BBC Radio 2 may not have its troubles to seek at the moment, but here in Edinburgh we have our own little radio disaster looming with the news that Talk 107 is up for sale.
It's not making money, it's been shedding presenters like a moulting dog and, it seems, owners UTV have had enough.
On the face of it, Edinburgh is the ideal place for a talk station. The city is positively hoaching with the kind of people who lik
e the sound of their own voice and the spreading of their own opinions (hark at me!). This is the base for Scottish politicians, for theatrical and erudite advocates, for ministers of the Kirk and for our famous chattering classes, most of whom normally have to be paid to keep their mouths shut.
Unfortunately that's not the sort of chatter that prevails on Talk 107 and I can assure you of that because even though you may never have tuned in, it is my station of choice while in the car. Not at home, you understand, because it's not a sit-down-with-a-cup-of-tea-and-while-away-the-hours, Radio 4 type of listening.
It is the "people's" station, the sort of background that perfectly suits the 15-minute drive to the supermarket or a drive home after work. At times it's the aural equivalent of watching a road crash but at least it is funnier than Ross and Brand's phone messages. Not that the humour is always intentional.
In the early days when no-one, and I mean no-one, phoned in, the sterling and apparently inexhaustible attempts of the presenters to fill-in were in themselves worthy of applause. It was like one of those interview challenges . . . talk for three minutes about paper clips... except that it went on for half an hour, interspersed with desperate pleas to "tell us what you think".
Phase 2 and their prayers were answered with the regular callers... regular as in several times a day. As a piece of social work for the bored and lonely it was a roaring success; a Sony award it was not.
One such regular was Sexy Suzie, an outrageous and flirtatious pensioner who most listeners deduced was former shock jock Scottie McClue in vocal drag.
The strange decision to award Tommy Sheridan two hours of party political broadcast to his comrades every Saturday morning at least added a bit of controversy and to be fair to the perma-tanned one, he did get callers, most of whom rang in to confirm that he was right and the rest of the world was wrong, but a call's a call in talk radio.
Not so lucky was the delightfully camp presenter who, just a few weeks ago, found himself trapped in radio hell when everything went down. No computer; the day before's travel news tape; several vain attempts to reach the guest he was supposed to be interviewing on the phone and a producer gesticulating to him uselessly from the other side of the studio.
"I'm sorry, nothing's working here. I don't know what's happening," he repeated over and over, finally resulting after about 15 minutes of panic, in defeat as he snapped at the producer: "Making signs at me really isn't helping!"
Not surprisingly the most polished shows are those with two presenters. If all else fails, they can at least talk to each other.
For all that, I actually like 107 and I'd be sorry to see it go or become yet another music-mix station. With all its faults it is a luxury because talk radio is expensive to run. Paying real people rather than token royalties for disc-spinning (do they still spin discs?) eats up the pounds and the advertising market which should pay for it is, like every other market, tightening its belt.
It may not make tremendous business sense but we have wavebands full of slick, professional, national and music stations. Local, non-threatening, participative, and to coin a phrase "real", radio like 107 is a gem to be treasured.
Face facts, JackJACK VETTRIANO, though not a darling of the establishment, is the punters' artist. Not that any punter can afford an original but his ubiquitous prints are the modern equivalent of Tretchikoff's Green Lady, which inhabited every sitting room in the Sixties and Seventies.
Though the National Galleries of Scotland deny ever offering him the commission, he claims he was approached to paint a portrait of golfer Colin Montgomerie. He declined, saying "I don't do men with breasts" and, "I have to paint a face I like. Have you seen Colin Montgomerie's face recently?"
One is forced to enquire how recently Mr Vettriano has had a look in the mirror at his own coupon.
How does she do it?ON a similar, but more flattering theme, I don't know what BBC journalist and presenter Sally Magnusson's on but I'll have a pint of it.
She is a fine example of one of these women who infuriatingly gets better and younger-looking as they get older without, I assume, surgical help. Perhaps she has a portrait in the attic?
The full article contains 871 words and appears in Edinburgh Evening News newspaper.
