Head Space Daily Words...

To my viewers from the Philippines, my Zimbabwean and Israeli viewers, I know you have missed me. To everyone who has ever browsed the hallowed pages of HSD – got to love a good acronym – panic no longer, worry no more. I have not been abducted, although I have been somewhat marooned in the heart of Soho recently. After spending two weeks camping in Brittany, I returned home to a three week contract of full on work, so HSD has not been on my radar – until now. Your (sometimes)daily dose of words, tune and imagery is back, so stop your fretting.

I won’t be sharing holiday stories and pics this evening but instead, reflecting on a topical childhood memory.

When I was around ten years old I went on a school trip to the Birmingham Hippodrome for a Christmas performance by Rolf Harris. He did all the usual crowd pleasers; that peculiar hyperventilating, which today makes me think of Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet; he drew his part Rolf, part kangaroo cross bred caricature; dropped his “can you guess what it is yet?” catchphrase; he sang the classics about two little boys, tying kangaroos down, and extra legs; as well as flexing his wobble board and playing with his didgeridoo. Nothing unusual about that. All good, clean, innocent fun. Nothing for a ten year old boy to be concerned about, apart from the fact that Rolf seemed a little grumpy. It felt like he was going through the motions and probably didn’t really want to be there. Playing to a bunch of school kids may not be a career highlight and I guess everyone is allowed an off day.

At one point, probably during an interval, us kids got to pull a Christmas cracker and my ‘gift’ was a little plastic whistle. What else was I going to do with a whistle, other than relentlessly blow it? I was at the Hippo, I was excited, I had been drinking pop and eating lots of sweet stuff and I was watching the mighty Rolf. After every gag, song, at every opportunity in fact, I blew this shrill plastic whistle. I needed no second invitation. No one else seemed bothered. None of the other kids, none of the teachers, no one in fact, asked me to stop peeping my appreciation. Then Rolf’s mask slipped. The persona cracked and another side to the lovable Aussie rogue reared its head. Perhaps I was disturbing his ability to hyperventilate effectively with my whistle blowing but he stopped in his tracks and with a steely, threatening, gaze, looked up into the audience and vowed to end the show unless the whistling stopped. Grumpy sod.

I was mortified and wanted the ground to swallow me up. 

Who would have thought an established and revered icon of 80s TV entertainment could have a dark side lurking within?