Chapter 1

VIRGIN RADIO

‘I am contemplating horticulture.’
(email to The Geoff Show)

It’s 7.30 a.m. and I listen to Christian O’Connell as the nation butters its toast, straightens its hair. The theme of today’s show is marriage: the listener who tells Christian the best story of their wedding wins two first-class tickets to New York to attend the premiere of the film 27 Dresses. Sandra is on air; I brush my teeth, tie my tie.

‘I was nineteen and looking after my sister’s house while she was away,’ she tells O’Connell, ‘and there was a knock at the door. A man was stood there with a baby boy in his arms. He asked for my sister and when I told him she’d gone on holiday he looked really disappointed and turned away. I had never seen a man who looked so sad, so I called him back, asked if he was okay. He turned round, said he needed someone to talk to, so I invited him in. He told me his girlfriend had just left him for another man and she had told him that no court in the world would give custody to him ahead of the baby’s mother.

‘He had seen a lawyer,’ Sandra continues, ‘who told him the only way of getting custody of his son would be if he was married. He told me he didn’t know many women, certainly not any who would agree to marry him. And without even thinking about it I said: “You could ask me.”‘

‘He looked at me, then went down on one knee and said: “Will you marry me?”‘

‘You have to be joking!’ O’Connell says, aghast. I am standing by the front door, keys in my hand. I have to leave for work but I can’t, I want to hear more of Sandra’s story.

‘And six days later we were married.’

‘But surely you didn’t love each other?’ Christian asks.

‘We discussed that, but agreed to worry about it later, the baby had to come first. And this was twenty-five years ago.’

‘What an incredible story!’ O’Connell says, a trill of excitement in his voice for the first time this morning. ‘I want the movie rights! I want to get Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan involved!’

I take out my new portable radio and headphones, bought especially so I can carry on listening as I go to and from work. I don’t want to miss out on a single minute. As I walk, O’Connell reads out texts and emails that are already flooding in to the show. People say that Sandra has restored their faith in humanity, that, like me, they are late for work because they didn’t feel able to stop listening.

‘There’s already been two calls from tabloid newspapers asking for Sandra’s story,’ O’Connell tells his increasingly gushing listeners as I get into work at 9.15.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say to Alan Medlicott, who looks up from the folder his head is buried in and nods. Alan Medlicott is my boss, a tubby man with bright-red cheeks. He sits opposite me, next to Craig the new boy, who has a cherubic face, the side-parting of a bank manager. Craig’s eighteen years old and has a pension plan, a briefcase and a nodding Gromit toy perched on his computer. Alan Medlicott likes him because he’s very good with spreadsheets and offers to do overtime. We work in the corner of the room furthest from the main entrance, so to arrive late involves a walk of shame across the open-plan office. You can sense everyone looking up from their desks, smirking as you shuffle to your seat to start your day, bleary-eyed, yawning.
Last night I was in the pub with my friend Mark, telling him I was going to listen to a different radio station every day, and he asked if I had ever listened to Christian O’Connell.

‘He’s brilliant,’ Mark told me, ‘easily the best person on radio.’ Ever the diligent friend, I tuned in to Virgin when my alarm woke me this morning, but didn’t like it. O’Connell, the self-styled ‘daddy of morning radio’, seemed to have an abrupt presenting style bordering on the aggressive, not just to listeners who call in, but towards his producer, Brian, whom he treats like the kid at school who can’t afford Nike trainers. O’Connell was involved in a high-profile transfer to Virgin from London station XFM and is considered to be one of the most exciting DJs around, mainly by Mark.

‘Are you coming out with us tonight, Brian?’

‘I can’t. My cat’s got to have its teeth removed.’

‘What! That’s a ridiculous excuse. You just don’t want to come. I can smell a load of bull shhh…’

‘No, honestly, I would come out, but I’ve got to take it to the vet’s.’

‘Bull shhh…’

A vet emails the show to say that the symptoms Brian describes sound like severe gingivitis, and the only way to stop the cat’s intense pain is to go to a vet to have its teeth removed as soon as possible.

O’Connell chews over the situation now he has had an expert’s opinion. ‘Bull shh…’ he repeats, sniggering.

Sandra is back on air again before the end of the show.

‘Obviously you won the competition,’ O’Connell tells her. ‘You can tell your husband you’re taking him to New York. No one else stood a chance! Is there anything you’d like to say to your new fans?’

‘Well, just to let them know that life is for living, you have to take risks if you want to be happy. Just do what you want to do.’

‘You’re quite right, maybe that’s the way we should all approach life. Brian, you’re fired.’

