The cheerful builder has the day off.
This is a respite for me. The last couple of weeks have seen my routine disrupted, which is traumatic for us anal-retentives.
I haven’t been able to take my mid-afternoon bath, for instance.
My usual Wednesday lunchtime viewing of Prime Minister’s Question Time has been put on hold. Typically, I missed an exciting one with (as far as I could tell with the sound turned off, and I may have got the details wrong here) the chamber being infiltrated by The Great Soprendo.
What I will not miss is Steve Wright in the Afternoon.
I’ve checked, and contractually I am obliged to have Radio 2 on whilst builders are in the house.
Ken Bruce I am happy with – he’s like your favourite but slightly embarrassing uncle. Jeremy Vine lifts his dumbed-down current affairs show, and has been playing Leonard Cohen tracks all week. But Steve Wright...
It’s like Smashy and Nicey never happened. I listen to his show, and black waves of old-gittishness descend down over me. From the desperate theme tune to the cringe-worthy cheering and clapping, the whole thing’s an eighties revival without ever having had the courtesy to go away.
Steve Wright is the marrow of DJ’s. There is no point to him. He might seem interesting on the outside, but he is utterly, utterly bland and unexciting. He has no taste in any way whatsoever.
He is big and green and bulbous. (Note to self – must check this, may not be true - may have to edit on final draft).
If I were to continue my excellent analogy, I might say that if I owned a restaurant I would not serve him. But that would be stupid. He is very rich, and if I owned a restaurant I would probably be struggling.
Instead, I would wait until he had paid his bill in full, then leap out of the kitchen and scream at him: “FACTOID! I put bogies in your mushroom risotto!”
I bear him no ill-will.
But his contrived jollity is driving me up the wall.