Comedy of the Week - David Eagle: See No Eagle

Episode Date: December 15, 2025

Comedian and folk musician David Eagle (of the three time BBC Radio 2 Folk Award Winning group "The Young'uns") brings his brand new comedy show to Radio 4. In episode 1 of 'See No Eagle', David's unpacking his childhood, from those memorable moments of his first go at the keyboard, to gracing the stage for the very first time (headlining the Teddy Bears picnic).]This is the first episode of the series David Eagle: See No Eagle. To hear more episodes from the series, search for "Stand Up Specials" on BBC Sounds.Written and performed by David Eagle.Editor: David Thomas Production Co-ordinator: Jodie Charman Producer: Rajiv Karia

Radio 4 presents David Eagle, Ceno Eagle. Hello! My name is David Eagle, and in this series, I navigate the world as a blind folk singer and comedian. By the way, I should clarify, I am blind all the time. I don't just start losing my sight whenever I sing a folk song. In episode one, I'll tell you how I stumbled into folk singing and how my path to becoming a performer was forged as a child by a militant music teacher

and a talking teddy. So welcome. I'm excited about this Radio 4 series. Optimistic, it'll go well. Actually, I think being blind, it's useful to have at least one close friend around you who is an optimist. Sorry, not optimist, optometrist.

And we're off. I've hit the ground running. Many times. Occupation has been out. I discovered fort music completely by accident. At 17, me and a couple of friends were in our local pub, enjoying a nice, quiet, illegal drink,

when all of a sudden a man shot up from his seat and launched into a song, quite unlike anything we'd ever heard. Everyone around us joined in. We discovered that this was a folk club, a night where ordinary people sing songs about history, heritage, social justice, and all manner of things, sung in their own accents, no pretence, no mic, no stage. We were hooked, we came back every week.

22 years later, me and those same two friends travel the world making a living singing song. and all because of a spontaneous trip to the pub at 17. The moral of the story, kids, get drinking. I love folk music. It's one of the only art forms where you can hear a really horrifying, tragic tale which then goes straight into a really catchy upbeak sing-along chorus.

And sheet around at the bottom of the deep dark sea with a folder roll did lie deep. Right from the beginning, I wanted to be a musician. I was three when my granny gave. gave me a little toy keyboard. I remember been fascinated as I ran my fingers along the keys. Naturally, at first, it was all very tentative. But then, suddenly, everything changed. I started playing this really complex, elaborate, intricate music, fast and free-flowing. I turned off the keyboard to digest what had just happened. My goodness, I was a child prodigy.

I imagined playing the Royal Variety Show with a performance so incredible that even the Queen would smile. And then my brother picked up the keyboard, and I heard the exact same music. Well, my brother is also a child prodigy. It tells me some crazy genetic quirk. But then my dad explained that I'd simply press the demo button. This wasn't my only early childhood musical setback. Mrs. Prosser was my primary school music teacher, although she behaved more like a drill sergeant.

She was very posh and extremely austere. She always seemed very angry and disappointed with us. You could tell she wasn't happy just from her vocal warm-ups. dearie me for sole artie do. She'd always teach us very twee English songs and would do her upmost to drill the northernness out of us determined to eradicate our terribly offensive northeastern vowels. So we'd sing, in an English country garden,

prompting her to violently slam her hands down on the piano and shout, no, no, no, it's not garden, it's garden, as in the name Gordon. So of course we'd all try again and go In an English country, Gordon No, no, no, you don't sing Gordon I'm simply explaining that garden sounds more like Gordon than garden

sounds like garden I think that's Claire Well obviously it wasn't We were now even more confused wondering who this Claire was Perhaps he's Gordon's wife One day Mrs Brosser announced Now because it's the end of term

We're going to do something a little different. I'm going to teach you an American jazz number. And to heighten the fun even more, I am going to grant you permission to click your fingers to the river. It was during this song that I discovered that I couldn't click my fingers. I tried, but no clicking sound came.

