I’ve only ever written one fan letter in my life, which is odd because I’m a fan of lots of people and things. This was in the early 90s, after I’d broken my leg. Encumbered by an enormous plaster cast, I was back with my parents, stuck in the house and stuck between college and whatever I was going to do with the rest of my life. I didn’t have a clue what this would be. While I was blessed to have somewhere to be cared for, it was a dismal, disquieting time.
A friend would wheel me off to the football every other week, affording me the opportunity to see my club knocked out of the FA Cup by a team of part-timers, and then relegated to the old Third Division for the first time in our history. Other than that, I mainly sat at home, watching the four available channels. I saw Thatcher resign and the Gulf War commence. One of the first casualties, a fighter pilot, was from our area. When the poor lad was buried in the church across the way, there was a jet flypast. The sudden noise was terrific, causing the family cat – then sitting on my lap – to dig its claws deep into my groin.
I listened to a lot of radio. But the only specific programme I recall was Steve Wright in the Afternoon, on every weekday. If ever I needed a cheering companion at my side, this was the time. And Steve, along with his “posse”, was my man. He was friendly and funny. Two simple adjectives that may seem like damning his talent with faint praise. But the simplest things are often the hardest to pull off.
After nine months, I finally shed the plaster and started hobbling my way into the rest of my life, which meant less time with Steve and his posse. It didn’t seem right to slip away without a word, so I put pen to paper. I didn’t put my address on it, mainly because I was a bit embarrassed about what I had written. I thanked him for his company from the bottom of my heart, and for putting a smile on my face every day in a trying period of my life. I told him that I loved him and his posse very much. Whether he ever saw this missive of mine, I know not.
Five years later – and incredibly to me – I was making my way in the same business as Steve, presenting a radio programme, as well as a TV show on BBC2. One evening, at the Sony Radio Industry Awards, I was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot without anyone to talk to, when I got a tap on the shoulder. Before I knew it, I was listening to the actual Steve Wright telling me how much he enjoyed the TV show, Working Lunch. Once I’d got over my shock and joy, we talked for a while. Then he grabbed my arm and said something to me with real feeling: “You know, in person you’re exactly like you are on TV. And that’s very nice.”
I nodded, taking this as a compliment, which it probably was.
“But in the end,” he added, “you’ll go completely mad.”
I saw him every now and then over the years, on and off air. He was always the same: friendly and funny, charmed and charming, interested and interesting. A delight. One time, I reminded him about his warning to me. I told him that I hadn’t really understood what he was on about then, but thought I did now. He laughed and said that we should have a talk, which I’ll always regret not having. I hope he was never driven too mad. I hope he was happy. Because he spread a great deal of happiness in his time.
Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
