Uncle loved to have a pop at the hit parade

PEOPLE often ask me how I became so mellow. “How is it that you’re so at ease with the world?” they ask me. “How come nothing seems to rile you?” “You’re so laid-back you’re horizontal.”

Well, thinking about it, I would have to put my benign state of mind down to my uncle, a man named after a housing estate. I kid you not.

How would I sum him up? Basically, he hates virtually every piece of music recorded since 1950. Put on a classic from the 1960s, 1970s or whenever, and you can count on him to say: “I’d rather listen to a cement mixer on site than this tripe.”

Once, when I was visiting his son, I took along my “British Book of Hit Singles”. Uncle, who was not wearing his glasses, picked it up, squinted, and slowly read the title. He then pulled his face as though he had been sucking a particularly sour lemon, spat out the words “British book of rubbish”, and threw it across the room as though it was infected with plague.

Actually, for all his hatred of pop singers, he has been known to buy the odd record although he insists it was always under duress. He claims his daughter pestered him into buying an LP by Davy Jones (of Monkees fame) . He says he went into the shop and said: “You’ve a record by a monkey. I want it.”

He sincerely believes the death penalty should be restored and for every new murderer they should hang three already in jail, an architect, and five pop stars.

Yet, though he claims to have no knowledge of modern musicians, he knows them instantly if you mention them and has pet names for them. Ringo Starr is a big-nosed Scouser who bangs a pig skin. Eric Burden is a fat, talentless creep.

And uncle truly believes the day modern society started its decline was when that mob with the guitars started off. You know, the Beatles...

The man he particularly hates is Paul McCartney. When the “Top of the Pops” chart countdown used to begin, he would follow the announcement of every record with “rubbish” or “double rubbish”. But when McCartney’s record was named he would fly into a torrent of invective.

We once saw Sir Paul on the television — in a film from the days when he was fab. As Macca “ooohed” his way through “She Loves You”, pulling his face and shaking his head, I asked Uncle what he used to think of McCartney back in the 1960s.

He thought for a moment and then said in measured tones: “I wanted to cave his head in”.