I grew up in a small town in central Scotland called Grangemouth, best known as an annexe to a BP refinery. I had a very happy childhood – Mum, Dad, brother, very stable.
I was the class clown, a show-off. I liked to make people laugh, but was keen to get on with my work. I was a loud mouth. Maybe I needed to shut up and listen more.
I drove around university in this old orange MG Midget that I painted green. Often five friends were crammed in. I got at least 25 parking tickets, which didn’t please my dad. I eventually left it on the outskirts of Glasgow in the hope that someone would nick it.
I’m a very proud Scot, but going to work at Central Television in Birmingham prompted me to ditch the Scottishness. To my shame, my accent went very Hyacinth Bucket until I returned to Scottish Television and had it knocked back into me.
I don’t know one end of a rugby pitch from the other, but when Scotland are doing well, I’ll be up there screaming with the best of them. I can’t watch Andy Murray because I get so nervous and upset when he loses. It’s weird, but I suppose it’s something visceral.
Getting into journalism as a woman during Thatcher’s Britain with shoulder pads and custom jewellery felt quite bolshie. Mum was no-nonsense and had a business with my dad, so I didn’t have any insecurities about being a woman in the workplace. I danced my way through.
I got my break on a programme called Scottish Women after I begged to take over from original presenter, Sheena McDonald. We had a panel discussing a range of subjects at 10.30pm in front of a live audience. After that, Loose Women just felt like a natural continuation.
The great thing about live TV is stuff goes wrong and that’s part of the charm. I’ve got some funny memories, like John Barrowman falling off his red heels. We don’t take ourselves too seriously. People say it’s just chat, but we do take on the issues of the day.
You always get this thing in television: wouldn’t you rather be presenting Newsnight? Like that’s the pinnacle, the hard stuff that the clever people do. Without being disrespectful to those very clever people, I think it’s harder to make people laugh.
I nearly cried recently, on my radio show. We were discussing Kate Forbes and her views as a potential first minister on gay marriage. I spoke to a gay woman who felt her heart was exploding because her validity was being questioned. I felt tearful, I have to say.
As a teenager, in a group of girls, if you were in somebody’s house and they had a glass coffee table, we’d lean over to make our faces sag, look at the reflection and say, “This is what we’re going to look like when we’re 50.” Now, there’s no need.
Kaye Adams hosts the morning show on BBC Radio Scotland, weekdays 9am-12pm
