Radical Radio

I woke up early the other morning in a state of massive anxiety. I had been having one of those dreams that was luridly real, full of dread and overpowering circumstance. It took about half an hour to reassure myself that all was actually OK in the real world and that I'd not really been part of a media pile-up and career suicide.

In the dream, I had taken a minute out of my radio show to get myself a drink of water from the cooler outside. There I had met an old friend, and we got talking, and soon the events had escalated into an exotic meal, an assembly of my most rowdy pals and a total dereliction of my radio show. Around midnight, I realised the enormity of the abuse and I hurried back to Studio 8. It was all over and some doleful looking colleagues were clearing up. They had plugged the gap in the show but at some personal distress. No-one would look me in the face. I thought about the potential excuses - illness, family issues, temporary insanity, but nothing was sufficient. It was all over.

Analysts might be able to tell me something profound about it all, that it was an analogue for some other part of my life, but at the time it felt like a variation of the old maths exam revisited dream, or the naked in public riff. It was a shocker.