Turner Again
Before meeting the queen of British daytime TV, I sat in the Union Bar suffering from MMAFP, (mustn't make a faux pas) syndrome. With a woman who had been shafted (by the press) more often than a King's Cross whore I knew it would only be a matter of time before the inevitable happened and cringingly bad words tripped out of my unabashed mouth. Foolishly I sought advise from Oxford's very own madcap priest, the Reverend David Johnson, who had by this time decided to seat himself right beside my trembling leg and tell me about how his strange experiences as a former Vicar. "So, Dave," I enquired, "What would be the one question you'd ask Anthea Turner?" "Never heard of her" he retorted and continued to sip his red wine, glaring at the "pretty boys" who occasionally walked in.
Later that evening, I watched Anthea as she entertained the crowds of guests who had flocked to catch a single glimpse of her fantastic legs. She was like a kind of social butterfly, flapping her gossamer wings as she fluttered gracefully through the room, brushing past people giving them that morning television smile.
OK, so, being the paragon of social ineptness that I am, the start of my relationship with the empress of breakfast entertainment had to go the way of sod's law: badly.
"Wow, Anthea, you look much better than you do on television!" I could hear plates crashing inside my head. "What, are you saying that I look like a minger otherwise?" This, my friends, can only be described as one of those moments in my short, insignificant life where I would rather have been in a bath of flesh eating piranhas than where I was. But, like all good Blue Peter girls she took my gaffe in good spirit and I continued flirting with her.
"You know I'm so the epitome of Middle England. I make jam..." I ask the PR minder, Charlotte, if it's any good: it is. "...I have flowerpots all in a little row. I aspire to be in the WI!" It didn't take me long to realise that Anthea was slightly pissed and thought of herself as a bit of a bastion of women across Britain. I mean, yes, of course, she is the Audrey Hepburn of our time: highly paid, highly successful and not a wrinkle in sight; and naturally, she was a gay icon. "Oh you really think so. That's wonderful!"
Yet someone who had frequently and recently been under the ruthless spotlight of red top tabloids really did interest me, and so, I had to ask her about what she thought of the man with 'that' nose, Michael "monkey face" Jackson.
"You know I think he's had a really bad press. I mean he's not a paedophile, he's just a young 14-year-old boy trapped inside a man's body. He shows affection to children; he's upset about the world around him. But then again, if someone were to ask me if they could send my kids around there to sleep over, I think I'd say no."
I'd decided by this time that asking that question about her affair with Mr Bovey may have been slightly, well, rude and, not surprisingly, my flirting had by this time paid off as she started to become a little more relaxed, occasionally allowing her shawl to slip a little way below her shoulders on accident.
Would it now be premature to ask her about the Chancellorship? Better now than never. "You know there's an election for Chancellor of the University going on at the moment? You should so stand."
"Oh. My. God. That would be fabulous! I could just see myself in crushed velvet! What would it involve?" The PR woman looked a little uneasy.
"Well, you have to be popular, good looking and famous - just like you!" Sick I know, but after my fifth glass of champagne and the endless teasing, it seemed natural.
"Yes! But isn't Bill Clinton standing? No? Well, do you think I'd have enough support? Yes? Oh well then, I would love that! You could be my campaign manager! I could come and speak at the societies in Oxford!" OK, so by this time it was like my seventh, the PR woman was getting irate and Anthea was looking a little overexcited, but, did I actually persuade this Lottery Show presenting Hello! queen to stand for the Chancellor of Oxford University? "You'd need 30 signatures," the PR woman interrupted.
"Oh, but you'd easily get that! We could run your campaign as 'Anthea Turner, Queen of daytime television'" I responded. She did seem best pleased!
Now, we've all of late read in the dailies about poor old John Leslie's dabblings with, let's say, allegedly unconsenting women; not to mention his little fling with Sven's love puppet (not the one who looks like a man) Ulrika Johnson. The thing was though, pretty little Anthea had worked with him on a number of shows in the past, and so, like all gossip queens, I wanted to get the low-down on the man the tabloids love to hate.
"Oh we're very good friends John and I. The man you read about in the papers is not the man we know! He's been very hard done by! We've worked very closely together in the past." By this time Charlotte was nearly choking on her drink, looking rather nervous and giving me a "please say you didn't hear that" smile.
But, keeping on the subject of men in her life, and way past the commonly known level of "pissed", I pursued the question of Grant Bovey: boxer, lover, and apparent sex machine. "He looked so fit in that boxing match with Ricky Gervais. He's still kept the six pack too! It was so much fun: I mean I know that Ricky's a lot bigger than Grant, it's amazing what an extra 2 stone can do, he just threw his belly around the ring!" She giggles like a small girl after being told off. "But he broke three of Ricky's ribs. Grant may have had a scratch in his nose, but that was from the cat anyway!" At this point Charlotte had looked away, safe in the knowledge that Anthea was babbling about her "loving" marriage.
It was then that I saw my opportunity; away from the hawkishly watchful eyes of Charlotte, I had to ask Anthea one question that wouldn't solicit nods of disapproval. I thought back to my conversation with Rev. Johnson, but all I could picture was him in his vestiments looking rather scary, leaning over the pew. I had to think of something quick. "Anthea" I whispered "Who would you most like to shag?" Suddenly the plates in my head began to crash all over again, but she came back with a line that I could never forget.
"I have to say that I find my husband incredibly fit. You know Paul," she pauses, looking pensively into the distance, "he's the only man I've ever enjoyed having sex with". Well, let's just say at this point that Charlotte had a baby, and so off I went.
13th Feb 2003