Going Out Without A Bang
Almost thirty years ago, when I was eighteen, one of my favourite D.J.s announced he was leaving the local radio station. He was presenting a late night programme which encouraged listeners to submit stories, poems and wry observations on modern life. We, who took up the invitation, commented on each others contributions and the show felt like a little on-air club. It was a radio version of Facebook, if you like, but decades ahead of its time.
It was clear in the way the D.J. talked about his imminent departure that he didn't want to go. He was being sacked and I was outraged. I wrote an angry letter to the Programme Controller warning that "my entire family" would stop listening to the station unless this decision was reversed. I figured the bosses wouldn't care about the views of a teenager with little money to spend on the products being advertised on the airwaves...but my entire family! Now that was a real threat.
I didn't receive a reply.
A few days passed and then, one night, I received a phone call from a mystery woman claiming to be "a friend" of the hapless D.J. She told me there was going to be a gathering of the disgruntled on Monday night and we would campaign to save the show. We were to meet at 'The Bomb' in Glasgow's Central Station.(It's a war memorial and charity collection point fashioned out of an old artillery shell.) Thereafter, she explained, we would retire to a local pub and "discuss strategy".
Monday night came and I was one of about twelve listeners who turned up. It was all very jolly and we spent a good half hour shaking hands and remembering highlights from various programmes. All except one chap wearing a black over-sized donkey jacket who said barely two words and stood slightly apart from the group. I assumed he was just shy.
In a fleet of three taxis, we made our way to a pub in the east end of the city and there we met our hero - the D.J. himself! Imagine our excitement and then, with alcohol fuelling our thoughts, imagine the bizarre tactics that were discussed as we plotted our campaign. There was talk of picketing the station. Some suggested vandalising the transmitter and then, finally, the bloke in the donkey jacket spoke up.
"I have a gun," he said, patting the bulge on his pocket, "does anyone want to see it?"
At that point the D.J. made his excuses and left - and the rest of us dispersed with the kind of speed you associate with pigeons and angry tabby cats. Needless to say, that was the end of the campaign and, to be honest, when the D.J. quit the airwaves I gradually became a big fan of his successor. Call me fickle.
I was thinking about this episode yesterday when I heard that Terry Wogan had decided to leave Ö÷²¥´óÐã Radio 2's Breakfast Show. You can imagine the emotional reaction of his loyal listeners. But Terry's announcement that, at the age of 71, he was moving to present a weekend show was done with such dignity. Later he was on the telly, thanking his audience and explaining why it was better to go while he was at the top of his game. In the back of the shot you could see Pudsey Bear creeping up behind him, reminding us all of Terry's ceaseless support for Children in Need.
He eased the way for his successor and, more importantly, did no damage to the station. There was no secret campaign organised by gun-toting friends and he didn't even threaten to wreck the transmitter.
Way to go, Mister Wogan, way to go.
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