Mike Read & Radio Jackboot


Mike Read, doing a racist calypso for UKIP? What happened to Radio 1’s People’s Poet of Pop who, like some kind of Pied Piper, so coolly led the nation’s youth through the debauched jungle of popular beat combos and their precariously degenerate melodies, delivering us all so safely into the hand of nice? Yet the only thing square about Mike Read was his TV-sized specs, he was so down with the kids. How come he’s a jackbooter from the shires?

Kid yourselves not, kids, all Read’s doing is revealing the fascist ideology he’d have personally imbibed over decades from working at Radio 1 which you must note, was never cool. It was always an utterly Establishment enterprise founded solely to founder the shipborne Radios Caroline and London, ‘pirate’ radio stations who posed an utterly phantom threat, and loot them of their DJs. Radio 1 was the battleship in the BBC fleet that HM Government dispatched to sink these threadbare buccanears in its imperial bid for total hegemony of the airwaves and the minds of the nation’s youth, and it worked.

If it was ever about being down with the kids, the kids’ culture on HMS Radio Wrong was directed by prep-school elitists, seeking to haul the hoi polloi back from the brink of degenerate freedom and reindoctrinate them with ‘THE STATE IS COOL – BOOGALOO WITH HMG’. Like UKIP now, they convey the facade of freedom as a front for fascism and seeking to keep this island safe from ‘degenerate’ outside influences, ideas and people.

Read’s followed the path stomped on radio and Saturday TV by another former R1 ranter and right-winger Noel Edmonds, whose convivial house party morphed into the laughably sinister Sky show, Noel’s HQ from where he and a ballooned Cheggers plotted to putsch anything obviously ridiculous, apart from themselves. Extremists on fringe TV.

Edmonds is something of an enigma. He had a tremendous career at the Beeb, somehow his history as a one-time matey aboard pirate radio didn’t hold him back an iota. Something of a communitarian mindset could be glimpsed by endeavours like the cooperatively-based Saturday Swap Shop, but which was supplanted and buried by Read’s corporatist Saturday Superstore, a.k.a. Tesco Tubbies. How people change – it says it all that Edmonds spends most of his time on the phone talking to a mysterious Banker.

Still, the Beeb’s hosted its fair share of money fetishists, like Chris Moyles, and Jonathan Ross whose ego over at Radio 2 enabled Russell Brand to wank all over Andrew Sach’s answerphone. All egos turned awful by monstrous cosseting. But it was back at R1 was where rooted the über-anti-Christ Jimmy Savile, former knight no less, the People’s Paedo and great, great friend of extremist Margaret Thatcher, he whose exploits were so well known within Broadcasting House they gave him a parking space for his rapist caravan and actively protected for decades, even after his death. Need I mention DLT, Stuart Hall, others, et al.

You see where it all went wrong.

You see what comes out that institute to which the state demands we hand over our hard-earned doubloons.

You see how Read, the right-wing singer of songs, could have gone so awry …  because his upbringing at the Beeb meant no other outcome was possible.



This month am down in Blaydon six pre-dawn mornings a week, doing a total body transformation class off these chaps, http://www.operationfitness.co.uk which is very good indeed, and has an accompanying nutrition plan which is on the face of it quite spartan, and one feels one’s self thinking ‘who’d know if I had one more oatcake biscuit thing?’ – yet you abstain! The margins of error are wafer thin, and you’re not even allowed a wafer (well, not many). But it’s as much I think about breaking habits, just like when the telly died we no longer could watch Family Guy at 11pm so had no incentive to bomb down to Sainy-Bs at 1050pm to get choc, so … we don’t. And after a couple of weeks of not diving into Greggs, which I did once at three separate Greggs one day walking through Toon, now one doesn’t really feel the need.

Also down in Blaydon is Morrisons, and you go in, and first aisle up is the fruit and veg bit, with salads on the left, then meats beyond … but to get to all that first in your way are huge cubic piles of boxes of Walkers Crisps, 32 packets for £3, or walls of Boulmers Cider or boxes of Coors and Carlsberg and Coke. And these aren’t just at the entrance but have been intricately built in odd spots elsewhere in the store, despite there being their own special designated aisles for these sorts of stuff. Then there are trees of wine planted here and there, then you notice at the end of each aisle, regardless of what that aisle is, there’s SPECIAL OFFERS of boxes of chocolates, fizzy drinks, beer, Pringles, ketchup and baked beans, shelves of OFFERS basically book-ending the aisles with discounted salt/fat/sugar/alcohol. Then you’re at the tills where as you’d always get anyway are flanking shelves of impulse purchase chocs, but what there is as well are more like walls again of Roses tins, or Quality Street, or Coke, all the way down, funnelling people through the checkouts.

You cannot move for temptation from total shit.

