21st April 2016
In politics there’s a phenomenon known as Candidate Euphoria. Even the politico without a hope in the world of being elected, as the poll date approaches, begins to think it’s in the bag.
Last week I was Screaming Lord Sutch, but without the euphoria. As the date of the Royal Television Awards ceremony approached, I knew there was no possibility that Handmade, last year’s most peculiar project, lacking music or commentary or any discernable budget, could take the Best Arts Series trophy.
Knowing it was all in vain I donned the lucky slub-silk evening clothes made in Rome in 1962 for QE2 interior designer Michael Inchbald. The lucky cross of St. Christopher, the lucky pants of St.Michael.
And then at 21.25 precisely I was among the three most surprised people in the room, so dumbfounded that when dear old Peter Bazalgette suggested I should get an award for my suddenly very lucky John Pearse dress shirt, I kissed him on the podium.