It didn’t happen and it cost Stigwood dearly. Unaware as he was of the phenomenal success that wasabout to come his way with the Bee Gees, it must have irked him that Simon Scott didn’t make it.
The single had been a small hit, but nothing to set the world alight. I actually liked the song and had recently played it, so hit upon the idea, with Andrew, of pretending that, after all those years, the single was finding popularity with a new generation. On the day that Andrew was due to collect Stigwood at Heathrow and take him to lunch and a meeting in Mayfair, the traps were set. I’d had giant posters made that had been strategically placed on the route. These were to be subtly pointed out. With the car switched on to Radio One, I organised with Mark Page, who was doing the lunchtime show that day, to play the single at a specific time. Stigwood was apparently speechless. I had it played again later. Andrew had been sent a ‘new’ copy of Simon Scott’s bust which was prominently on display during lunch. It was, in fact, an original from the ’60s. Stigwood couldn’t get his head around it: Radio One playing the song, new busts, new posters and a whole new marketing strategy. Not only was he baffled, but he still owned the track and wondered, as an impresario would, who the hell was behind this new campaign when they didn’t even own the product. I assume that the word ‘litigation’ might have been playing on his lips by the time he and Andrew hit the cheese course. What fun.
There are hundreds of tales I could tell, but too many for one book. However, I couldn’t write about my time on the breakfast show without mentioning one particular song and the stories that surround it.
I am genuinely baffled that people are still fascinated by the saga thirty years on. When asked about it (three or four times a week on average) I offer the choice of truth or myth. The truth might be less interesting, but the myth clearly isn’t the truth. A tough call for any media journalist or presenter. The truth is, I had no plans to ban ‘Relax’. It was a good dance track that powered along. It was well produced and had firmly established Frankie Goes to Hollywood in the top ten. I’ve heard some rather splendid yarns that involve Anglo-Saxon words at whose meaning I can only guess and actions that would enhancethe CV of a demented cage-fighter. For these outrageous tales to have even a grain of truth, there would have had to have been at least a hundred people with notebooks and a variety of recording equipment squashed into the Radio One studio. They would also have had to blag their way past Reg, our commissionaire. Not an easy task; Reg and his ilk had kept the Nazis at bay forty years earlier, so upstarts from a red-top on a mission were a pushover. No, the studio in Broadcasting House that morning, as I ploughed my way through the top twenty, contained only me, until Adrian John glided in behind me with a brace of teas from the canteen on the eighth floor. In those days the chart came out at lunchtime on Tuesdays, and we always repeated it on a Wednesday morning, but there was never time to fit all the tracks in. I had ten minutes left and four or five songs, as I remember. I was pondering what to drop, when Adrian pointed out a phallic picture and a few choice words on the back of the Frankies’ record, including the claim that they’d make ‘Duran Duran lick the shit off their shoes’. Hmm, hadn’t spotted that. Well, maybe if I was going to drop something, I’d drop that. It’d be in tomorrow’s show anyway. I don’t recall saying that I was going to ban it; after all I was a BBC employee and had no power to ban anything.
In the meantime, the video had been circulated. My Radio One producer, Paul Williams, arrived home to find his two young daughters watching a couple of sections of the video over and over again, and was horrified when he saw what they depicted. At the same time, it had arrived at TV Centre
The single had been a small hit, but nothing to set the world alight. I actually liked the song and had recently played it, so hit upon the idea, with Andrew, of pretending that, after all those years, the single was finding popularity with a new generation. On the day that Andrew was due to collect Stigwood at Heathrow and take him to lunch and a meeting in Mayfair, the traps were set. I’d had giant posters made that had been strategically placed on the route. These were to be subtly pointed out. With the car switched on to Radio One, I organised with Mark Page, who was doing the lunchtime show that day, to play the single at a specific time. Stigwood was apparently speechless. I had it played again later. Andrew had been sent a ‘new’ copy of Simon Scott’s bust which was prominently on display during lunch. It was, in fact, an original from the ’60s. Stigwood couldn’t get his head around it: Radio One playing the song, new busts, new posters and a whole new marketing strategy. Not only was he baffled, but he still owned the track and wondered, as an impresario would, who the hell was behind this new campaign when they didn’t even own the product. I assume that the word ‘litigation’ might have been playing on his lips by the time he and Andrew hit the cheese course. What fun.
There are hundreds of tales I could tell, but too many for one book. However, I couldn’t write about my time on the breakfast show without mentioning one particular song and the stories that surround it.
I am genuinely baffled that people are still fascinated by the saga thirty years on. When asked about it (three or four times a week on average) I offer the choice of truth or myth. The truth might be less interesting, but the myth clearly isn’t the truth. A tough call for any media journalist or presenter. The truth is, I had no plans to ban ‘Relax’. It was a good dance track that powered along. It was well produced and had firmly established Frankie Goes to Hollywood in the top ten. I’ve heard some rather splendid yarns that involve Anglo-Saxon words at whose meaning I can only guess and actions that would enhancethe CV of a demented cage-fighter. For these outrageous tales to have even a grain of truth, there would have had to have been at least a hundred people with notebooks and a variety of recording equipment squashed into the Radio One studio. They would also have had to blag their way past Reg, our commissionaire. Not an easy task; Reg and his ilk had kept the Nazis at bay forty years earlier, so upstarts from a red-top on a mission were a pushover. No, the studio in Broadcasting House that morning, as I ploughed my way through the top twenty, contained only me, until Adrian John glided in behind me with a brace of teas from the canteen on the eighth floor. In those days the chart came out at lunchtime on Tuesdays, and we always repeated it on a Wednesday morning, but there was never time to fit all the tracks in. I had ten minutes left and four or five songs, as I remember. I was pondering what to drop, when Adrian pointed out a phallic picture and a few choice words on the back of the Frankies’ record, including the claim that they’d make ‘Duran Duran lick the shit off their shoes’. Hmm, hadn’t spotted that. Well, maybe if I was going to drop something, I’d drop that. It’d be in tomorrow’s show anyway. I don’t recall saying that I was going to ban it; after all I was a BBC employee and had no power to ban anything.
In the meantime, the video had been circulated. My Radio One producer, Paul Williams, arrived home to find his two young daughters watching a couple of sections of the video over and over again, and was horrified when he saw what they depicted. At the same time, it had arrived at TV Centre
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