Radio 2 presenter JEREMY VINE: Why my best phone-in caller ever was the man who skewered me over my vast BBC salary

When the BBC published the salaries of its so-called 'top talent' last month, I did not think for a moment that I would be anywhere near the summit. But alarm bells rang when an executive warned me I would be the BBC's number seven presenter.

When the list emerged, it was worse than I thought. 'Bloody hell,' I said when I saw the names laid out. My salary (I will spare you the gore) put me in fourth place after Chris Evans, Gary Lineker and Graham Norton.

I had to exit the Radio 2 building and do what Americans call a 'perp walk' — usually reserved for bankers in handcuffs — where a forest of cameras followed me down the street. Idiotically, I then had to unchain my bike from a lamppost, which took a full two minutes.

When the BBC published the salaries of its so-called 'top talent' last month, I did not think for a moment that I would be anywhere near the summit

When the BBC published the salaries of its so-called 'top talent' last month, I did not think for a moment that I would be anywhere near the summit

The teenager in me had wanted to be a successful journalist. The adult gets there and has to do a walk of shame, like a criminal.

Fair enough, I guess.

The reason my salary was high was only because of something a manager had said to me in 1999. I was the third presenter of BBC2's Newsnight and discovered I was paid far less than Jeremy Paxman and Kirsty Wark.

'Every time you walk into the building, we save £5,000,' the manager laughed. In 13 years at the Beeb, I'd never previously spoken to a soul about money, but then and there I resolved to ask for better pay when I got the chance.

When Radio 2 knocked in 2002 with the offer of a prime-time morning show, following on from Jimmy Young, I hired an agent and told him to charge at the facing players like a fly-half after ten espressos.

He got a very decent fee for Radio 2. Then Panorama, Eggheads, Crimewatch, Points Of View and the election graphics were all added. I am not trying to justify it; just telling you how it happened.

I was doing five shows for the BBC in parallel, and was paid in numbers I would never dream of defending in the presence of my mother, who was a doctor's receptionist, or my father, a college lecturer.

There was some talk at Radio 2 of my taking the day off when the salary news came out, but I thought that would be an act of utter cowardice.

The whole point of my show is that it is my job to listen. I told the producer that he should decide which callers to put through.

Vine on Strictly Come Dancing

Vine on Strictly Come Dancing

'The only disaster will be if they all support me,' I told him.

Whatever happened, I said, I wouldn't be cross. Put through the angriest.

The programme started on a bizarre note. The head of radio, James Purnell, arrived in the studio wearing a large beard, as if in disguise. I asked him: 'I'm on this list as having a salary of between £700,000 and £750,000. How do you justify that?'

Never in my life did I imagine having to challenge a boss over my own pay, live on air. He said something about it costing each listener 1p a week.

When it came to the listeners, I need not have worried about them pulling their punches. The first call was from Harry Jones, a construction worker from Neath, Glamorgan. He paid me a fleeting compliment and then launched.

'Jeremy, I'd like to ask you a direct question. Are you embarrassed to pick up your pay cheque?'

I sighed. 'Do you know, I just feel very lucky every day, is the answer to that.'

Mr Jones came back. 'Do you think you're overpaid?' In my mind, I went through half a dozen possible answers in the space of a second. It's the market . . . I work very hard . . . I was underpaid for 15 years . . . Chris Evans gets three times as much as me . . . It's a question for the BBC . . .

Each answer seemed lame to the point of offensive. So I laughed nervously and said, pathetically: 'Er, I don't even really want to answer that because I don't think it's the moment for me . . . '

He broke in. 'You spend your life asking people questions. Now I am asking you a direct question. Do you think you and the rest of the BBC are overpaid?'

The directness of this was like a torpedo. The brevity stole my thinking time. I now knew I was in terrible trouble.

But as I began by conceding, 'Some are,' and wondered in a panic whether this could be the last on-air conversation of my career, Mr Jones launched into a tirade against all presenters.

When the list emerged, it was worse than I thought. 'Bloody hell,' I said when I saw the names laid out. My salary (I will spare you the gore) put me in fourth place

When the list emerged, it was worse than I thought. 'Bloody hell,' I said when I saw the names laid out. My salary (I will spare you the gore) put me in fourth place

'Because I work with men in the coal industry, I work on construction, I see men buckled through working all their life, doing hard graft and nothing to show for it. How can you people justify the amount of money you're earning? All of you are grossly, grossly overpaid.'

It smarted. Because from his perspective, every word he said was true — and on that day his perspective was the only one that mattered.

A bigger story quickly emerged from the BBC talent list. On programme after programme, women were being underpaid compared to their male counterparts. That turned out to be the major scandal, and with two young daughters I felt as indignant as the first people to spot the differential.

