Fart FM

I live on the kind of estate where the unheralded removal of part of your car’s radio ariel by a group of track suited twelve year olds is not necessarily frowned upon. I blame the fact that my car is toxic green and is, therefore, an easily spotted target - but it could also be because so many cars have been de-arieled and it was the only one left.

As a result, I can only tune my radio to ‘Heart FM’ and it is driving me to near insanity. It is a terrible channel. If I ever wanted to listen to a gaggle of infinitely dull people occasionally exchanging niceties between playing flat, uninspiring music, then I would zip around the country gathering together my weird, Agatha Christie obsessed cousins and stick them in a room with a sound recorder and a few tapes of disco tracks. Yes, it is that bad.

At this point, I will draw your attention to the fact that I am actually a music lover, and peculiarly, I have not turned my radio off completely as occasionally they will deign to play a song that most people would concede is half decent. However, good tracks or otherwise, the juxtaposition of Kelly Clarkson’s ‘Mr Know It All’ (“Mr Know It All, yeah you think you know it all, but you don’t know a thing at all”), with an artist who actually considers lyric writing a finer art than repeating the same few words over and over again, grates, somewhat. (I never want to hear that song again, please. Three minutes on the radio is one thing, but an entire day of having it rolling over and over inside my head can never be recovered.)

The strangest thing about my radio related problems is that I could tune to every channel when in Suffolk. Admittedly not at the correct frequencies for each channel, but with a bit of fumbling around through the airways, I got every single one in the end. I still maintain that Suffolk is a magical place.