Thursday, 19 April 2007

And incinerate the licence of any radio station that dares to play Hootie

I find most DJs annoying. I figure their purpose is to make any time that music’s not playing on the station intolerable. As a result, when the music does come back you’re so relieved that you don’t care how shit the songs are, all that’s on your mind it relief that an idiot is no longer shouting about how this is your last chance to win something you don’t want.

The infantile banter is finally beginning to drip from your memory by the time a song from 25 years ago (a song who’s biggest asset was that it was catchy) is replaced by a gaggle of chiselled teenage boys moaning in harmony about how hard it is to be in love when you’re good looking. By the time the third mediocre tune is coming to an end, your brain is screaming like a 67-year-old piano teacher, “Why don’t they make good songs any more?”

The track finishes and you don’t even hear the offer for couples Brazilian waxing. The absence of second-rate harmonies and tired chord progressions is bliss for the first 30-seconds but then the ads start to invade the edges of your consciousness. You fight the urge to purchase some cut-price jewellery from Wellington’s largest range of agate, jasper and lapis lazuli but by the time their offer comes to an end, a new advert starts up and it’s all you can do to stop yourself singing along with the jingle. Just as you don’t think you can take it any more a voice filled with a mix of mirth and self-confidence that only a mother could love brings to an end the hellish sales propositions.

You feel fortunate at having been saved by the utterings from afar but the you realise the catchphrases and slogans are beginning to squash your will to live and it’s almost as if you can feel yourself becoming stupider with every word that you hear the radio host nattering onto the airways…


Yes; I now work in an office that always has the radio tuned to ‘Classic HitsFM.

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