The one female presenter to whom I'd quietly spoken about the pay ladder before the figures emerged was, inexplicably, a number of rungs below me.

How the BBC did not spot the peril in the numbers it knew it would have to publish — and right the wrongs in the story that would explode as a result — is beyond me. There is simply no explanation. The organisation seems to navigate by crashing into things.

Afterwards, though, I realised something important. Mr Jones was probably the greatest caller in the history of my show, and his demolition of me was not something I should regret.

Vine is a keen cyclist 

Vine is a keen cyclist 

A pat answer would have infuriated him and the rest of the audience. He took me down, and he confirmed yet again that truth I have only finally, and very belatedly, realised: the listeners, the so-called 'ordinary people', have the power now.

They have shown it in two general elections and a referendum vote since 2015, and they will, no doubt, continue to show it again.

Those members of the public who have phoned my programme since I began presenting it in January 2003 have not just arrived on the line to entertain us. They have taken control, and it's time we — the commentators, the politicians, the 'experts', the professors — sat up and took notice.

It is, of course, a fundamental rule of life that Mistakes Happen.

One day, a young researcher on my show was asked to collect a blind guest, David, from reception. The guest confirmed his name and the researcher very thoughtfully took his elbow and started to lead him carefully through the glass security gates, explaining each change of direction and pause.

'We are standing just by some glass gates, David, which go up to about chest height, and in a moment Judy on reception will open — ah, they are opening now, thanks Judy — and here we go, we're walking through to the lift.'

They got into the lift. Just the two of them in that cramped space. The researcher described to David how small it was.

'The interior is a kind of silver mesh. Luckily, there's no one else in here today. Next to you are the lift buttons, David, a couple of them are glowing. It looks like we will stop on the third but then we go straight up to the sixth.'

At the sixth, the researcher took David's elbow again. 'We are turning left now, just a few yards, then there's a big door and I have to get my pass out to open it. Just stop here if you can. This is a light area, the sun is coming in through the windows.' The door clanks open.

'The door is opening outwards towards us. No need to move — we are a couple of feet back.'

Finally, he steers the guest down the last stretch of corridor to the studio. 'Just a few more yards.'

He is still gripping David's elbow, using it to steer him. 'Now, come through the main door here.'

As soon as the entrance to the studio control room opens and my editor Phil Jones sees David, he realises this is the wrong guest. The researcher has, in fact, brought David Davis, the Secretary of State for Exiting the EU, to the studio. He has perfect sight and does not even need glasses.

Jeremy Vine in the studio on the first day of his new programme for Radio 2 in 2003 

Jeremy Vine in the studio on the first day of his new programme for Radio 2 in 2003 

Amid the apologies, David Davis says: 'Yes, I did wonder what was going on . . .' The researcher goes back to reception and collects the other David, who is indeed blind.

My listeners are fantastic. I love them. They communicate pure joy, and are capable of great compassion. But when they react with anger — and they often do — it blows every thermometer. Among the subjects which have infuriated them in recent years are:

Lollipop ladies.

Old people using buses.

Old people not using buses.

A vicar who complained about the amount of hardcore porn on battleships.

Tony Blair saying anything at all, or even breathing.

Goldfish being given away as prizes at fairs.

Bankers.

Russell Brand.

Another subject that causes bug-eyed fury is cycling, as I discovered after buying a cheap bike so I could cycle to work.

I thought I was buying a mobile gym. Turns out I was taking up a weapon into a battlefield.

One morning in 2016, I was cycling down the middle of a narrow street in London with vehicles parked on both sides. A car came rushing up behind me with the driver hooting the horn. I braked to see what the problem was and looked over my shoulder.

Big mistake. The driver, a bespectacled woman with bright, red braided hair, started bouncing up and down with fury because I had slowed down. As I do if there is danger ahead, I came to a gradual halt.

Presenter Jeremy Vine took to the airwaves in 2003 as replacement for radio veteran Jimmy Young

Presenter Jeremy Vine took to the airwaves in 2003 as replacement for radio veteran Jimmy Young

I immediately wished I had not. She slammed on her brakes, sprang out of the car, ran up to me and screamed obscenities in my face.

I tried to explain I had to stay a door's width from the parked cars — my heart was racing and I went all wobbly-voiced when I said it. More out of instinct than anything, I climbed off my bike.

This made the driver even angrier. Her fury was a physical thing. I expected a fist, maybe a knife.

The lady's weapon of choice was her right boot. She began kicking me and my bike and swearing loudly. She shouted: 'YOU LOT P*** ME OFF' and got back in her car. I pulled in at the first opportunity to let her pass, and she was gone.

But, as is the way in London, I then caught up with her at the next set of lights. A few weeks earlier, I had been given a pair of bike cameras by somebody who was selling them online and who asked me to try them out.

