In the event I lost 8-6 to the contestant, who was well off the pace and sadly came fourth out of four. But how agonizing is it to know exactly where your copy of Bolan's book of poems is on your shelf but you can't quite remember what it's called and, to be honest, you haven't looked at it for years. But it's called Warlock of Love. I won't ever forget that again but it has to be said that the words to his songs like Hot Love and Get It On are far better than his poems anyway.
I named Herbie Flowers as the 'legendary' ('legendary'?) bass player in the late incarnation of T. Rex when yer man offered Dino Dines but what I didn't know- and perhaps you do learn something new everyday and I definitely did yesterday- was that Marc played on three tracks by ELO, including the single Ma Ma Ma Belle. And now that I know that, I'm that much happier.
But in the end I wonder how much value there is in knowing stuff, if instant recall of arcane information is anything to be admired and what is the worth of winning a quiz. It becomes more pertinent as one was once regarded as something of a lion of the quiz game (if only, realistically, the arts questions) but then those brain cells that contained the information about what order The Human League's singles were released in and what chart position they achieved might have died off.
Is it more important to know when, where or why Bach wrote The Well-Tempered Klavier or just enjoy listening to it.
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Later last night I was listening to Radio 5, as habit dictates until it becomes necessary to see if Radio 3 are playing any Buxtehude, when Stephen Nolan announced that his 11.30 interview was to be with Maddy Paxman.
I know who Maddy Paxman is. And so I stayed with R5 almost as faithfully as if His Majesty the Rt. Hon. D. Baker had arrived to talk fairly aimlessly with Pat Nevin.
Stephen Nolan is a broadcaster of some bombast. He is not a Shock Jock but he does relish some suffering, the opportunity to leave the airwaves silent for a few moments while someone bereaved or perhaps with a terminal illness struggles to come to terms with his quietly sensitive but intrusive interviewing technique. It's a mixture of The National Enquirer, Jeremy Kyle and Esther Rantzen.
Maddy Paxman has written an account of bereavement ten years after the loss of her extraordinary husband, who was only 50 years old at the time. We heard some first-hand reportage of her husband's sudden and untimely demise but all you knew, if you didn't know any better, was that he was a poet, he was called Michael and Maddy first saw him when he was playing tin whistle in a folk band and he looked like trouble, and she married him and he was trouble. But he was Michael Donaghy, just about the greatest poet of his generation and either Stephen Nolan didn't know that or he is so much taken up with the issue of grief that it doesn't matter who you are grieving over, ten years after.
It was remarkable to stumble across such an item. I wonder if the deceased had been, say, George Best, and the memoir writer been one of his partners, if George would have been referred to as 'someone who was prominent in his field' or 'he could be difficult but, then again, he was unforgettable' (and those are not verbatim quotations) but the parallels between Best as a footballer and Donaghy as a poet are not entirely forlorn. They were, in their discrete sullen arts, the spectacular superstars of their age.
Maddy Paxman wasn't remotely phased by Stephen Nolan's interest in the grief. No, it was awful to lose Michael at such an age when the son was only 8. But she wasn't going to give him the sought-for moments of radio drama where he will wait until the interviewee can gather themselves for further insights into their loss. No, Maddy is up for it. Yes, she could love again. Mind you, she is hard to please and anyone taking the place of Michael Donaghy has a tough act to follow so if you are, for example, Stephen Nolan, then it might be best not to apply.
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It was quite some time ago that I ventured into wine reviewing as a one-off and singular event here.
I was sceptical about Chateau David, a Bordeaux Superieur, but said it was just about alright.
The 2012 seems fine to me. At six pounds and fifty pence of her majesty's coinage for each bottle that you take away from Mr. Sainsbury's local grocery shop, I'd say you could do far worse.