Don’t you hate it when great entertainment ends? The first show I ever heard on Oxide Radio was a one-man current affairs phone-in; except the one man had a stutter rattling through every word, and the phone was broken.
He didn’t even know the phone was broken, so the first twenty minutes were solid, abject begging for someone – anyone – to please, please, talk to him.
This failing, he spent half an hour jabbering on about the um-um-um-conomy, to himself. Then he gave up and went home.
It was the single most tragic hour of anything I’d ever heard, anywhere, ever – the kind of entertainment you just don’t get on Radio 4. That’s why I miss Oxide.
Oxide’s gone now, because someone wants money for every song they play. A lot about this surprises me.
Did you know there’s a ‘music industry’ now? In the olden days we’d just smother musicians with praise and affection without a thought – but now, it seems, they want something in return.
Every time a song goes over the wireless, a few pence goes to an organisation who’ll divide it between the best of British talent.
The guy who wrote the lyrics to ‘Yellow Polka Dot Bikini’? He gets it. Scouting for Girls? They get it, and if you can’t afford to support these people, get outta the radio kitchen.
If we don’t pay up, they tell us, all British music will collapse in on itself. Just like that time in the ’80s when home taping killed music, and we had to spend the next decade staring at doorknobs and chewing our toenails until S Club brought it back.
It’s not just money they want – professionalism, too, lest anyone ever associate the name of Babyshambles with half-arsed schlock.
What they’ve forgotten is that for students, professionalism ruins everything. Oxide did ineptitude, and it did it well.
Listening to most ‘professional’ radio is like putting your ears to a cheese grater: ‘Hey, demographic! Here’s another wacky fact!
Need credit for double-glazing that’s not your fault? Call! Here’s Bloc Party. Here’s Bloc Party. Here’s Bloc Party. Here’s Bloc Party.’ I’ll take Oxide any day.
On a tangent: kill Scott Mills. Seriously, there’s no joke there. Kill him. You think there’s some ironic twist; no. Kill Scott Mills. Kill him, and burn his irritating Loaded tit-joke schtick. Hang the blessed DJ.
There’s never been professionalism in student papers, and that’s how I hope it stays. If there was professionalism, I’d be long gone: but in reality, all the editors do is filter out my frequent Holocaust jokes.
If you want to read the originals, just end every sentence with ‘in Auschwitz!’ – it almost makes me sound harsh on Scott Mills. I’m off now, though. Don’t you hate it when great entertainment ends?
