Big Al

People imagine the life of a radio presenter is glamorous. They picture a rock-and-roll lifestyle. Fame. Fortune. Wild parties with celebrities who insist on buying you drinks while whispering, “Play my song again, Al.”

The reality is slightly different.

My alarm goes off early enough to annoy the sun. Joanne usually puts her foot in the small of my back and pushes me off the edge of the bed. By the time most people are thinking about opening their first email, I’m already pointing the car toward the studios of Nifty UK Radio in Oldham, wondering if the kettle will beat me there or if Tim (Producer extraordinaire) has already had three coffees and reorganised the entire show plan.

We arrive about two hours before we go on air. Two hours might sound excessive to the untrained ear, but this is the delicate art of radio preparation. A show meeting happens. It’s a serious creative summit where the nation’s most pressing issues are discussed.

Questions like:

“Is it acceptable to eat a curry for breakfast?”

“Why do seagulls look like they’re judging you?”

“Can we legally start a debate about whether Stockport counts as ‘posh’?”

Tim usually sits there calmly, sipping coffee and pretending he works with a professional. He likes to think he is the brains of the operation, while I’m essentially the labrador that runs into the room shouting things.

The meeting usually involves plotting what we’ll talk about between 10am and 1pm. We call this “show prep.” What it actually means is finding stories weird enough to make people in traffic spit their brew out laughing.

Then the red light comes on and it's Showtime!

For three hours we fire music across Greater Manchester like confetti from a cannon. Tunes that make people shout “what a tune!” before they’ve even finished their first sip of tea. The messages start coming in. Listeners arguing about the topics. Someone texting from Bolton about their dog. Someone in Rochdale saying they’re listening at work instead of doing spreadsheets.

Radio magic.

And somewhere behind the glass is Tim, calmly steering the ship while I attempt to drive it like a shopping trolley with a jet engine.

Then the show finishes.

And here’s where the glamour really kicks in.

Because every day I attempt the same noble mission. I try to persuade Tim that we should nip to the Up Steps Inn in Oldham for a quick “wind-down.” Just a quiet pint. A civilised discussion about the show.

Tim is teetotal. So to him, the Upsteps Inn has roughly the same appeal as a dentist’s waiting room that also serves karaoke.

There’s another issue as well. Tim occasionally appears on television. Which means if he walks into a pub, someone will inevitably say the dreaded sentence:

“Are you that bloke off the telly?”

He reacts to that question the same way a vampire reacts to garlic.

So instead of a relaxing pint, we pack up, head out, and go our separate ways like radio cowboys riding off into a slightly less glamorous sunset.

I head home and this is where the fantasy really collapses. Because once the headphones come off and the mic goes quiet, I transform from Radio Presenter to Domestic Maintenance Technician.

Washing goes in.

Ironing happens.

The car gets washed.

Windows get cleaned.

At some point I’m standing there with a sponge thinking, “Somewhere out there, people believe this job is glamorous.”

Eventually the day winds down. I climb into bed, knowing tomorrow morning it all starts again.

Alarm.

Studio.

Three hours of chaos on the airwaves.

And another failed attempt to drag a teetotal television personality into a pub.

Radio life.

It’s not glamorous.

But it’s bloody brilliant!

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