As soon as we reached the New Farmhouse at Wix, which although ten miles away from Walton was the nearest accommodation I had been able to find, we unloaded the gear into the room and set up our faithful trannie. Fluff immediately began recording the Roman Empire on a portable DAT machine, generously loaned to us for this momentous occasion by our good friend Stuart Emeny. Poor Mark Roman was losing his voice and seemed in danger of metamorphosing, without the aid of a full moon, into Wolfman Jack. Even so, it was a treat for our ears to hear him again.
Ray was, not surprisingly, inundated with work and unable to meet us that evening, so he gave us our instructions for the Big Interview on the morrow via the phone, and we set off for the sea front at Frinton to view the Yeoman Rose.
Our first sight of the ship surprised us, because she was much closer to shore
than we'd imagined. From that distance, it wasn't possible to see the fading
Rose's rusty blemishes. She looked a real charmer. We were disappointed to discover
that our beloved station faded away with the daylight, and that even in Walton
itself, the reception was pretty poor in the evening.
The following morning, Thursday, July 24th, our first impression of Chris Elliot's Breakfast Show was that he must be presenting it from Joe Meek's bathroom. Engineer Allan Trainer had lately installed a reverberation unit, and the levels were still in the process of being balanced.
Even when making a radio appearance, I feel one should dress for the occasion. However, I decided not to don my 1966 bespoke kneeless bellbottoms until after breakfast, for fear of causing a riot in the guest house dining-room. My brain was firing on even less cylinders than usual. I kept telling it, 'This is it. You've waited for this day for over thirty years. You are really going to visit Big Lil!' My brain persisted in its state of disbelief and told me I must be dreaming.
The kneeless trousers are somewhat uncomfortable to wear, for reasons I shall
explain shortly. I recall the day in 1966 when I arrived at the bungalow of
Maureen, our friendly neighbourhood dressmaker, with some navy-blue material
and a pattern for hipster bellbottom trousers. Maureen was totally bemused when
I explained that these were to be no ordinary trousers. I wanted her to insert
clear plastic 'portholes' mid-leg, so that my knees should be permanently on
display. That July, I would be leaving school, and shortly afterwards, going
on the fifth-form trip to Austria. I felt that if my patellas were to become
overseas ambassadors for the Knees Club, they ought to be suitably attired.
I suppose most of the neighbours in Gibson Road remained permanently bemused
by the activities of the strange girl with the knee obsession who lived at number
45. Probably only those who had been cajoled into assisting with the duplication
of Knees Monthly ever had the slightest concept of why our family cat was called
'Kneeless'. (Cats don't possess knees.) By the way, the Knees Club did, indeed,
gain a number of new members during the Austrian trip, and I can't recall any
of them being female...
One thing I had not taken into account all those years ago was that knee-revealing portholes which are perfectly poised over the patellas when you are standing, will end up in an uncomfortable position half-way up your thighs when you sit down. 1997 presented my chance to relive it with living radio! I went to the car to listen to Lil, while Fluff paid our overnight accommodation bill. As soon as I climbed into the passenger seat I relived that joyful sensation as the portholes crept up my legs, and grotty, 31-year-old bits of discoloured polythene clung grimly and unflatteringly to my thighs like large, round leeches. When I switched on the radio, Gary Brooker delivered, as if on cue, the immortal line, 'I Was Feeling Kind of Seasick'. I'm far from prone to seasickness, but I hoped this wasn't to prove an omen.