O’Connell tells us that due to such demand, the conversation with Sandra will be replayed later on this morning. I really want to hear it again, I hadn’t been paying attention at the beginning of her story because I assumed that the call would be as uneventful as the others I had heard.

It feels good to listen to the radio at my desk. I’ve been in the same job for six months and have already run out of conversation with Alan Medlicott and Craig. My work is a lethal cocktail of data entry and filing, listening to Virgin could be a welcome addition to my otherwise repetitive daily routine. Sandra’s theory that ‘you should do what you want to do’ is an axiom far removed from my own life and the words stick in my head like a radio jingle. I cling to the safety net provided by the world of temping, where risks are minimal, in my case non-existent. Before I found this job I worked for a company three doors away, where I inputted slightly different data in a slightly different font and sat opposite people with slightly different faces. At first I thought of this kind of work as a stopgap, a way of earning some money while I developed the grand plan of what I was going to do with my life. But nothing ever materialized, and brittle temp jobs have become my career, with no end date, no chance to climb the corporate ladder. Occasionally there are perks, like finding a pen, or checking my emails without getting caught. Which is why listening to the radio at my desk appeals to me, it’s a rebellion against Alan Medlicott, against the people with designated parking spaces who drive past me as I walk in the rain to and from work. Admittedly it’s a tame rebellion, it’s not exactly overthrowing the Cuban government or mods fighting rockers on Brighton beach, but these days I welcome anything that makes my day go by more quickly.
It’s 10 a.m. and Russ Williams is on air. Russ has been part of the Virgin team since the station launched in 1993, when he presented The Breakfast Show. The first hour of his programme is devoted to classic songs from the eighties, and although it’s always good to hear songs by Kate Bush, Duran Duran, the Stone Roses, Russ seems uninterested. When he names the songs he’s just played – ‘Hounds of Love’, ‘Wild Boys’, ‘Fools Gold’ – it sounds like he’s reading a shopping list. Potatoes, semi-skimmed milk, dishwasher tablets. If I wanted to hear those songs I could just get myself an iPod.

‘Okay,’ Russ says, ‘guess which song I’m about to play. It was a big hit in the seventies but not number 1 until the eighties. If you can guess what it is, text in.’

Why would anyone text in?

Who?

Why?

The answer, he reveals after the eleven o’clock news, is…drum roll…dramatic pause, tension, tension…’Imagine’ by John Lennon.

‘Well done to everyone who got it right,’ Russ tells us.

For the rest of the show, Russ isn’t restricted to the eighties. In fact at one stage he plays a song from as recently as seven years ago. Virgin brands itself as a rock station, if a song’s got an indulgent guitar solo, it’s on the playlist. At one o’clock Russ is finished and my lunch break starts. I switch off my computer and take out the sandwiches I made last night. Today it’s cheese and onion. Yesterday was cheese with no onion. I am living life on the edge. As I dine I listen to Afternoon Tea with Neil Francis. He plays ROCK music: Muse, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Aerosmith, then replays this morning’s conversation between Sandra and Christian O’Connell.

‘It’s a lovely story,’ he says at its heart-warming conclusion. ‘But do you think Sandra’s telling the truth?’

I had briefly dabbled with the fact that the story might not be true, that she could have made it up, that Sandra is a massive fibber, but decided that it doesn’t really matter. It made entertaining radio and was something for people to listen to while they were eating their breakfast, time that would have otherwise been spent staring out of the window. There is a chance that Sandra is a fantasist, that she isn’t even called Sandra, but I believe her. I think she’s nice and that every word she said was true. Maybe that means I’m gullible, but I’m glad I heard her on the radio this morning, and I’m glad that she’s going to New York with her real-life husband who definitely exists. But even if it’s all lies then that’s fine with me too, her story works as a parable, that if you take risks there is no limit to what you can achieve.

As I don’t have a very good memory, I open up a blank Word document and start typing up Sandra’s story. If I don’t have a record of it, when I try to regale my friends with her anecdote one evening it will come out as ‘There was a girl called Sandra, she was…somewhere…for some reason, and a guy came to her house and said…something…anyway, they’re happily married now.’ Typing this up has the added benefit that to anyone who looks across at me, it looks like I’m doing work. No one is going to look up and suspect I’m not inputting data, that I’m actually typing up an anecdote I heard on Virgin Radio.

‘Today’s mystery iPod belongs to Lee Sharp!’ Neil Francis reveals. ‘He’s got a very eclectic music collection,’ he says of the former Manchester United footballer and the next two tracks, the Foo Fighters and U2, are exclusively from his iPod. Conveniently, the two songs also fit perfectly into the type of music Virgin plays all day, every day. I go to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. Standing by the kettle is Kate, the only person at work I know well enough to talk to.

