Parkinson: You’re a bit besotted tonight, aren’t you,Cloughie?

Clough: Oh aye! Cheese and onion pie, meat pud, chips and a lot o’ Boddies.

Freud: Ee-yuch! Disgusting! Your stomach is a wasteland.

Clough: I remember when there were no food on’t’ t’ table, you big silly puff. I’ll be as besotted wi’ me own self as I want to be.

Parkinson:They do call you ol’ big ‘ead, don’t they, Cloughie?

Clough: Oh aye! But I say, if tha’ve got it, flaunt it!

My long-term memory is pretty good. This previous conversation, although I may not be remembering it with any sense of absolute exactitude, took place on Granada’s Mike Parkinson Show when I was home visiting Manchester in the summer of 1979. I never saw an odder group on the telly than that go-getter Manc journo host Parkinson, his musical guest, the squeaky-voiced jazz chanteuse, Blossom Dearie, Clement Freud, one of England’s leading cultural critics, host of a witty cooking show and the absolute flaming progeny of Sigmund Freud, and, my favourite Englishman ever, Brian Clough. On this warm summer night, a fortnight or so after his Nottingham Forest club had won the European Cup for first time, Cloughie was in his pomp. [Keep Reading…]

{ 1 comment }