There are radio presenters… and then there was James Stannage. A man who didn’t just host shows, he detonated them. If radio is supposed to be smooth, controlled and vaguely sensible, James treated that idea like a parking fine he had no intention of paying.
I’m heartbroken writing this, but I’m also laughing, because you simply cannot think about James without something ridiculous popping into your head.
I had the privilege of working with him at 96.2 The Revolution, where he followed me on-air at the weekends. That alone should tell you everything you need to know about the state I used to leave that studio in.
Let’s start with the “golden rule” of radio. Never enter a studio while someone else is on-air. It’s sacred. It’s drilled into you from day one.
James didn’t ignore that rule. He actively hunted it down and stamped on it.
Mid-link, while you’re trying to sound professional, hit your timings, and pretend you’ve got everything under control, the door would suddenly burst open like it had just been served a warrant. There he’d be. Grinning like he’d just got away with something. Loud enough to register on the Richter scale:
“Al, Babyyyy!”
Now you’ve got two choices. Carry on and pretend this isn’t happening, or completely lose it. I usually hovered somewhere in between, voice wobbling, trying not to laugh while knowing full well the listeners could hear every second of the chaos.
And he loved it. Absolutely loved it.
That was James. He didn’t just break the fourth wall, he kicked it in, dragged it outside and set fire to it for good measure.
On-air, he was fearless. Callers would come on thinking they were about to have a sensible chat about bins, traffic or whatever had annoyed them that day. Within seconds, James had sized them up, turned the conversation on its head and created something that was equal parts debate, comedy and mild public interrogation.
But it was never dull. Not for a second.
He had this instinct, this ridiculous, almost unfair ability to know exactly where the funny was, and go straight for it. No hesitation. No overthinking. Just straight in.
And the thing is, it worked. Every time.
Off-air, nothing changed. If anything, it got worse. Put James in a room and within minutes something would happen that you’d be talking about for years. Usually because he’d engineered it that way.
He didn’t wait for stories. He created them.
There’s a story that Jasper Carrott used to tell about him, and it sums him up perfectly. Most people approach a microphone thinking, “What should I say?” James approached it thinking, “What’s the most outrageous thing I can do here and get away with?” and then went and did exactly that.
No safety net. No second guessing. Just pure instinct and a complete commitment to being entertaining.
That’s what made him different. In an industry that can sometimes feel over-polished and carefully managed, James was gloriously unpredictable. You never quite knew what was coming next, and that was the entire point.
Listeners didn’t just tune in, they leaned in. Because anything could happen.
And often, it did.
Manchester has lost a proper character. One of those voices and personalities that you don’t replace, because you simply can’t. There was only one James Stannage.
I’ll always remember the laughs, the madness, and the sheer unpredictability of being anywhere near him, especially when a studio door was involved.
And somewhere, I’d like to think there’s a perfectly calm, well-run radio show happening… right up until the moment the door flies open and everything goes completely off script again.