They were switched on but I had no idea whether they were recording. So I thought I should take a photo of the lady's car with my phone — but, unfortunately, she saw me point it at her car and out she jumped again.

'If you take another picture of my car, I'm going to knock you out because that's my personal belongings!' she yelled.

I drew alongside and looked in through her passenger window. Back in the driver's seat, she leant across, formed her hand into the shape of a gun, pointed it at me, moved her thumb as if cocking it, and fired. I had been shot by two fingers. The lights turned green and she was gone.

Vine was criticised for uploading cylcing videos

Vine was criticised for uploading cylcing videos

I felt breathless and upset and did not sleep very well that night. Later, I was grateful to the chap who'd sent the cameras. The images were crisp, the sound cringingly clear.

I uploaded the expletive-ridden footage to my Facebook page, commenting that drivers did not always understand why a cyclist takes the centre of a lane.

The film spread. News websites posted it. Five days later, a BBC colleague told me it had probably been viewed by between ten and 15 million people.

But here's the strange thing. I had thought, as a victim of crime, people would sympathise with me. That was naive.

I had simply not realised that if you climb on a push-bike, a lot of people will loathe you. For them, you are in the wrong 100 per cent of the time, even if you are sent flying by a truck with broken indicators driven by a drunken teenager wearing a blindfold.

Of the 3,500 comments on my Facebook page, a vast number were critical. 'Wrap his bike around his skull,' wrote Paul Townsend. James Withers: 'If he wants to be in the middle of the road he should drive a motorbike.'

James Mah: 'This is why all bicycles should be banned from public roads.' Jeremy Temple: 'Plenty of places to pull over to let traffic pass. You were causing an obstruction at worst, being ignorant at best.'

As it turned out, the incident in which I was involved was pretty simple. I was the victim of an aggressive driver, Shanique Pearson, who also turned out to be a violent person with 16 previous convictions.

Scotland Yard had so many calls asking what action the police were taking that they decided to take some. She was arrested, found guilty and went to prison for eight months, only one of which was for the attack on me.

I took no pleasure whatsoever from the conclusion and wished Shanique had just said: 'Sorry, I'm having a bad day', which would have wiped the slate clean.

On arrival at Radio 4's Today programme in 1989 to start my first BBC job, the office was full of talk about what was described as 'a terrible moment'.

A man had been booked to speak about playing tunes with his armpit. He would take off his shirt and place one hand under his arm. By moving the arm up and down like a chicken, at various speeds, he would entertain people with notes that sounded as bold as a French horn.

It had taken him years of practice to be able to control the pitch. He was able to play 'Come On Eileen' in this way.

He duly appeared for a pre-recorded appearance. The man was speaking down the line from the BBC radio studio in Newcastle, so I was told. He was asked to say a few words to help the technician set the right recording level.

They were about to start the interview when the producer in London pointed out that they should also listen to the volume of sound emitted from his armpit.

'Before we start,' the producer said, 'can we just hear you play a tune from underneath your arm?'

Silence at the other end. 'By putting your hand under your armpit,' she elaborated. 'I don't know if you need to take your shirt off to do it.'

More silence in Newcastle. For a second, the producer wonders if the line has gone down.

Then, at the other end: 'I'll try.'

There was some rustling.

'Could you play Come On Eileen?' the producer said. More silence.

Then a faint sound at the other end. An armpit exhaling. But only quietly, like a kitten breaking wind.

The producer is concerned.

'Are you able to play Come On Eileen?'

'I could try,' he said. 'But this is an odd way to take the recording level, I must say.'

The producer has a feeling in the pit of her stomach.

'You have come in to show us how well-known songs can be played from your armpit, haven't you?'

'No. I am here to talk about the pressure on manufacturing industry in the East Midlands.' It turned out this was the Derby studio.

The armpit man was sat in silence in Newcastle with no connection to London. The man in the Derby studio had been put through by mistake while he waited for a slot on regional economics.

It says something about the power of long-standing, trusted programmes that he actually tried to play a tune from his armpit when instructed.

The Today programme does have a lot of power. I remember, when I was working on it, feeling that you could generally ask for an interview and people would usually say 'yes'.

When I joined Radio 2, there was a definite sense that we were a couple of rungs lower on the BBC ladder.

Indeed, this was confirmed when Sir Terry Wogan announced his retirement.

 

REVEALED: Why Wogan really went AWOL from his own show on the day he announced he was quitting 

Wogan was presenting the breakfast show on Radio 2, and I recall the morning vividly

Wogan was presenting the breakfast show on Radio 2, and I recall the morning vividly

Wogan was presenting the breakfast show on Radio 2, and I recall the morning vividly. It was a Monday, and I was trying something new — walking the seven miles to work.