And so I stopped clicking my fingers and decided just to concentrate on the song. But then came Mrs. Pross's trademark. No, no, no, Mr. Eagle, Why, pray tell, are you refraining from clicking your fingers? I explained that I tried, but I couldn't make a sound. She angrily insisted that I tried again. And when I demonstrated my lack of finger-clicking ability,

she angrily exclaimed, Well, Mr. Eagle, let me tell you, you will never amount to a musician. What a ridiculous statement to make. Vincent, Vincent. Yes, that's all very well and good, Mr Pavarotti, but can you click your fingers? As an adult, obviously I know that was a ridiculous thing to say,

but when you're seven, you just assume that your teachers know everything, and you really take a statement like that to heart. I mean, she could have at least tried to break the news to me a little bit less harshly. A musician, you never will be, with a photo roll did like D, me boy. Nevertheless, I was not deterred. Recently, I unearthed an old cassette of some of my early childhood compositions,

and I'm pleased to say I can play one of them for you now. This is a song from my seven-year-old self, based on the true story of something that happened to my friend in the street. It's called Daniel Wet Himself Today. Daniel Wet himself today. Daniel wet himself today. Daniel wet himself, done your wet himself,

done your wet himself today in the middle of the street as well. In the middle of the street as well. Interesting that I chose the blues genre because there is a rich history of blind blues singers. Blind Blake, Blind Boy Fuller, Blind Lemon, Jefferson. Blind Willie MacTell, Blind Willie Walker.

They put Blind at the start of their names as a sort of marketing hook. It sold a story of struggle and strife. Audiences knew what they were getting. Although apparently there were a fair few people who felt a bit cheated after seeing a performance from Blind Willie Walker. It was just some blind bloke playing the guitar and singing.

We thought it was genital-based circus skills. While there were a lot of blind blues singers, I think the repetitious nature of the blues means it's the perfect genre for the heart of hearing. Oh, he's coming on stage. Hang on, better get me hearing aids in. I woke up this morning. Hang on, I haven't got my hearing aids in yet.

And I was feeling so blue. Right, they're in now. Okay, I can hear everything. Oh, but annoyingly, I've missed the first line. I said, I woke up this morning. Oh, pretty. He's repeating himself. Despite my musical talents being so ruthlessly dismissed

by my militant music teacher, I did have a lot more joy with my first foray into comedy. The first time I performed a comedy gig was at the age of five. Now, when I say gig, I mean teddy bear's picnic. We'd all been asked to bring in our favourite teddy and do a little talk about it. I'm sure that the teacher's idea was simply for us to say a sentence or two. Indeed, that is what all the other children did.

But I had devised something a little more elaborate. All the other children were essentially saying the same thing. Hello, this is my teddy bear. I call him bear because he is a bear. I call my teddy cuddles because I like to say. give him cuddles. It was all very prosaic in Anodyne. As in fact I remember saying to the teacher at the time.

You're okay, David. You do look a bit irritated. Well, Mr. Patterson, I must confess, I am somewhat peeved and rather vexed at this afternoon's proceedings. It's all very prosaic and anodyne. The vocabulary is pitifully limited. We're hearing the same old

litany of derivative, tedious, descriptive terms, ad infinitum, soft, fluffy, nice, Yes, well, that's all very well and good. But worse, sir, is the richness of language, the depth, the complexity of character. I want to hear of the teddy's flaws and foibles. They're afflictions, their aspirations.

What makes these teddy's tick? Their mood of soprrandy, if you will. Surely, sir, it is our duty to give voice. Indeed, give life to our inert, facile, fluffy friends. To animate the anonymous, sir, is that not our humble raison d'etre? Yet instead, what we presented with, but an unyielding, pointless parade of six.

sweet, sentimental, saccharine, so per-rific, superfluity, sir. And I must confess, I find myself musing, is this really the best we can do? Yes, David, but at least all the other kids can click their fingers. Eventually, the teacher said, and finally, David, would you like to introduce us to your teddy?