‘Hi, John,’ she says, warmly. It’s nice to hear a voice which isn’t coming through my headphones, so I take the earpieces out, let them dangle over my shoulder. I give Kate my mug and she pours tea from her pot. As we drink, I tell her Sandra’s story.

‘Do you think it’s true?’ I ask, still bitter at Neil Francis and his naysaying.

‘It has to be,’ Kate tells me, beaming a smile. I rinse out my cup, put it on the draining board.

‘I think so too,’ I say, my faith restored as I put my headphones back on.
At four o’clock I sit at my desk waiting for the clock to turn. I go to the toilet so I don’t have to go in my own time. Since the Sandra story there has been little more than adverts and songs: Amy Winehouse, the Hoosiers, Snow Patrol. This isn’t what radio was made for. It’s a long way from families huddled around the wireless listening to Chamberlain declaring war. Nick Jackson presents the Drivetime show. He plays Oasis and the Pretenders and just as I think about turning my radio off to get ready to go home, there’s a trailer for The Geoff Show tonight at ten.

‘I was in Las Vegas with my brother recently,’ Geoff says, his voice refreshingly cheery. ‘He’s not a rich man, my brother, in fact he owes various credit companies considerable sums of cash. We were on the plane on the way back and he had his head in his hands.

‘”What’s the matter?” I asked.

‘”I’m calculating my debts, I think I’ve lost three grand.”

‘I felt really bad for him,’ Geoff continues, ‘so the next day I phoned to check he was okay. When he answered he seemed really chipper.

‘”I didn’t expect you to be in a good mood?”

‘”Well you know how I thought I’d lost three grand? I’ve realized it was only two and a half. So I’ve been out this afternoon and bought myself an iPod and a digital camera!”‘

I laugh out loud at my desk. Alan Medlicott and Craig look up and I have to disguise my glee as a cough. Eventually it is 5.30 and I am out of the door like a Japanese bullet train. I carry on listening as I walk home.

Nick Jackson announces a competition in conjunction with Renault Vans; the winner will receive a gadget to attach DAB digital radio to their car stereo. Gary is on air trying to win.

‘There are five types of vehicles not allowed in the outside lane of a motorway. Gary, if you can name one you will win.’ Jackson is so excited he sounds as if he’ll burst.

Gary ums reluctantly as the tension builds. ‘Pulling a trailer?’

‘CONGRATULATIONS! You’re a WINNER!’
I decide I may as well carry on listening to Virgin for the rest of the evening, there’s nothing on TV and I’ve no plans to go out tonight, so I listen to Ben Jones on my settee. He’s on air from seven o’clock until Geoff starts at ten. He plays ‘Just Looking’ by the Stereophonics ‘who are appearing at Australia’s V Festival’. There is more airplay for Scouting for Girls, and then ‘North Country Boy’ by the Charlatans.

‘If you want to win tickets to watch the Charlatans at an exclusive gig, including a champagne reception and a meal at the Hard Rock Café, phone in now!’ Jones urges. After a song by the Hoosiers, Mike, a policeman, is on the line trying to win.

‘Are you a Charlatans fan, Mike?’

‘I love the Charlatans,’ Mike replies, sounding far too confident. As I make myself a cup of tea I hope he fails.

‘Okay, here’s your first question. Tim Burgess is the lead singer of which band?’ Jones asks.

‘Don’t know.’

‘The Charlatans,’ Jones tells him.

‘Oh,’ says an embarrassed policeman.

‘Eric Clapton stole the wife of which member of the Beatles?’

‘Erm, pass.’

‘Who sang the songs “It’s My Life” and “Bad Medicine”?’

‘Erm, pass.’

‘Is that a tail I can see swinging between your legs?’ Ben Jones asks after a few more questions incorrectly answered. ‘We’ll add up the scores, but I’m afraid it won’t take very long.’

After a record by the Fray, Mike is back on air.

‘That was unlucky,’ Jones tells the policeman.

‘Well, I’ve calmed down a bit. I’d be able to answer them now, I panicked earlier.’

‘Okay. I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself. Who sang the songs “Bad Medicine” and “It’s My Life”?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Okay,’ Ben Jones says, letting him off the hook. ‘You have one of the lowest scores since we started running this competition. But we’re going to give you the prize anyway. You’re going to watch the Charlatans!’

