11:00 AM
I rise when I feel like it. Not when an alarm tells me. Not when society demands it. When I decide the world is ready for me.
Usually that coincides with a rare beam of Manchester sunlight slicing through the drizzle and gently illuminating my face like I’m in a perfume advert. It dances across the imaginary gold leaf on my headboard, and for a brief moment, everything feels… cinematic.
Except Thursdays.
Thursdays, I’m violently dragged back to reality by the dustmen launching glass into a bin like they’re auditioning for the Olympics. I’ve complained, of course. Explained that 11 AM is simply uncivilised for a man of my vocal importance. But no. Apparently, society must function.
Selfish.
11:30 AM
I summon Arthur, my butler.
Now, Arthur is a busy man, so I trust he’s already completed the morning checklist:
Bins out, discreetly. We can’t have the neighbours clocking the suspicious number of empty “posh supermarket” items.
Guard dogs fed. Volume and Gain. Loyal. Fierce. Slightly confused Labradors in reality, but we move.
Jaguar polished. Not a streak. Not a smudge. I expect showroom brilliance before I even consider stepping into it.
I nod approvingly. Arthur nods back. We understand each other. Mostly because he is, in fact, me… and the Jaguar is a memory from 2008.
6:30 PM: The Arrival
Arthur drops me at the Nifty studios. By “drops me,” I mean I park slightly wonky because I misjudge the curb again.
Still, I don’t walk in. I glide.
Inside, the atmosphere is electric. Interns gather. There’s reverence. There’s awe. One gently dabs my forehead with a chilled silk cloth. Another feeds me grapes. Seedless, naturally. I nod as if this is standard practice. Because it is. In my head.
6:55 PM: The Reality Check
The silk cloth? Damp bog roll from the studio toilet.
The Jaguar? Making a noise that suggests it’s about three revs away from becoming modern art.
I blink.
I’m in a Vauxhall Corsa. Engine off. Sitting in the car park. Finishing a chip barm that’s been absolutely drowned in vinegar. It’s soaking through the paper, through my jeans, possibly into my soul.
I found the money for it under the seat.
There is no glide. There is only a light jog through sideways rain because I’ve forgotten my lanyard again and I’m now trying to break into my own workplace while protecting my hair, which has the structural integrity of damp tissue.
6:58 PM: The “Anna” Factor
I enter the studio… and the glamour takes another direct hit.
Anna has been in.
Now, I don’t know what’s happened in that room, but it looks like a crisp-based crime scene. Cheese and onion packets everywhere. Digestive crumbs scattered like confetti. There’s evidence of what can only be described as a baguette incident directly over the mixing desk.
I have two minutes.
Two. Minutes.
I’m blowing crumbs out of faders like I’m resuscitating them. I’m wiping unidentified sticky patches off the mic with a mystery wet wipe I found on the floor. I don’t ask questions anymore. I just survive.
7:00 PM
Showtime.
I hit the fader, which responds with a noise that suggests it’s seen things… terrible things.
Then the voice goes on.
“Good evening, Greater Manchester…”
Smooth. Effortless. Like I’ve just stepped out of a private jet instead of a slightly damp Corsa with a vinegar problem.
The first song starts. I immediately pick a rogue crisp fragment off the mute button and flick it away like a seasoned professional.
This is broadcasting. This is craft. This is… absolute chaos dressed up as confidence.
Somewhere between links, I mentally prepare for the inevitable arrival of Simon Walker and whatever bold fashion decision he’s made today.
Kappa tracksuit? Full commitment? No irony?
Respect, in a slightly confused sort of way.
And that’s it. That’s the glamorous life.
Not quite champagne and silk cloths…
But definitely crumbs, chaos, and a microphone that somehow makes it all sound brilliant.
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