Honk if you approve

According to North Korea Alan Titchmarsh wears decadent trousers – denim jeans – At the age of 74 the horticultural hunk is deemed subversive by Kim Jong Un.
My choice of wardrobe, over the years, has caused a huge amount of bother for several men in suits. It used to bother me but not now.
My first run in with authority was in 1982.

I turned up to rehearse as THE GIRL ON PARKY. I was tried out to be Michael Parkinson’s side kick. I was filming a sit-com in Elstree. To get to the Camden Studio on time I would jump into a cab wearing white painters overalls, that was me not the taxi.
I walked into the atrium of ‘Egg Cup House’, as it was known, and stepped into Mr.Parkinsons’ wrath. The horrified look on his Barnsley chops hung in the air. How dare I come so underdressed?
And that was just the beginning. By the time we reached the opening night I had been sacked, was told by the boss that I had taken the news like a man, and was given loadsa airtime with David Frosts script writer. I was a smash hit though the channel wasn’t.
I was irreverent, young, didn’t give a fuck, and looked glam thus landing my first ever proper presenting job.
Twas my naked breast that eventually got me properly sacked. I was invited into the studio with my newly born baby. She was hungry, I had the goods, I slapped a cushion over her breakfast and the men in suits were horrified. They had only seen boobs on the boobies on page three, my milk churns were worthy of pages 6-7-and 8.

Off I went to LWT, the new, young face to present a pile of different shows, THE GARDENING ROADSHOW with Princess Margarets squeeze, Roddy Llewellyn and Daphne Foulsham. They were posh I wasn’t. In my blue painters dungarees I dug and hoed, planted and weeded. Under my dungarees I went braless. I was gardening for Gods sake.
I was hauled onto the 18th floor.
Apparently the men in the audience, who were watching the programme, didn’t fancy me.
I looked into the tired faces of the men in suits and said irreverently that the men who didn’t fancy me couldn’t get it up and they could all go fuck themselves.
‘Are you questioning my authority? asked the producer. ‘Damn right I am.’ Said I as I stood up and left a group of deflated execs. My agent followed me out, he offered to take me clothes shopping to placate the misogynists.
By the time we got to Waterloo East I had sacked him. By the time I got to Tunbridge Wells the besuited cowards had rehired me. I carried on wearing my dungarees without support.

Eight years later after my stint at the BBC I was hired to front ‘Good Food Live’, the first foodie porn show. I was instructed, by my wonderful boss, that overalls were not allowed. So I wore black velvet and pearls, and all manner of floaty stuff, with my voluptuous bosoms elevated in lacy bras. I had a cleavage, oh boy that cleavage. They did an audience research job on me. 50% of the audience hated me. I was loud, blousy and had an offensive cleavage. The other 50% loved me. I was loud, blousy and had an enjoyable cleavage
Whilst filming in America at THE INN IN LITTLE WASHINGTON, I was gifted two pairs of spotty dungarees. The five star restaurant rescued Dalmatians. A boy dog in a bow tie sat to the right of the entrance, to the left was a bitch in pearls. All the chefs wore the same dungarees. Those five star Dalmation dungarees have afforded me more compliments than their five star dishes. I was not, however, allowed to wear them on the show,
I did try but my wonderful boss put his foot down.

I love that Titchmarsh has offended North Korea. I love that I offended so many grey suits.
Now I do loads of telly zoom stuff. I go to my upstairs bathroom and put on red lipstick and mascara. I wear designer tops. Underneath the table I sit with pyjama bottoms, decadent trousers, or sometimes just frilly drawers, depends on the temperature. I am offensive and loud, blousy and comfortable. I let the audience imagine me full length, Do I still question the authority of the men in suits? Damn right I do. In fact thats what I get paid for.
To quote T.S.Eliot
‘I am old I am old I wear the bottom of my trousers rolled.’
At 75 I wear what I want to wear when I want to wear it and if the boring farts don’t like it it’s there problem not mine.
After fifty years of wardrobe malfunctions I can honestly say if North Korea were to pixilate me out of the frame I would be flattered.
Vivienne Westwood regularly cycled over Battersea Bridge knickerless. Now thats what I call deliciously decadent, as did the London cab drivers who honked their approval.
Who’d have thought Mr Titchmarsh would become a cover boy for sleaze. Good on him.