Tomorrow, at 12.30pm, I finally receive the fame and respect that I’ve known all along I deserve. That’s right: a five-minute slot on local radio. Nobody could claim I don’t deserve that. It’s to advertise the conference I’m organizing in the evening, which is both
I’ve often been told I have the perfect face for radio. It’s true: I keep it in a bag. Won’t that be a surprise treat for tomorrow’s interview? It’ll be like when Preston walked off during Never Mind The Buzzcocks, only more horrifying.
Sources tell me that my satellite linkup from the other side of Wytham Hill is currently in preparation, and I’m waiting patiently for my rider of pizza and Penguin mints to arrive any minute now. Actually, I might get bumped down the schedules, so don’t hold your breath. I mean, do tune in, but don’t be surprised if it’s not me you’re listening to, and instead you get someone from the Elder Stubbs allotments talking about his legumes, or Keith Mitchell being his usual appalling self.