My answer, shocked both child and teacher alike. Well, perhaps my teddy, I might prefer to do his own introduction. I pause for dramatic effect, and then I let my teddy speak. Now, I'd expect at this moment to go well, but I hadn't anticipated just how seismic it would be. I assumed that other children would have also had teddy

with voice boxes activated when you press its belly, but the way these kids reacted suggested that I was the only person in possession of such cutting-edge teddy technology. Hi, I'm bingo, said, well, bingo, obviously. obviously. The children whooped, they clapped, I dare say they hollered. But the show had only just begun. And what are you? I asked Bingo. I pressed its belly. I am a nihilist. No, no, this is 1989. Teddy bear manufacturers hadn't yet embraced existentialism. I am a bear, said Bingo. The kids went wild. Well, Bingo, given that we're at a picnic,

I should probably ask you, what's your favourite food? I love honey, said Bingo, and the kids excitedly screamed and clapped. Now, there was only one phrase left in Bingo's arsenal. Good night. But I wasn't quite ready to wrap things up yet. I had something extra special planned. We had a teacher in our school called Mrs. Honey, so I thought I could ask Bingo to reveal to us all his favourite teacher.

Now, in order to get Bingo to repeat the phrase, I love honey, I needed to cycle through Bingo's phrases. This meant pressing bingo's belly four times. But it wasn't as simple as that. Press bingo's belly too slowly. He would speak the next phrase rather than cycling past it. Press bingo's belly too quickly. Bingo's software wouldn't register that a belly press had taken place.

I had to press bingo's belly at the precise rhythm that would allow the presses to be registered but not spoken. This required a level head, a steady hand, a composed, constitution. I asked Bingo if he could tell us who his favourite teacher was. The children couldn't believe it. They giggled excitedly, their breath's quickening.

I had them on the edge of their picnic blankets. But ironically, for me, this would be no picnic. I pressed Bingo's belly at the rehearsed rhythm. One, two, three, four. There was nothing

more that I could do now, but wait. this was my Gareth Southgate penalty moment and then Bingo's voice came I love honey the children lost it hysterically screaming giggling cheering, weeping, whooping, clapping and almost certainly hollering

there was of course only one more phrase that Bingo had, good night I could have milked this moment a little bit longer and rather than saying good night I could have asked for Bingo's thoughts on Sir Lancelot It was an award for best presentation, which of course I won. All there was for me to do was to thank my parents and, of course, the almighty creator.

In this case, Hasbro. It's difficult to definitively say what formative experiences were the ones that shaped the rest of your life. But I think this Teddy Bay's picnic triumph ignited my love of performance. In the same way that my running with Mrs. Prosser was probably pivotal for me too.

Maybe I actually awe a lot to Mrs. Prosser for telling me at seven that I'd never amount to a musician I think it sort of meant that I tried harder at music because I was desperate to prove a wrong. Mrs. Prosser is no longer with us. I haven't done anything, by the way. Mrs. Prosser died a few years back. I'd like to think, though, in spite of everything, she'd actually be pleased with how I turned out that I make a living from music, even if it is just for music. In fact, as a gesture of goodwill and respect, why don't we give Mrs. Prosser a nice round of finger-clicking? That's all we got time for this week.

So from me, David Eagle, it's good night. And from Bingo Bear, it's... Hi, I'm Bingo. Oh, for goodness sake. I am a bear. I used to be able to do this. I love honey. I've really lost the knack.

Good night. David Eagle, Ceno Eagle, was written and performed by David Eagle. The producer was Raji Kariah, and it was a BBC studio's production for Radio 4. Attention, animal lovers, haters and undecideds. A little birdie, a tit, told me that you're looking for a podcast just like evil genius, but without all those stupid humans. I'm Russell Kane, waddling onto your feed and squawking about my show, Evil Animals. Every episode, I'm joined by two human guests, or as I like to call them, ex-monkeys,

passing judgment on all the creepiest crawlies and the biggest elephants in the room. Are vampire bats, terrifying giant mosquitoes, are bottlenose dolphins, sex-obsessed savages, and we're going there. Domestic cats. Evil or genius? Pig out on evil animals in the evil genius podcast feed, first on BBC Sounds.