Michael Grade, onetime Controller of BBC 1, introduced Tony and they settled down on a sofa for a fascinating walk through Tony's musical life, interspersed with renditions of his songs by guests ranging from Marti Webb, Joe McElderry and Rhydian to one very special guest who, like the biblical good wine, was kept till last.
On the day that the world's arguably biggest, definitely first, plasticine superstar climbs back out of his pencil case and makes his return to public life, he has found time in his red carpet schedule to join in HuffPostUK's third birthday celebrations, with these three golden nuggets of advice.
"You can't cancel!" shrills the voice on the phone. "It's in the diary. That's final!" Though I'm hardly a model of reliability, it is my friend who flakes on our arrangements most, and I'm offended by the implication of her words. What does she mean 'I can't cancel'? Why does she care suddenly?
It's St Patrick's weekend in Northern Ireland, and the lawnmowers are limbering up. For a week or two, now, the rainfall has slowed, the birds have been singing for nesting territory, and underpinning their chorus is that lower, guttural sound: the growling of the First Lawnmowers of Spring.
No purples. No green triangle things. No Orange Crunch. No Caramel. Even my secret back-up of orange creams were gone. All that greeted me was a sea of red, blue and gold.
The more I read the more I see real connections between genealogy/working on our family history/ancestry and the psychological benefits of the nostalgia it might trigger!
"Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking" has a mind-boggling scope. It isn't only about recipes and tastes. It is also about culinary habits, traditions and government policies.
This week was all about endings and beginnings. Markers in the sand. Moments in life that demand reflection and resolve. The first was the final goodbye to Collier's Garage, the old Citroën car repair workshop where my business has been running since November 2011.
Dial-up internet is dead - that screechy, slow-moving stalwart of the '90s is no more. Or at least that's the impression you'd get from the headlines over the last few weeks.
I've been writing screenplays for horror movies and splashing around in the shallow end of the film industry for a decade now. Horror has become my comfort zone, albeit with a hefty splash of comedy to help the dark stuff go down. It wasn't always that way...
In my own youth; we called everyone in our street, 'aunty or uncle' and could nip into any number of houses in close proximity when we were locked out. It was all about human interaction. And it was lovely. Only last week, when grocery shopping, I found a potato that looked like a womble, I turned to the lady next to me and said, 'look! Madame Cholet!' she ran away.
If we're in a position where giants like Spielberg and George Lucas can't get their flicks onto the screen, then we're not in a good place.
'What a good place to be / Don't believe it / 'cause they speak a different language /And it's never really happened to me...' Later in the week, if ...
Nostalgia has spawned virtually an entire industry, making zillions out of the ever-increasing urge to regress to what we think of as happier times, flogging us kitsch memorabilia and useless antiques at premium prices. All this, for a concept as hollow and insubstantial as a bubble.
Nostalgia is a funny thing. A dull yearning for times past. Life is speeding up these days, technological progress accelerates and drags us barely-dev...
Landfill indie was the music of the boom years, our very own Roaring Twenties. The worst of songs were hysterically praised by the NME, whose circulation was closer to 100,000 than it probably ever will be again.