Just hang me in your VO studio like Bernard Manning, you’ll be reverb free.

Well every geek needs a focus. Just more acoustic treatment tiles. Coming to the realisation that in my current layers I am a human acoustic treatment object. Just hang me in your studio like Bernard Manning, you’ll be reverb free.

In the clip below I am opening and laying out fresh acoustic tiles for my voice over studio in the loft. Apparently they need to sit for 48 hours. Nearly done, and then the real fun begins.

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Bernard Manning suspended from the Student Union Ceiling – Not reverb free at all

Thought I would add a little addition to this page to mention about Mr Manning and his ill fated tour of the student unions suspended from the ceiling on a meat hooks – he was not greatly politically correct. Just for self amusement and Google search I asked Chat Ai to do me a short historical rendition of those heady days.

Ah, now there’s a tale that few remember but ought to be etched into the annals of comedy history!

It was the late ‘90s, and Bernard Manning, the gravel-voiced, pint-swilling, politically incorrect titan of the working men’s club circuit, decided he needed to “modernize” to reach the youth. Against all reason, he booked himself a tour of student unions across Britain. It was an ill-fated experiment, a bit like serving steak and kidney pie at a vegan festival.

At first, Manning stuck to his usual act—cracking jokes thicker than a Blackpool rock, but the reception was… chilly. These weren’t the smoky, beer-soaked crowds of the Embassy Club. These were sociology students, clutching copies of The Communist Manifesto and saying things like “That’s problematic.”

After a particularly hostile gig in Brighton, where a sociology professor threw a tofu burger at him, Manning knew he needed a gimmick. Enter: the suspension act.

It started in Manchester. A rogue student technician—possibly under the influence of something herbal—suggested they hoist him above the stage on a rig meant for drama productions. “It’ll be like Cirque du Soleil, Bernard!” they said. Now, Bernard was no fool; he knew if he could pull this off, he’d become a legend.

Come showtime, the students packed in, expecting the usual onslaught. But suddenly, to a booming rendition of Land of Hope and Glory, down from the ceiling descended Bernard Manning—suspended by a harness, arms outstretched like a rotund, sweary messiah.

Unfortunately, the physics of suspending a man built like a barrel of bitter had not been considered. Instead of a graceful descent, he swung wildly, spinning like a wrecking ball, narrowly missing the Vice-Chancellor. The students roared—not in anger, but in sheer, unfiltered hysteria. Someone from the drama society tried to correct the rigging, but this only sent him into a slow, painful, rotisserie-style rotation.

Sweating profusely, Bernard attempted to carry on with his set while twirling midair. “This is the longest I’ve gone without a pint in 30 years!” he bellowed. He tried to light a cigar, but the momentum caused him to drop it, nearly setting fire to his own trousers.

The show ended with Bernard still stuck in midair, refusing to be rescued until someone fetched him a Guinness. It took three students, a janitor, and a visiting fire marshal to get him down, and even then, he insisted on finishing his set before being lowered completely.

Despite the chaos, the student union declared it the greatest performance art they’d ever witnessed. Bernard, perhaps for the first and last time, was hailed as a postmodern genius.

He never attempted the stunt again, though years later, a rumour surfaced that he once tried it in Glasgow and was left hanging for three days, surviving solely on pork scratchings.

And that, my friend, is the untold story of when Bernard Manning took flight.

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