Telly addict that I am, I never watch it in the morning.
As a rise-at-dawn EE reporter for decades, my system is still geared to doing everything I have to do before 1pm. Then it’s record what I aim to view for the rest of the day, crossword, phone calls to mates, finally switch on about 4pm, probably to drool ower A Place in the Sun. Hard life, eh?
However, being a nosey crone who thrives on gossip, I was drawn like a bee to a burger to ITV’s This Morning this week. Fa’ could resist Holly Willoughby and Phillip Schofield in deep-feud mode?
To mony folk, including me, they’re nails-doon-the-blackboard irritating at the best of times. All that carefully contrived casualness and ghastly giggles.
Pip had the supremely confident, blood-curdling aura of a mannie who reckoned he was untouchable. However, he’s been knocked aff his potty-starter since the right royal embarrassment of queue-gate and, more recently, having to endure the publicity of his brother’s child sex offences.
Word is, Holly’s had enough. Wants a new giggle-bro – hot contender, the dire Dermot O’Leary.
So, I had to tune in for the pair’s feigned bonhomie this week. Spik aboot awks. They canna even bear to look at each other. Fa’ needs reality TV when ye have real reality TV?
Reminded me of the early 1970s, when me and my first hubby would have an argument early Saturday evening, just afore we were meeting other couples. Usually because he’d been late coming home from a rotten game of golf – so both of us in filthy moods.
We’d have the blow up, then furious silence. Arrive at our venue, steam seepin’ oot oor lugs, not looking at or addressing a word to each other, but having to appear totally normal – lovey-dovey, even – in front of oor pals. Oscar for best actor and actress in dramatic roles.
Things nearly got messy – but we’re still friends
One particularly frosty night to remember, I was the hostess, serving my delish food while he did zilch but pour the wine and spik aboot a double-bogey putt. Come pudding, I arrived with a flourish with this two-tier mandarin and cream cake I’d laboured ower. Ken ‘is, I was within a whisker of slappin’ it a’ ower his heid.
A few years later, when Meryl Streep did exactly that to Jack Nicholson in the film Heartburn, I soo wished I’d actually done it. And guess fit? We’re still friends.
But, as feuds go, the cracker of them a’ must be back when the EE ran super-popular trips to Skye via trains to Kyle of Lochalsh. Staff mixed with readers and great days were had. Except that one I was on, supposedly acting as a guide and adviser.
Homeward bound at Kyle, we didn’t actually have a headcount because a’body said a’body was on the train. However, halfway home, someone noticed one of the sub-editors – let’s ca’ him Willie – was sitting alone, rather than with his missus.
Sez I: “Where’s your wife? Is she in another carriage?” Cool as a cucumber, sez he: “No. We argued. I left her on Skye.” Now that’s fit I ca’ a proper fa’-oot!
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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