill Cottage
Mackerye End
Harpenden
Hertfordshire
AL5 5DR

Copyright Terry Wogan 1981

ISBN 978-1-909040-34-2

Produced by Lennard Books
a division of
Lennard Associates Limited

Editor Michael Leitch
Art Director David Pocknell
Designer Michael Cavers

The author and publishers are grateful to the owners of
copyright material for kindly granting permission for its use in the book.
Every effort has been made to trace the authors of contributions included and
thanks and apologies are extended to anyone who for any reason may not have
been contacted. Back cover image contributed by Barry Dugdale, Sunderland

Photograph on page 70 by WT Ellary,
and published by courtesy of the Express Lift Company Limited

This book is a facsimile reproduction of the first edition of
The Day Job which was a bestseller in 1981.
No attempt has been made to alter any of the wording
with the benefit of hindsight, or to update the book in any way.

T heres not a bit of use diving for cover behind the chaise-longue, Hermione, hes got another one out. Another sickening dig to the soft underbelly of The Great British Book-Buying Public. Another nail in the coffin of the worlds greatest literary tradition. What in Heavens name possesses them to encourage the bounder? Its not as if his first effort went well I know for a fact that hes got 20,000 unsold copies of the thing in his garage. Not surprising when you remember some of the reviews:

Damned thing doesnt even have an index (Times Literary Supplement)

Anthony Burgess need not fret (The Listener)

I think Im going to be sick (Bernard Levin)

Picture if you can the bemused expression of this unfortunate, who obviously won it as a booby-prize in the York Sea Scouts Annual Tombola:

D ear Terry,

Re: Your Book
With great justification, your listeners fire tirades of abuse and a barrage of contumely over your flaccid, lacklustre performances on radio and TV.

However, your new book is a different story it does for the literary movement all that Eddie Waring has done for the Royal Ballet.

Ralph Magee,
York.

Its not as if hes even liked! What about all those halfpennies, gathered by toddlers and discerning listeners alike, for the Send Terry Wogan To Patagonia Fund? The swine then put them in the poor-box for Sick and Indigent Radio Producers and wouldnt go! Some cock-and-bull excuse about Patagonia being full of Welshmen and shrinking from the prospect of a Max Boyce with maraccas....

Hes shredding the very fabric of British Society, I tell you cocking a deviated septum at All Thats Best In Our Society. Why, the rotter is even sundering our more happily married couples. Take a gander at this:

M r Wogan,

You are a nuisance. I am nearing the end of my two weeks holiday during which I was hoping to have a complete rest and lay in bed in the mornings. Little did I know that my wife is a fan of yours and insists on listening to your waffle every morning. Please note that since I have to book my holidays in February I shall require notice from you in January as to when you will be off so that I can take the same days. Failure to comply will result in my writing you a nasty letter.

D ear Terry,

Ignore the above ramblings as my beloved husband really enjoys your programme and wishes it lasted longer. I must admit your cheery chatter acts like a tonic and starts my day off right. Margaret.

I always suspected she was a bit simple, (resumed the husband) and if ever you come over the border like that Hamilton fellow did recently, then Ill set my pet fishcake on to you.

E. R. Gammon,
Brechin, Angus.

Proof, if proof were needed. I ask you, is this the kind of book youd want to leave lying around for the children and servants to read?

S ince you didnt ask, I was born in Limerick, with catarrh. This is no slur on that somewhat moist gem set in the verdant delta of the Shannon. There are worse things than catarrh, though not in the early morning, if you happen to be married to a sufferer. Look at Jimmy Young, if you can bear it, and he was born in Gloucestershire! I live in the Thames Valley now, and that makes my catarrh worse, so you cant entirely blame Limerick. I blame my nose, it seems to have an unerring instinct for humidity. The unfortunate proboscis is probably only getting its own back, anyway, for the appalling treatment it received during my youth. I know what youre thinking, and its not that I was a delicately nurtured youth, with short finger-nails and impeccably starched handkerchiefs. But, I was a rugby player in my youth and early manhood ah the manly camaraderie of the showers and on the field the old hooter, although Heaven knows, hardly in the Cyrano de Bergerac class, was ever the brunt of some hairy agricultural eejit, who would persist in taking the short cut through me, rather than around, and for some reason the old nose was always the first to go. We used to wear shin-guards and gum-shields, but nothing for the nasal extremity. Something like a Norman soldiers helmet might have been a good idea....

Nose apart, the rest of me had a fairly uneventful childhood in Limerick, apart from the rain. The few sepia prints extant show me as a somewhat chubby (hard to believe, isnt it?) little fellow, with short trousers just a shade too long, but generously masking an unwholesome pair of knees.

Most of my memories of childhood are of the resonant baritone of my father reverberating from the bathroom. He used to sing while he was shaving, and a bloody business it was, too. Sometimes our bathroom resembled nothing so much as Sweeney Todds on a Saturday night. My fathers well-worn favourites were Victorian crowd-pleasers such as Many Brave Hearts Lie Asleep In The Deep, or Dead for Bread. He favoured the more bravura baritone arias from opera, such as Valentines Goodbye from Faust, and it can only have been a merciful providence that spared us Lieder.

I remember, too, the Sundays we would go fishing together or, rather, we should arrive at river or shore, and get ready to fish. A meticulous man, he would spend hours tying flies, and talking of days spent tickling trout in Wicklow mountain streams, and then, with the sun going down and the last of the sandwiches an indigestible memory, we would head for home.... Ever since, Ive been unable to prepare properly for anything (as any regular listener, etc).

At school, although I occasionally took part in debates, and trod the boards in the statutory DOyly Carte extravaganzas, I was far from being the life and soul of the classroom. Shy and introverted would describe me better, and I find it extraordinary how many people in the theatre, television and radio also fit that description. Here we have a medium that is tailor-made for the extrovert, the gregarious show-off, and its chock-full of people who are struck mumchance if they cant hide behind a role, a microphone or a camera. Introverted egotists, thats what we are, and yes, we like to be thought of as shy. Shys nice it bespeaks an engaging modesty, a lack of bombast and self-importance. Now that I think of it, you wont hear too many people in show-business admitting to being show-offs.