Six years ago a cherished friend, Jeremy Pascall, passed away. He was an accomplished music journalist, coming of age in the '60s, when England started swinging, as the saying goes. He interviewed all the big rock stars of the time (he had extremely funny stories of time spent with Mickey Dolenz of The Monkees fame; alas, they are not my stories to tell) and was an integral part of the avant guarde group Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band; I believe he's even pictured on the back of one of their albums. That would be enough for most people, but fortunately, Jeremy was NOT most people.
He also wrote several books, was a successful DJ at Capitol Radio in London, hosting the shows Vinyl Vaults and The UnEncyclopedia of Rock, before evolving into a talented radio and television comedy writer. The man was FULL of the most esoteric knowledge you had never heard of. It was impossible to win a game of Trivial Pursuit against him, or any kind of quiz for that matter; lord knows I tried.
I met him while working at the BBC on a popular UK entertainment show I had somehow talked my way onto; a show that he had devised and still wrote for, no less. I was a wet-behind-the-ears researcher, a brash young mouthy American who knew nothing about English popular culture. He was a prickly, cigar smoking, hard drinking, high-flying bon vivant who knew almost everybody important in the worlds of comedy and telly, and everything about English popular culture; and he did NOT suffer fools gladly.
I loved him from the minute I met him. For some inexplicable reason, he did not immediately savage me for the idiot that I was, but instead took pity on me and swept me under his professional wing. He helped me countless times tip-toe through the minefield that is entertainment television, for which I am forever grateful.
But he was more than a mentor; he was a good friend. When I was working in London and living in the most dismal flat, he and his beautiful wife, Susan, would insist that I spend weekends at their fabulous home in Brighton. They would wine and dine me, show me the sights, and generally treat me like a member of the family; in fact, I spent my 28th birthday weekend at their house.
Jeremy would also often travel up from Brighton to have lunch with me at what I used to call "the old man's pub" at Victoria Station; he didn't like that description, but I liked to needle him, just so he would give me his scary glare and lecture me on my lack of intelligence. "Listen Yank, let me tell you ....." was a phrase I heard often.
He was a world traveler and could count quite a few celebrities as his close friends, but he was never a snob. He was just as happy to grab a curry and eat it on his lap with those of us who weren't quite as well-to-do, as he was to dine at The Ivy. To him and Susan, it was the company they were with, not the location, that mattered.
He claimed to not care for children; when asked if he liked babies he would often reply, "Yes, I had one for breakfast this morning"**. Yet he and Susan were godparents to quite a few lucky boys and girls, and they never failed to ask how your kids were doing. When The Princess was born, he and Susan sent two adorable sweaters her mother had knitted as gift - and then pretended they never did any such thing.
In an industry renowned for its total insincerity, he was a loyal friend. Long after I had quit working in television, he would ring just to check on me; and I thought nothing of picking up the phone and disturbing him whenever I felt the need for his advice.
When he was diagnosed with throat cancer, he kept it secret for quite some time; as he explained later, you can get away with just about anything in the entertainment business except being seriously ill. I never thought for a moment that he wouldn't beat it; his lust for life was so large, it was just impossible to consider. In fact, the day before he died, I received an email from him in which he cracked two or three really politically incorrect jokes about having cancer; I'm delighted to report that he was irreverent to the very end.
I could go on and on about Jeremy; but happily for you, reader of my blog who most likely never met him, I won't. Instead, I will share with you a few things I learned from him, in no particular order:
Showbusiness - it's the business they call show. Never forget it's a business - money talks or the talent walks.
Never go to Rusholme with Jamie Goold.
Comedians who juggle are to be avoided at all costs.
When hosting a dinner party, always serve two or three bottles of really nice wine to start off with, then switch to the box you have hidden in the kitchen. Your guests will never notice.
Working with an actress is like washing a cat. Somebody is gonna get scratched and cry before it's all over and done with.
Don't eat mussels unless you're at the sea-side.
Always be nice to people on your way up the ladder of success; if you are, they might refrain from kicking you too hard on your way down.
Cheer up SleepyJean! Just cheer up and sing, dammit!
There is a beloved story attached to every one of these, and just thinking about them makes me smile. I am glad I've at last had the opportunity to publicly mourn your passing, even though it's nearly six years to the day of your funeral, and to say, I really miss you J - you were a one of a kind. And even though you are dead, I will never agree that Fred Astaire was a better dancer than Gene Kelly. Never!
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(The picture was taken at the top of Beachy Head - I was too scared to walk up to the edge, so we crawled to it. I was forever tagged as a "the Yank in the big girl's blouse" after that.)
** copyright William Shakespeare.
The cicadas arrived a couple of weeks ago and they are driving me crazy. The little buggers appear out of nowhere about this time every summer and do their best to scare the total bejeesus out of me.
