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Radio Ga Ga

I was shocked on Tuesday when I heard that Steve Wright had died.

I’d just pulled up in the car outside a shop when it was announced on the radio news. I uttered an audible ‘no, no’ before getting out and then walking around the Co-op like a tit in a trance.

Sudden death hits you like that, even when it’s someone you’ve never met. To many of us, Steve was like a member of the family. He was always there. We grew up with him. A broadcaster with great skill and flair, he was hardworking, funny and, well, nice.

He seemed a kind person – and those who knew him say he really was – and his broadcasting style appeared fun and effortless. And when things appear effortless you can guarantee they’re completely the opposite. Steve Wright was a true professional, a perfectionist in his craft.

He always had that knack of saying exactly what we were thinking, such as referring to the ‘winking’ line after this song was played (a record that makes most sane people cringe every time they hear it).

Stomach churning stuff

Or pointing out that, contrary to what Carl Douglas sang, surely not everybody was kung fu fighting.

Hong Kong Phooey

I stopped listening to Radio 2 in the afternoons after Steve Wright was dropped. Always the professional, he never complained about the BBC’s decision, but it must have affected him deeply. I was furious. For so long, weekday afternoons were Steve Wright. And we loved it.

These days, I’m a BBC Radio 6 Music listener anyway, so it didn’t take much for me to tune into Craig Charles in the afternoons instead.

It’s my station of choice, bringing me new music and genres during the week and old favourites at the weekends with the schoolboy fun of Radcliffe and Maconie, the wonderful jazz, blues and world music of Cerys Matthews while I’m doing the ironing and peeling the spuds for the roast and then Guy Garvey’s Finest Hour, which is sublime for a cosy Sunday afternoon.

There are times, though, when Lauren Laverne’s got some rapping track going full blast and Mr Grigg walks into the kitchen that I have to switch over to Greatest Hits Radio.

I’m not averse to a bit of rap – my nephew will kill me but he was a great rapper in his day (he’s the first one on this video) – but it’s a boundary Mr Grigg refuses to cross.

Lowercase from Bristol

He has his phone on today for Greatest Hits’ Radio’s ‘Make Me A Winner‘ – thousands of pounds of tax-free cash to be won every weekday!

All you have to do is enter online and if you get a call from the station after 3pm, answer within five rings but don’t say hello and say ‘Make Me A Winner’ you win the daily prize.

I have asked him if anyone has ever just said ‘hello’ and lost the lot but he says he doesn’t think so. But I know what will happen if Mr Grigg gets that call.

It’ll be like the local legend of the silver table my yarn spinner of a grandfather used to tell. The table was at the bottom of a well and all you had to do was pull it up in silence and the treasure was yours.

Gramp did it once, apparently, with a group of friends. They managed to secure ropes around the glittering prize and had almost hauled it to the surface when one of them uttered the immortal words ‘there the bugger be’ and the table clattered down to the bottom of the well, never to be seen again.

What will happen when Mr Grigg gets the call from Greatest Hits Radio is that he’ll dismiss the unknown number showing up on his phone as from a scammer or will pick it up and yell ‘*!*! off you, bastard’ and blow Ruby’s dog whistle down the line.

And there we’d be, having coming face to face with a hundred thousand pounds only for it to scatter in the gale of his expletives.

Radio has been a part of my life and, I suspect, yours for what seems like forever. What ever station you choose -and, for me, it’s nearly always a music station apart from the Today programme in the morning on Radio 4 – it’s the intimacy of the broadcaster speaking to you that makes the difference. Steve Wright was a master at that. We will miss him. Greatly.

Count your blessings

I remember thinking, during the first and second lockdowns, that at last people were going to be nicer to each other.

It was as if being cut off from family and friends and stopped from doing the things we all took for granted would somehow make us appreciate just what we had.

With the potential for global annihilation from a surprising source and the world stopping, just for moment, it was as if, suddenly, our short time on this earth had been put into perspective.

#BeKind was the mantra. So we were, embracing the thought that life is too brief to squander it on being mean to others, whether it’s backbiting and point scoring or all-out war between nations.

To say I was being naive is an understatement.

After the threat from covid lifted, the nastiness on a micro level started almost immediately and, through a macro lens, the all-out war just got worse.

It didn’t take long for the human race to go back to square one – manipulative, cruel, unfeeling and deadly.

Are people angrier towards others than they were before Covid 19? Or were we always angry and lacking in patience and empathy?

There are so many horrors going on right now that all any of us can do as individuals is count our blessings and work together for a better world.

In the meantime, there’s a blue sky out there and I’m rejoicing in beautiful days conversing with nature.

How does your garden grow?

Well, the daffodils are poking their heads up but there’s no sign yet of the four-hundred-and-ten tulip bulbs my son and I planted a few months ago.

They were on offer and I got a bit carried away.

To be fair, mid-December was a bit late to be planting tulips but, by the time they’d arrived, I was out of the country for two weeks, so, other than asking the dogsitters if they fancied a bit of gardening (they didn’t), there wasn’t much choice.

