Cliff Richard's appearance leaves James Martin viewers distracted 'Wrong way round!' | TV & Radio | Showbiz & TV | Express.co.uk

Introduction:

There are few names in British music that resonate with the kind of enduring warmth and legacy that Sir Cliff Richard carries. When he steps into a room—or, as in this delightful television appearance, into the kitchen—you’re reminded that charisma is not always about grandeur or flash. Sometimes, it’s about grace, humor, and the quiet confidence of someone who has been part of our collective soundtrack for more than six decades.

The show opens with laughter and the comforting hiss of a steak hitting a hot pan. The host, James Martin, playfully remarks that steak is a “special treat” for Cliff, and from that moment, the atmosphere feels as homely as Sunday lunch with an old friend. Between seasoning tips and sizzling butter, Cliff recounts stories that remind us why he remains one of Britain’s most cherished icons. His journey, from humble beginnings in Waltham Cross to selling over 250 million records worldwide, is a testament to perseverance, faith, and passion.

It’s astonishing to hear him casually recall the moment that changed his life—a stranger’s car radio playing Elvis Presley’s “Since My Baby Left Me.” For young Cliff, that sound was like lightning in a bottle. It wasn’t just music; it was revelation. Within a few years, that inspiration would transform into his own chart-topping hits, shaping the sound of a generation. “Before Cliff Richard and Move It, there was nothing worth listening to in England,” John Lennon once said—a statement that Cliff shares with modest pride.

Yet beneath the statistics—54 studio albums, 1,300 recorded songs, 21 million albums sold in the UK alone—there’s the portrait of a man still in love with the craft. He speaks warmly about duets with Bonnie Tyler, about gospel music, and about how every album remains a fresh chance to connect. “There’s always something new to learn,” he says, eyes glinting with youthful energy. That unshakable enthusiasm—whether for music, food, or life itself—is his true trademark.

As the conversation shifts from career milestones to a beautifully seared steak and, later, roasted Cornish cod, Cliff’s genuine curiosity and gratitude shine through. He listens, he laughs, and he still approaches everything with the wonder of a man who remembers what it was like to dream. Even as the camera pans over the finished dish, he’s not thinking about himself; he’s thanking the chef, signing a guitar, and savoring the moment.

Perhaps that’s what keeps him timeless. Fame came early and fiercely, yet it never consumed him. Cliff Richard remains, above all, grounded—a man who still marvels at a perfect cut of fish, a well-written lyric, and a good story shared over dinner.

In an age when celebrity often burns fast and fades faster, Cliff’s enduring light reminds us of something beautifully simple: talent endures when it’s paired with humility, humor, and heart. As the credits roll, one can’t help but smile—the steak is done, the cod is perfect, and Sir Cliff Richard is still very much the soul of British music.

Video:

You Missed

THE LAST TIME THE CROWD ROSE FOR MERLE HAGGARD — HE WOULD NEVER WALK ONSTAGE AGAIN. They carried him through the doors wrapped in the very flag he once sang about — and in the stillness that followed, there was something almost audible… a fragile echo only lifelong listeners could feel in their bones. Merle Haggard’s story closed the same way it opened: unpolished, honest, and deeply human. From being born in a converted boxcar during the Great Depression to commanding the grandest stages across America, his life unfolded like a country ballad etched in grit, regret, resilience, and redemption. Every lyric he sang carried the weight of lived experience — prison walls, hard roads, blue-collar truths, and hard-earned second chances. Those who stood beside his casket said the atmosphere felt thick, as if the room itself refused to forget the sound of his voice. It wasn’t just grief in the air — it was reverence. A stillness reserved for someone whose music had become stitched into the fabric of ordinary lives. One of his sons leaned close and murmured, “He didn’t really leave us. He’s just playing somewhere higher.” And perhaps that’s the only explanation that makes sense. Because artists like Merle don’t simply vanish. They transform. They become the crackle of an AM radio drifting through a late-night highway. They become the soundtrack of worn leather seats and long stretches of open road. They live in jukebox corners, in dance halls, in quiet kitchens where memories linger longer than the coffee. Somewhere tonight, a trucker tunes in to an old melody. Somewhere, an aging cowboy lowers his hat and blinks back tears. And somewhere in that gentle hum of steel guitar and sorrow, a whisper carries through: “Merle’s home.”