and found its way to the
Saturday Superstore
office. Our editor, Chris Bellinger, told me that the programme couldn’t be seen to be anywhere near it and as one of the faces of children’s TV, neither could I. Directed by Bernard Rose, the video was set in an S&M-themed nightclub and featured simulated sex, urination and a few other choice scenes that of course they couldn’t show on
Saturday Superstore
or
Top of the Pops
. The song had already been played on both the radio and TV, but in the light of the video it was reviewed. The BBC, I believe, also took the overt advertisingcampaign into account. I have no idea who took the decision to ban it, but I know who took the rap. The Frankies’ manager, Paul Morley, quite rightly exploited the situation for all it was worth, with me cast as Wicked Witch of the West. Fair enough, I’d have done exactly the same in his position. The myth that it went from nowhere to number one that week is, of course, exactly that, as was the story of me smashing it violently against the studio wall or uttering a string of expletives that would have made Johnny Rotten blush.
It became
de rigueur
at any dance, disco or party, whether respectable or of ill-repute, to play ‘Relax’ as soon as I walked in. The expectation varied, apparently, between me wrecking the place, storming out, becoming apoplectic and breaking the record. I disappointed many an expectant throng by simply dancing – to the best of my ability, that is. There were erroneous reports that I’d punched the lead singer, Holly Johnson, and tales of heated arguments. Nonsense. I even gripped the olive branch and did the voice-over for their first album.
Twenty or so years later I was at lunch with some silver-screen luvvies at the Cannes Film Festival. As I sat at a table on the beach with a glass of something that was warming up as fast as Icarus’s wing wax on his attempted escape from Crete, a smiling stranger plonked himself opposite. But he wouldn’t be a stranger for long, for it turned out that we shared a page of musical history. This was none other than Bernard Rose, the miscreant who’d directed that leather-laden video. The chance meeting, a few prawns, a hint of Chablis, a soupçon of verbal jesting and the circle was complete. What made the whole thing even dafter was that only Holly Johnson was performing on the single and the group strenuously and robustly insisted that it was about inspiration. But then, as Mandy Rice-Davis might have said, ‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they?’ Only after it had sold a couple of a million did they fess up that it wasn’t actually about inspiration. I saw Holly a year or two back in Soho and we posted a selfie on Twitter. Hell, we may even have invented the term that day.
I was asked recently if ‘Relax’ would be banned in 2014. I had to think about it. In the ’90s or first ten years or so of the 2000s, no it probably wouldn’t, but I had to admit that ‘yes, I rather suspect the video
would
be banned in the current climate’. To that end I checked it out on YouTube, which revealed that after more than one and a half million hits, the video is now not available to view. Maybe that will catapult it back to number one.
In May 1985, after five and a half years, my tenure of the breakfast show came to an end. There’s never a specific reason, these things just evolve. New bosses are appointed, new ideas are mooted and new brooms come in, ‘to sweep the dust behind the door’. The press eagerly raided their ‘damning vocabulary’ drawer and liberally spread words like ‘axed’, ‘chopped’ and ‘sacked’ across the headlines and front pages. Not strictly true, of course, as I was simply changing positions on the field of play. The main thing, as far as I was concerned, was that – for now, at least – the crazily early mornings were over.
I was certainly getting opinionated after leaving the breakfast show. The headlines were full of my immediate
Saturday Superstore
office. Our editor, Chris Bellinger, told me that the programme couldn’t be seen to be anywhere near it and as one of the faces of children’s TV, neither could I. Directed by Bernard Rose, the video was set in an S&M-themed nightclub and featured simulated sex, urination and a few other choice scenes that of course they couldn’t show on
Saturday Superstore
or
Top of the Pops
. The song had already been played on both the radio and TV, but in the light of the video it was reviewed. The BBC, I believe, also took the overt advertisingcampaign into account. I have no idea who took the decision to ban it, but I know who took the rap. The Frankies’ manager, Paul Morley, quite rightly exploited the situation for all it was worth, with me cast as Wicked Witch of the West. Fair enough, I’d have done exactly the same in his position. The myth that it went from nowhere to number one that week is, of course, exactly that, as was the story of me smashing it violently against the studio wall or uttering a string of expletives that would have made Johnny Rotten blush.
It became
de rigueur
at any dance, disco or party, whether respectable or of ill-repute, to play ‘Relax’ as soon as I walked in. The expectation varied, apparently, between me wrecking the place, storming out, becoming apoplectic and breaking the record. I disappointed many an expectant throng by simply dancing – to the best of my ability, that is. There were erroneous reports that I’d punched the lead singer, Holly Johnson, and tales of heated arguments. Nonsense. I even gripped the olive branch and did the voice-over for their first album.
Twenty or so years later I was at lunch with some silver-screen luvvies at the Cannes Film Festival. As I sat at a table on the beach with a glass of something that was warming up as fast as Icarus’s wing wax on his attempted escape from Crete, a smiling stranger plonked himself opposite. But he wouldn’t be a stranger for long, for it turned out that we shared a page of musical history. This was none other than Bernard Rose, the miscreant who’d directed that leather-laden video. The chance meeting, a few prawns, a hint of Chablis, a soupçon of verbal jesting and the circle was complete. What made the whole thing even dafter was that only Holly Johnson was performing on the single and the group strenuously and robustly insisted that it was about inspiration. But then, as Mandy Rice-Davis might have said, ‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they?’ Only after it had sold a couple of a million did they fess up that it wasn’t actually about inspiration. I saw Holly a year or two back in Soho and we posted a selfie on Twitter. Hell, we may even have invented the term that day.
I was asked recently if ‘Relax’ would be banned in 2014. I had to think about it. In the ’90s or first ten years or so of the 2000s, no it probably wouldn’t, but I had to admit that ‘yes, I rather suspect the video
would
be banned in the current climate’. To that end I checked it out on YouTube, which revealed that after more than one and a half million hits, the video is now not available to view. Maybe that will catapult it back to number one.
In May 1985, after five and a half years, my tenure of the breakfast show came to an end. There’s never a specific reason, these things just evolve. New bosses are appointed, new ideas are mooted and new brooms come in, ‘to sweep the dust behind the door’. The press eagerly raided their ‘damning vocabulary’ drawer and liberally spread words like ‘axed’, ‘chopped’ and ‘sacked’ across the headlines and front pages. Not strictly true, of course, as I was simply changing positions on the field of play. The main thing, as far as I was concerned, was that – for now, at least – the crazily early mornings were over.
I was certainly getting opinionated after leaving the breakfast show. The headlines were full of my immediate
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