I’m hoping the little blighters are happily in the warm earth, thinking about greeting the outside world when things are a bit warmer.

And, who knows, maybe by planting them so late, they’ll put on a brilliant show in late May when I’ll actually be around to appreciate them.

The problem is, I get carried away when I see adverts for plants and bulbs. That eternal prospect of a magical garden is just too tempting.

I’ve got carried away with dahlia tubers too. Don’t tell Mr Grigg but a whole load of them are about to arrive in the next week or so.

Still, if I stick to old favourites like roses, herbaceous perennials, along with the tulips and dahlias, and forego annuals, I should be all right.

It’s when I start ordering begonias that I have to worry.

Can’t stand them. They give me the creeps.

I’m not sure why, because some of them are very pretty. I think I was psychologically damaged when my older brother once broke the heads off my mother’s red begonias. The petals bled all over the floor.

There’s something fleshy and human about begonias I just don’t like.

Watching and listening: Slow Horses and Bad Women: The Ripper Retold

We’ve finally got around to watching Slow Horses, the Apple TV drama that everyone’s been talking about.

Set against the backdrop of the iconic London skyline, the series has just finished its third season. We’re only two episodes into that, so please don’t tell me what happens.

It’s British drama at its best. This spy thriller centres on a dysfunctional team of MI5 agents who have been thrown together because each of them has mucked up one way or another.

Heading this bunch of misfits is Gary Oldman, whose portrayal of the seedy Jackson Lamb, with greasy hair, fag hanging out of his mouth and a terrible wind problem, is masterful, especially when set against the ice queen coolness and poise of Kristin Scott Thomas as his nemesis in an A-line skirt.

The script is excellent, the characters believable and the cast superb. The series carries just the right weight of tension, comedy, gore and mystery. We’ll be very sad when we reach the end.

I’m currently listening to Bad Women: The Ripper Retold, a BBC podcast by author and historian Halle Rubenhold about the untold story of the victims in the Whitechapel murders of 1888.

I’ve always been interested in the story – who isn’t? – and remember looking through the 1888 file of my own local newspaper at the columns and columns devoted to the grisly details of these terrible crimes.

The story is known all over the world and various theories have sprung up over the years. We think we know all about it, but Rubenhold looks at it from a completely different perspective. It’s shocking, really, that this hasn’t been done before.

A few years ago I read her book, The Five, on which this podcast is based, and it was a real eye-opener. A terrific amount of research went into this work of non-fiction.

‘Ripperologists’ will tell you otherwise, but it doesn’t matter that we don’t know the identity of the murderer or probably never will. The thing that has been overlooked in this story, time and time again, are the women he killed.

In Rubenhold’s hands, they become real people, who lived and loved, with early aspirations and hopes. They married, had children. And then they fell on hard times and met a dreadful end.

Batten down the hatches

Mammatus storm clouds, San Antonio. Picture: Wikipedia Commons

The storm tickled us here in west Dorset, with high winds and rain but nothing we couldn’t handle.

We were lucky. Other parts of the country have had it much worse than us.

Storm Isha is the ninth named storm this season. We have Storm Jocelyn just around the corner. Batten down the hatches.

I don’t know about you but there are so many named storms, I lose track of them all.

Someone told me yesterday that the storms are named by European countries jostling for position in the naming stakes.

I didn’t think that could be right. But there was something in the back of my mind about storm names alternating between male and female.

So I turned to the internet and looked it up.

Thanks to a very comprehensive (and, thankfully, short) article on the BBC website, I am now considerably the wiser.

The male/female names were indeed a thing, but not any more. (And to digress, when did the words any more become anymore? I must have missed that memo.)

The US began naming storms in the 1950s.

Here in the UK, it’s a much more recent phenomenon.

According to the BBC, ‘in the UK, the Met Office names any storm when it has the potential to cause disruption or damage.

‘It believes that it is easier to follow the progress of a storm on TV, radio, or social media if it has a name.’

So how are storms named?

Over to the BBC article again:

‘The UK Met Office and Irish service Met Éireann launched their first Name our Storms campaign in 2015.

‘Most years, they draw the names from a shortlist of favourites submitted by the public. Since 2019, they have been joined by the national weather service of the Netherlands, which also chips in a few suggested names each year.

‘In previous years, storms have alternated between male and female names.

‘However, for the 2023-24 season, the Met Office has altered this, naming a number of storms after prominent scientists, meteorologists and others “who work to keep people safe in times of severe weather”.’

So, this season, it will be mostly:

Agnes, Babet, Ciaran, Debi, Eli, Fergus, Gerrit, Henk, Isha, Jocelyn, Kathleen, Lilian, Minnie, Nicholas, Olga, Piet, Regina, Stuart, Tamiko, Vincent and Walid.

(Storm Minnie!)

We might not get through the whole alphabet and the letters Q, U and Z don’t get a look in. But over the coming months, you may hear some names which aren’t on the British/Irish/Dutch list.

Explains the BBC: ‘That is because storms are named where they originate. Storms that reach the UK are occasionally the tail end of one that started in the US several days earlier – and may have been downgraded from hurricane or cyclone status.’

Keep safe.