I was wearing earphones so I could hear Terry chatting about this and that.

The eight o'clock news came on, and then Wogan broke the biggest story when the newsreader handed back to him.

'I think this is the hardest thing I've ever done,' he said, and announced his retirement. It was September 7, 2009, and Terry said he would leave at the end of the year.

I found it very touching.

Wogan had been my radio companion from the age of seven to 44, broadcasting his show across five of my decades with a break for television work between 1984 and 1993.

There was no pressure on Sir Terry to go even now. He was doing the most difficult thing in broadcasting: telling the world he was leaving before the first call for him to step down.

The weight of traffic increased as I approached Oxford Street and — wanting to hear a bit more from the man himself — I turned up my radio.

To my surprise, the great broadcaster said no more for at least ten minutes.

Instead of him speaking about the momentous announcement and reflecting on how he felt — which is what I wanted as a listener — all I heard was a series of records.

What had happened to him? It was all very strange.

By chance, I saw his producer Alan Boyd later that day.

'It was very touching,' I said, 'but then Terry seemed to disappear, just as I wanted him to be speaking about it.'

'Ah,' said Alan, a charming Scot who had the most fantastic relationship with his presenter. 'What occurred was this.

'As soon as Terry announced it, the news started to spread.

'And the Today programme rang the studio straight away and wanted him on.'

'What?' I laughed. 'They wanted him to appear on Radio 4 during his own show?'

'Yes,' said Alan. 'They spoke to me. And I explained to them: 'We are actually on the air at the moment.' '

'So how did they respond?'

'The person at the other end just said: 'This is the Today programme', as if I hadn't heard him right.'

I laughed.

Alan tried again, he told me. 'I patiently explained that it was Wogan's job to present his own show before he appeared on anyone else's.

Wogan had been my radio companion from the age of seven to 44

Wogan had been my radio companion from the age of seven to 44

'The voice at the other end just repeated more loudly: 'You don't understand. This is the TODAY programme.'

In the end, Terry did, indeed, break from his own show, while a series of records were played, to give an interview to the BBC's flagship news outlet.

Terry used to revel in all of this, of course. All his best jokes were about the BBC. His death from cancer at the end of January 2016, at the age of 77, was shattering for Radio 2.

He was the central figure of the old station and the new. Only rarely does a broadcaster bridge generations.

Eight months later, a celebratory memorial service was held for Sir Terry at Westminster Abbey. The service was broadcast live on Radio 2 on the 50th anniversary of Sir Terry's first BBC radio broadcast.

My producers were told that Wogan's memorial service would start at noon. The entire event would be aired live on my programme and it was a hugely important moment for the network and the entire BBC.

For the first time in anyone's memory, the news bulletin at noon was cancelled. And because my show normally starts at noon, executives decided it would be safer for me to go on air half an hour early.

That way, I could be sure to hand over to the outside broadcast team at Westminster Abbey well ahead of the formal start of the service.

It was made clear: the beginning of the memorial service must not be crashed. The start time was fixed, to the second. For five minutes before 12 noon, an organist would play 'incidental music'.

At bang on noon — not a second later — the Abbey choir would start singing. If I handed over late, and we interrupted the choir, it would be viewed as a major calamity.

Struck by the gravity of all this, I decided to hand over to the organ music at 11.58. That way, there could be no danger of speaking over the choir.

ZoE Ball introduced my programme at 11.30. At 11.58, I announced: 'The news has been cancelled today. We are now going to join Sir Terry Wogan's memorial service at Westminster Abbey. You will hear some reflective organ music until exactly 12 o'clock, when a choir will start singing.'

This was what actually happened:

11.58 Organ (serious, slow).

11.59 Organ (louder, graver).

12.00 Organ (subsides, but continues).

12.01 Organ (lots of twiddly bits now).

12.02 Organ (shades of the Old Spice advert).

12.03 Organ (quietening; something is about to happen).

12.04 Organ (urgent again).

12.05 Organ (into the theme from Apocalypse Now).

12.06 Organ (The Man With The Golden Gun).

Eventually, the man at the keyboard stopped, the choir piped up and the service began.

What had happened?

Apparently the Queen's personal representative arrived late — too posh to push, I guess — and we all had to listen to eight minutes of organ.

Shall we take a moment to think of what Terry would have said about this — what facial expression he would have pulled and how he'd have laughed?

n What I Learnt: What My Listeners Say — and Why We Should Take Notice by Jeremy Vine is published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson, £18.99. To order a copy for £15.19 (20 per cent discount), visit mailbookshop.co.uk or call 0844 571 0640. P&P is free on orders over £15. Offer valid until August 26, 2017.