Well I’m not tempted, possibly I’m more aware of all this and now think I can’t be bothered …

Still miss sausages, though.


Just seen a lecture at the Herschel building in Newcastle, which reminded me of lovely Greenwich, where the Observatory’s been going since the late 1600s, when England was as alternately as war with the French or the Scots, or the Dutch, the Germans, the Spanish, when not quelling rebellions within its own borders.

The observatory, high up atop the hill, up above the town and the forest of ship’s masts and sails upon the river, the town with its tight cobbled lanes of inns and taverns and squalid houses of ill-repute, sailors, loose women with all the filth and violence and stink of old beer, piss, shit, horse shit and wood smoke. When you’d have half a dozen children and expect to outlive most of them.

London would have been so, so much smaller then and relatively far away, farmland and not sprawl separating it from Greenwich, with the only pollution coming only from wood-burning fires of homes and businesses like blacksmiths, brickworks and glass makers. Would the astronomers invite the merchants and naval lords, merchants who traded in goods brought to perilously from all the world over, and navy men who’d seen so much of the world that had yet so much to discover, to come up for the price of fine wines and tobacco and pipes, to spend the evenings that wore on from basking in convivial mirth, to them sitting mouths agape as they heard and were maybe invited to see the latest discoveries among the black sky, the Heavens heaving with so many thousands more stars than we’d see now. Merchants, navy men, astronomers, atop a hill from where they came to understand things no-one had ever conceived and maybe see what had never been seen.


Is Morrissey a satirist? If not he’s a right miserable git, I can entirely see his appeal to self-absorbed teenagers. But did he realise how he could tap that rich seam of idiots with pocket money and started singing accordingly?

Can you get better than a Kwik-fit fitter?

Do they really drink Um Bongo in the Congo?

Another bonfire pissed on

When I awoke this morning, instead of the usual rousing from a fitful sleep of dreams of happier times and climes and groggily becoming conscious of the banal horror of my empty existence, I had an idea: I could become a sugar daddy. YEAH – someone with the suave older man look of, say, Blake Carrington, who swishes about Monaco in a Masserati and camel-hair coat and who lavishes his millions on some 20-something know-nothing bint at Swiss finishing school. Now that’s something to aim for.


Now I might be some years off being the right age, and several million short of the requireds, but that’s the point of planning ahead. But! In any case, that’s not my plan, cos I’m devotedly married to Mrs Tudge, to whom I proposed (again!), this time with this wonderful idea: I could be her sugar daddy … to which she said ‘nah’, or ‘nee’, or ‘haddaway ‘n shite, man.’

Well let’s just say I’m disappointed. That was a bonfire that could have taken down the Amazon, but out it’s gone with an almighty hiss, hosed upon from above by a Victoria Falls’ worth of piss.


blake n her indoors (This is Dynasty, BTW, I am in no way suggesting DV is funny).


Remember those skits on Sesame Street seeking to impart the idea and spirit of ‘cooperate’ to kids? The tall guy can get the cookie jar off the shelf while the gal with small hands can reach in and get the cookies (biscuits, damnit! Cookies are choc-chip things made by Maryland, or something), or something.

Well go me and the Labs! One of them shat on the living room carpet last night, and in the spirit of ‘cooperate’ Ben-dog ate it up again, and I cleaned the carpet. Later, possibly in not quite the same vein, Ben-dog later sicked this shit up in a pile on the top landing, and again I cleaned it up.


Thoughts for the day

1) I was in Morrisons earlier in need of a piss, and not knowing where was the loo I amusingly thought I could just go in my shorts. Then it occurred to me that for a 6-month-year-old that would simply be the solution, no consideration required.

2) Driving up the A695 hill, the heavens opened up in a fabulous array of great white and grey clouds, towering cliff-sides and mighty battleships cruising through the blue sea of the sky. There was one massive mountain of cloud that soared thousands of feet from base to summit, but in its middle it had opened up to reveal a stunning billowing cloudscape all side-lit by the Sun, and it reminded me of the kind of cloudscapes you’d see in those huge religious paintings from centuries ago, and for all of a second I got the same ethereal sensation, that other-world sense I did as a child when seeing such monumental beauty, or when the wind’s in your hair atop a valley … and then the feeling fled, and I realised these days I feel that so seldom and fleetingly. What gets in the way?

3) In Toon earlier we saw an ad with that ridiculous pillock Simon Cowell fronting another shit-fest of X Factor – which, which, let me confess, I would nonetheless out of sheer masochistic apathy end up watching and howling and scowling at, were it not for the fact that our telly died. Having the ol’ tel’ six feet under at the landfill means we get to dodge any number of depleted-shit bullets that would otherwise be sniped at us in our own home. Ding Dong the Hitachi’s Dead