This is a mockery! I like the Charlatans. And I like free champagne. Why can’t I have the tickets? This guy deserves nothing. I put sausages in the oven, listen to ROCK music as I wait for them to brown.

‘I met a guy today I’ve not seen for seven or eight years,’ Geoff says after a track by Run-D.M.C. ‘He told me he was in a pub with his mate and after a while they went looking for somewhere else to drink. They chose a pub at random, went inside and my mate saw someone he recognized sitting at the bar. Then someone else came up to him and said: ‘Glad you could make it.’ A few minutes later he realized the pub was full of people he recognized: he’d accidentally turned up at his school reunion.’

Geoff lets out a chuckle at the end of his story. He is a refreshing and engaging raconteur and immediately the most likeable person on Virgin. Since Christian O’Connell’s show this morning the output has been very similar, it has been difficult to differentiate between the presenters or to get excited by any of the songs they’ve played. Geoff plays songs that can’t fail: the Beatles, David Bowie, the Arctic Monkeys. But most of all it is Geoff who makes the show entertaining, he manages to be funny without being arrogant, which is rare on radio.

‘Something slightly embarrassing happened to me today,’ he tells Annabel, who works on the show with him. She came to Virgin on work experience in 2001 and has stayed there ever since. ‘I was in a coffee shop waiting to meet a friend. There were only two comfy chairs so I sat on one, saved the other. But then an Islamic woman came and asked me if the chair was free, so I said yes. I knew it wasn’t, but I didn’t want to appear Islamophobic. I thought she’d have had a hard time since September 11th. I’ve been smiling at Muslims ever since,’ Geoff says, laughing merrily, like Frank Bruno being tickled by Brian Blessed.

‘Why didn’t you tell her you were waiting for a friend?’ Annabel asks.

‘They might not have turned up. Or been late. And she would have looked at the empty seat and been really disappointed in me. I have a crippling social anxiety. I don’t understand how things work. Maybe I should become agoraphobic. I would do much less damage if I never left the house.’

Annabel reads a story emailed in response to a subject mentioned earlier: ‘Things people do at work they’re not supposed to’.

‘Twenty years ago I was a porter at the World Trade Center. All the offices were empty in the evenings. At the time I used to manage bands, so I would pick an office and pretend it was my own. It had a view overlooking Manhattan, I pretended I was a mogul. Then I was caught one night with all my papers spread out in front of me, talking on the phone, my feet on the desk, and was sacked.’

‘That was before electronic fobs,’ Geoff says, chuckling. ‘Fobs have ruined night shifts.’

‘Drunk versus Stoned’ is a competition at midnight. I listen in the kitchen while drinking a cup of tea and making tomorrow’s sandwiches.

‘Are you drunk? Are you stoned?’ Geoff asks. ‘Do you want to come on air, face your adversary in a battle of wits? We’re not glamorizing drinking or smoking the herb. Just offering people a route out by letting them win…a radio. So if you are drunk or stoned, phone in. Not if you are both,’ Geoff says, sternly. ‘You’ll be no use to us.’

Ali is the first contestant, a nurse in London.

‘Drunk Ali, do you understand that long-term drinking can result in permanent brain damage, serious mental disorders, a weakening of the heart and liver disease, including the potentially fatal cirrhosis?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. Your time starts now. Which Australian actress has just announced she is pregnant with her third child?’

‘Kylie Minogue?’

‘No.’

‘Not a vintage round,’ Geoff tells her after her sixty seconds. He plays ‘Ruby’ by the Kaiser Chiefs and the next contestant is Stoned Alex, playing online poker.

‘Are you aware that cannabis can cause a variety of mental health problems, from anxiety to paranoia, as well as causing actual psychotic states?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, your sixty seconds start now. How much is a second-class stamp?’

‘No idea.’

They both end up with five points, resulting in a tie-break. The first person with the right answer wins.

‘In which country would you find Gothenburg?’

‘Norway?’

‘No.’

‘Romania.’

‘No.’

‘Denmark.’

‘No.’

‘Sweden?’

‘Drunk Ali wins!’

By the time the show ends, I am in bed, my ears spinning after a full day of listening to Virgin. Geoff plays ‘The Saturday Boy’ by Billy Bragg, because he went to watch his gig last night and had been to meet him backstage.

‘All hell will break loose tomorrow because I haven’t stuck to the playlist. But I’ll not worry about that just now, let’s just enjoy the rest of the show. We started really well tonight and then petered out,’ he says to Annabel with refreshing honesty. The show ends with ‘I am’, where listeners email to sum up their day in one sentence. Annabel reads them out, Geoff laughs heartily in the background: