Parental Guidance Recommended
Contains some swearing and violence
Mild sexual content
To make any sense of this you have to have read my earlier post Radio Ga Ga. And it gets my site stats up, so thanks
As time went on, Martin and I got more and more anarchic, riskier and riskier. It was pretty near the knuckle sometimes, while never straying over the boundaries of decency, though we did push things a bit on the limits of good taste.
Then came our finest moment.
It started with a phone call one Thursday night.
‘Dunk, it’s Martin. What are you up to?’
‘Trying to decide on some CDs that will annoy you on Sunday, and jotting down some scurrilous thoughts.’
‘I have some good news. We have a guest presenter for Sunday.’
‘Yippee. Be still my beating heart. Who have we got? Some guy from the Nature Conservancy wanting to talk about otter turds in the Chelmer Valley? I don’t think that’s healthy.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Please tell me we don’t have to listen to some beardy weirdie droning on about Neolithic flint knapping techniques in East Anglia.’
‘No. Angela’s coming in to talk about her training as an NLP counsellor, if you let her get a bloody word in edgeways.’
‘Hmmm. That’s good. Excellent.’
Angela was a mutual acquaintance, and I liked her a lot. Very intelligent, very and savagely funny, a bit sarky, and very good at the cut and thrust of conversation.
She was also hotter than Hades. Ash blonde hair, and a figure and face that made the young Audrey Hepburn look like Quasimodo’s ugly sister. The thought of a couple of hours in the confines of a studio, looking at her rather than just at Martin’s rotund frame and chubby face filled me with delight.
We found her on Sunday morning in a greasy spoon just round the corner from the studio, stuffing herself with a full English. That was a good sign too. I can’t abide women who pick at a bit of watercress and declare themselves stuffed. We waited for her to finish mopping her plate and headed for the studio.
The term ‘studio’ may be a bit grandiose, since it was one and a bit smallish rooms in a building that looked like a latrine block on some military installation in the wilds of Kamchatka. Even with two people in it, especially if one was my somewhat corpulent mate Martin, things were cosy. With three, including the delightful Angela, things were verging on the intimate. But I put a brave face on things; you have to suffer for your art, don’t you?
Martin’s theme tune tinkled away, then he spoke.
‘XXX Community Radio. This is Martin…’
‘And this is Duncan. Hello.’
Professionals or what?
Martin spoke again.
‘We’re lucky this morning to have a guest in our studio. I’d like to introduce Angela.’
‘Hello, Martin, Duncan, and everybody who’s listening.’
I had to stifle a snort of laughter at that.
‘What we like to do Angela, is play some music, then talk about anything that’s on our minds. So since you’re the guest, perhaps we can have your first piece of music.’
‘Of course. It’s Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries.’
Panic flitted across Martin’s face as I quickly leaned into the mike. Before he could fade me out, the deed was done.
‘I love the smell of napalm in the morning. It smells of victory,’ I said in my best Robert Duvall voice.
Martin faded the music in as Angela collapsed laughing. I was ignoring Martin’s remonstrations, being too busy swinging around in my swivel chair pretending to be a machine gunner on an attack helicopter, complete with sound effects.
‘Dadadadadadadadaadaddadddadddadadadaddaa. Wheee. Boom! Dadadadad. Dadadadada. Dadadada. The call light’s showing Martin. I bet that’s the station manager.’
It was, and he didn’t sound too pleased.
‘XXX Community Radio. Good morning.’
‘Martin, you’ve got to keep that fucking lunatic under control. We can’t have jokes about napalm on a Sunday fucking morning!’
This set Angela off again, and i went on the offensive.
‘Morning Keith. Would you like me to do a graveyard slot for you? I could do napalm jokes then, couldn’t I?
‘You can’t do sodding napalm jokes full stop, you fucking idiot!’
‘That’s a shame.’ I threw a CD case loudly on to the desk so the speakerphone could pick up the clatter. ‘That’s Napalm Death off the timetable then. Hey, I’ve got a bit of anarchopunk from the 70s. Burn All Churches. Can I play that? No I guess not. Tell you what. Next week I’ll come in with a load of madrigals and some Gregorian chants, how would that be?’
Angela was in real trouble by now, and Martin was struggling not to laugh. It sounded as if Keith was having an apoplectic fit.
‘Oh yeah, Keith, I know you’re on at two, you need to bring in some more teabags. We’re nearly out.’
‘Fuck the fucking teabags, just keep things a bit more calm!’
‘I am calm Keith. And there are ladies present, remember.’
‘Fuck off and tone it down!’
‘Always a pleasure Keith, but we have to go now, the track’s about to end. Don’t forget the teabags.’
We had just about managed to recover by the time the Valkyries were back on the ground, but we had to avoid looking at each other.
‘Well,’ said Martin, ‘that certainly was a rousing start to the show. What did you think of that, Duncan? Not your usual listening, I’ll wager.’
‘Wagner’s OK, it’s like heavy metal with an orchestra.’
That sent Angela off on one, and we bickered good naturedly for a couple of minutes, before Martin made the cardinal error of trying to stoke the fire. Angela rounded on him.
‘Be reasonable Martin. I’d rather listen to The Ramones than that stuff you listen to. Last time I heard anything that bland was in a teashop on the seafront at Frinton.’
I told you she was good. I stuck the Frinton gag away for future use. I knew it would come in handy.
Things continued in a similar vein for the next two hours. It really was zoo radio for people with high foreheads. At one point Angela and I were laughing so much we had to step outside for breath of fresh air.
‘You’re good, ‘ she said.
‘You’re no slouch yourself.’
‘Why does Keith put up with you two?’
‘He doesn’t have much option. If he slings us off, there are no other bodies to take up the slack. We’re all volunteers, and we’re thin on the ground. Keith already does about seven shows a week. He records them at home, comes in and plays them and goes to sleep. It might be a problem if any listeners phone in, but since we don’t have any it’s not an issue.’
Sadly the station folded shortly after through loss of a major sponsor. But we did have some fun while it lasted.