Ever since schooldays, I’ve been scared of fame. My English teacher, disdainfully scanning a dog-eared essay, assured me I had absolutely nothing to worry about.
Two local radio slots in as many weeks, however, have, I fear, thrust me firmly in the public domain. It can only be a matter of time before Ant and Dec invite me to join them in the jungle. I’d be good at the ‘bush tucker trial’ as I was the only one at school who liked tapioca.
During both radio interviews, I was introduced as an award-winning columnist. The award was for swimming three lengths of the local baths in pyjamas. I’ve also got a cycling proficiency certificate, which makes me a multi-award winning columnists.
Simply ‘award-winning’ will suffice, however. I’m not one to blow my own trumpet.
I can confirm radio has come a long, long way since the heady days of ‘Radio Rural’, our own station set-up for farmers, which has rather ‘sold out’ of late by employing a clubbing DJ who plays acid-house mixes of The Wurzels to the Massey Ferguson Massive, as he puts it.
“Big it up for all dem well-wicked homies on the harvesters tonight,” he spat down the mike yesterday. “Plough straight, bruvvers! Plough straight!” I don’t think it works.
My mate worked briefly for the rustic radio station, finally getting the boot for making-up traffic reports. He would’ve got away with the deception, but let his imagination wander somewhat. “A mystery limb, possibly a goat’s, is still causing delays on the B447 at Little Scarring-on-Severn,” he’d warn truckers.
“Don’t ask me how the chimp got there,” he told motorists during one memorable bulletin, “but if you’re in an open-top vehicle, please put that roof up. And watch those wipers.”
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