John Stapleton

In 1980 I was filming a sit-com in Boreham Wood, when a young man chased me up the corridor.
‘We’d like you to be the girl on Parky’ he said.
I told him to go way.
TVam was a brand new breakfast programme and Michael Parkinson, one of the owners of the channel, was looking for a co-host.
The young man collared me again. I told him to fuck off.
When the eager boy buttonholed me for the third time I gave in.
Holding a VHS of my previous work I went to his flat in Highbury.
It was agreed that I would do a pilot with Mr. Parkinson.
I had been an actress for twelve years, touring round the UK with a left wing political theatre group. I didn’t know Michael Parkinson from Roland rat.
When I got into the studio in Egg Cup house in Camden Town, fitted up with an ear piece and plonked in front of an autocue, I kept calling Michael MALCOLM, Parkinson was less than thrilled,
The script was as thick as the bible, and I wore a costume from the sexy secretaries wardrobe, the character I was playing in the sit-com.
I was given the job and proceeded to shoot a series with an antiques expert.
The day of the launch, I turned up wearing a white suit with a cerise silk shirt. Mr. Parkinson was open mouthed at my appearance, I’d worn dungarees at all the rehearsals.
Hiring a rebellious young woman was not part of his plan.
On the morning of the launch I was introduced to all the newspapers.
As they cameras snapped a lone handclap echoed round the atrium, and I was removed. Taken into the bosses office to be told that I had lost the job. Mr. P wanted his wife next to him on the sofa, not a thirty year old upstart.
The films I made were all edited without me in them.
I cried o my red bean bag in my Wapping Flat.
What was to be done?
After an expletive ridden meeting I was told I had taken the sacking like a man and given a huge chunk of airtime.
And so begun four and half years of current affairs. I was given David Frosts script writer, until he was removed.
Greg Dyke took over the running of the station.
‘I’ll ,make you a star’ he said, and gave me the letters slot.
POSTBAG twice a week, making scripts out of viewers letters. writing through the night and learning how to edit and present to camera.
For four and half years I got paid more money than I had ever seen, left London for the cottage we now live in, forty years ago this October, and decided to have a baby.
The delicious dawter was born and all was well.
Giles Brandreth took over my slot whilst I was on maternity leave. And then the call came and I was invited to be a guest on the show with my four week old baby .
“You must feel like you’ve been socked between the eyes’ Said Kathy Gyngel the shows host.
‘That’s the last place you feel like you been socked.’ I said dreamily.
I made a joke about sex after childbirth. Appaently I said something like it wasn’t a case of not wanting to have sex but of finding another orifice. The whole crew laughed.
I’d over-slept and the driver, ‘ducking and diving’, navigated the 51 miles to North London. It was the car chase to end all car chases. I had ten minutes to settle myself on the sofa.
And then the baby awoke.
She was hungry.
I had only been a mother for a month.
I had no idea what to do.
So I plugged the hungry infant onto my left breast, covered her with a cushion, and continued the interview.
It became a national scandal. Breast feeding a baby on live television.
When she was twelve weeks old I went back to work. Baby brain in tact. I’d been criticised for being mumsy so I asked for a pale punky makeup and wore a black leather tassled jacket.
I wrote the script, it was ten days before the General Election.
I was ignorant of the ‘Representation of People Act’ which meant all political parties had to be equally represented.
I’d written a jolly piece about the Lib Dems. I had abridged the letter but when I got in front of the cameras my brain went and instead of reading out the edited script I read out the whole letter.
Sitting next to me was Max Bygraves.
After my interminable performance, there was a deathly silence into which Mr. Bygraves dropped the prophetic line
‘I hope your career lasts as long as that letter.’

I was sent into the bosses office.
‘You were wearing black leather, redolent of an attitude of arrogance defiance’ Started Mr. Bruce Gyngell, the Australian head of command.
‘You made totally tasteless remarks and so we are terminating your contract as of now.’
I was sacked.
No legal representation, just me and a room full of suits.
My breast milk dried up with the shock.
‘There must be a loophole’ said friends. What to do?
John Stapleton rescued me. He took me aside and gave me the address of a public school lawyer who had left leaning politics.
John Stapleton supported me when I decided to sue TVam.
John Stapleton hugged me and reminded me that feeding a baby is not a criminal offence even though it had never happened on telly before.
I sued and won.
John Stapleton was the most delightful, principled man, nd a total support when all was lost.
Dear John, you will be forever remembered for your kindness and warmth.
RIP