Strangers on a train. Never been a Terry Wogan disciple. Never fallen for his homespun homilies. Wogan’s waffle became so stultifying he was an instant turn-off.
Before I continue . . . we met only once, the bluff Irishman and me. On a London-Edinburgh train, the confrontation decided over ten three-minute rounds.
Today, however, we are reading from the same hymn sheet. I’m with the professional waffler all the way. He’s on about packaging, bane of his life. Mine too.
What brought on the rant, his new toothbrush. The moulded plastic prevented access. His frustration prevailed with ring-pulls for sardines and beans that didn’t work, risking injury. And the dinky tops on milk cartons that can’t be opened without splashing a fellow traveller.
At 74, the waffler, give him his due, puts what some perceive as pernickety or simply an age thing.
That’s not what I’m reading on this hymn sheet. Give ‘em hell, Tel!
Still puzzled as to how Anita Manning (who?) was allowed over the door of a stately Yorkshire home without bringing it down with her thick Glesca’ accent and credentials of a Glasgow West End flat, a sort of authority on antiques and admiration for York Mince Stir.
Undeniably the lady’s impression of Una McLean, more so the raucous laugh, was reasonable. Never to be confused with Bernard Manning.
All you need to get on Antiques Road Trip is a vintage car, a country road map and tell the difference between a basin and a bison. By the way, it’s York Minster, my love.