Cries & whispers

SO, CHEERIO then, Cheers. News came this week that the long-running hit is to close down next May - later for fans here, thank God, who have always lagged well behind. Even as they go into mourning, however, they will take the news as final proof of the show's taste and timing: only the very best series know when to stop - right on the crest of a wave. As is often pointed out, Cheers shamed English sitcoms with its streamlined American poise, born of a gang of scriptwriters mercilessly punching ideas into shape. This meant that good lines were shared out democratically among the cast, each of whom could stick out a foot and trip up the pretensions of the rest; it also allowed the show to replenish itself without a hitch. For every viewer who craved the early years of Coach and Diane, there was another whose universe revolved around Woody and Rebecca.

And then, of course, there was Norm, carrying the banner for slouches everywhere. I met him once, and asked whether he was bothered about typecasting - requests to do beer advertisements, for instance. He paused, then grinned, put two thumbs up and said: 'Can do]' I should never have doubted him: Norm was Norm. I began to see why Cheers, like The Archers, is presumed by many admirers to be a continuous state of affairs, a real Boston bar, on which cameras and microphones occasionally drop in. Just one prayer: please let the team sign off sharply, not with the wet-eyed, gag-free nonsense that defaced the final episode of M*A*S*H.

SO LONG, too, Alan Freeman. 'Fluff' to your friends . . . But I'm afraid this is not a departure that brings a tear to my eye. It's not that Freeman has not been a good DJ. He rides a disc as well as anyone I can think of. It's that I grew up at a time when he wasn't on the radio much, but he was on television all the time, in person as well as voice-over. I can see it now: Fluffy roll-neck, sideburns like Mars bars, smarmy patter, concrete shopping centre, frightened shoppers: a long-running series of ads for Brentford Nylons. After that, there was no way back. Freeman's replacement, The Man Ezeke, is a gifted joker, but a generation of pop-pickers will be taking him more seriously than they ever took old Fluff.

TIMES ARE hard in the world of classical recording: at the last count, this year's sales were 20 per cent down on last year's. You'd think the record companies would be doing all they could to woo the wavering customer. Not, it seems, EMI Classics. They spotted that John Tavener was the flavour of the minute, following Virgin Classics' investment in a new recording of Tavener's 1990 Proms hit, The Protecting Veil, and the disc's subsequent appearance as the lone representative of unpopular music on the Mercury Music Prize shortlist. EMI decided, naturally enough, to reissue the rather moth-eaten recording of Tavener's 1968 hit, The Whale, first issued on the Beatles' Apple label. Less naturally, they elected to issue it at full price, even though it only runs for about 40 minutes. Worse, they allowed the cover to obscure the almost historic date of the recording beneath a 'P 1992' credit. To add irony to injury, EMI, which bought up Apple's archives years ago, has now snapped up Virgin too, and can therefore take the credit, and profit, for both recordings, without having made an investment in either. All the more reason to let the record business know what's what, and not pay full price if you can help it.