27th February 1999
Well. I’ve had it.
The runner – lovely lad, means well – but how hard is it? How hard is it to get Irish Tea? Barry's preferably, but I'll settle for Lyons. I ask for one thing. And what turns up in the dressing room? PG Tips.
PG. Tips.
I have never settled for PG Tips and I will not be starting now. If I wanted lukewarm dishwater in a mug I’d pop down to the Thames with a teaspoon. Barry's has body. Backbone. It stands up in the cup. And most importantly, it reminds me of HOME.
I sent him back out, of course. Firm but fair. “Have another go,” I said. “Read the packet this time.” The nation depends on me being properly brewed.
There’s chatter round the Beeb corridors again. Whispers. “Lineker this, Lineker that.” Apparently I’m being replaced next season. By Gary Lineker. I mean… good luck to him. Lovely teeth. Knows his football. But does he have the gravitas? The Saturday evening authority? The ability to glide from a 0-0 at Derby to a zany mascot mishap at Selhurst Park?
I’m not bothered. Not really. These rumours go round at the beginning of every year. Like norovirus. I’ve seen presenters come and go. Some even lasted longer than a series of Noel’s House Party.
If they do want Gary, that’s fine. I’ll just take my tea bags and my dignity elsewhere. ITV perhaps. Or I’ll host Countdown. Imagine the cardigans.
Anyway, mustn’t dwell. I need to pop to Somerfield later. We’re short on a few bits for dinner. Think I’ll grab some chicken kievs, maybe a Viennetta if I’m feeling flamboyant. And, teabags. Need to keep spares. Can’t rely on the youth of today.
Right. Off to check the autocue and see what fresh chaos awaits.
– Des
