Michael Parkinson

With a slow sideways glance I take in the silvering hair and craggy profile of the Yorkshireman sitting on my side of a round dining-table in the airy elegance of Bibendum in Chelsea. For several minutes I've been lost in my thoughts, imagining him propping up a bar in a working men's club in Barnsley, and only vaguely listening to him on the theme of how t' bloody presenters today don't know they're born, how you can't find t' bloody producers any more, and how t' bloody guests aren't up to much Read more [...]