The unexpected ups and downs of radio presenting in the Highlands

One time I switched on to Two Lochs Radio to find a lady in despair looking at a ruined pie dish. “I don’t know what to suggest, Glenys,” said one of the station’s 38 volunteer presenters. “But I definitely think you should take it back. Pyrex is supposed

Sunday Brunch With Mike
Two Lochs Radio, 106
and 106.6FM

“It’s such a dire day at the moment, it’s unbelievable. I imagine you’re going to stay in but if you’re still in your PJs, remember it’s actually probably not the time you thought it was.”

DJ Mike is manning Two Lochs Radio at 11am on clocks-back Sunday, with the St Jude’s Day storm brewing. He squints, Magoo-like, at the darkening loch. “Has anyone thought about my quiz yet?” On the community broadcaster for the Wester Ross area in the Highlands, Mike gets unnecessarily anxious about feedback or requests.

Undirected, his music can range bewilderingly from rap to “The Ballad of Frank Spencer” but there is little doubting his tact. “Nobody’s come in with an answer yet,” he says, transmitting with great delicacy only a millisecond of umbrage. “So here are the questions again: what 2002 novel by Alice Sebold is the story of a teenage girl who after being murdered watches from heaven as her family and friends struggle to move on with their lives, while she comes to terms with her own death? And, the Aberdeen terrier is better known as what kind of dog?” I suck my pencil. This is absolutely my kind of quiz.

TLR is ten years old this month. Now followed by over 2,000 listeners in the region and several hundred online across the world, it forever conveys a sense that all fences can be mended with a cup of instant around the table, while also remaining a very serious little operation, running all the necessary local notices and magnificently inclusive updates concerning the various trials of its listeners. One time I switched on to find a lady in despair looking at a ruined pie dish. “I don’t know what to suggest, Glenys,” said one of the station’s 38 volunteer presenters. “But I definitely think you should take it back. Pyrex is supposed to be unbreakable.”

At last, a text to the studio! It’s Doreen, requesting “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers”. Mike pauses. One senses that: a) he knows Doreen and everyone at Doreen’s house, and that this presents a major problem because b) he is keenly aware the lyrics to “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” are written to sound sad but are in fact unconscionably violent and bitter (“You hardly talk to me when I walk through the door at the end of the day/you just roll over and turn out the light”).

Bringing Barbra Streisand – she of the terrifyingly manicured nails – into a marital dispute? Now that is violent. Mike blanches. “Dennis,” he says quietly, cutting to the chase. “I think the message is very, very clear. You’re going to have get your finger out and get some flowers.”

The best of broadcasting from the Scottish highlands. Image: Getty

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 30 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Should you bother to vote?

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Beware of tea: the cuppa has started wars and ruined lives

. . . and it once led F Scott Fitzgerald to humiliate himself.

A drink sustains me – one that steams companionably as I write. It is hot, amber and fragranced differently from any wine; nor does it have wine’s capacity to soften and blur. I’ve never understood how the great drunks of literature, Ernest Hemingway, F Scott Fitzgerald and their like, ever put anything on the page more worthwhile than a self-involved howl, though even Hemingway apparently finished the day’s writing before beginning the day’s drinking.

Tea is more kindly, or so I’d always thought. Those aromatic leaves, black or green, rolled and dried and oxidised, have some of wine’s artistry but none of its danger. Even their exoticism has waned, from a Chinese rarity (“froth of the liquid jade”), for which 17th-century English traders were made to pay in solid silver, to a product that can be found dirt cheap on supermarket shelves.

There are even home-grown teas now. The Tregothnan estate in Cornwall has supplemented its ornamental rhododendrons and camellias with their relative camellia sinensis, the tea plant, while Dalreoch in the Scottish Highlands grows a white (that is, lightly oxidised) tea, which is smoked using wood from the surrounding birch plantations. Tellingly, this local version is priced as steeply as the imported rarity once was.

I enjoy a simple, solitary mug, but I also appreciate communal tea-drinking – the delicate tea warmed with water at 85°C (a little higher for sturdier black blends), the teapot and china, the pourer volunteering to be “mother”, as if this were a liquid that could nurture. But in reality, tea is not so gentle.

Those long-ago English traders disliked haemorrhaging silver, so they started exporting opium to China from India and paying with that. This was a fabulous success, unless you happened to be Chinese. In 1839, a commissioner attempted to clamp down on the illegal and harmful trade, and the result was the Opium Wars, which the Chinese lost. “Gunboat diplomacy” – a phrase that surely constitutes froth of a different kind – won England a great deal of silver, a 150-year lease on Hong Kong and an open tea market. China received a potful of humiliation that may eventually have helped spark the Communist Revolution. As many of us have recently realised, there is nothing like economic mortification to galvanise a nation to kick its leaders.

Later, the tea bush was planted in India, Ceylon and elsewhere, and the fragrant but bitter brew for the upper classes became a ubiquitous fuel. But not an entirely sweet one: just as the opium trade ensured our tea’s arrival in the pot, the slave trade sweetened it in the cup. Even today, conditions for tea workers in places such as Assam in north-east India are often appalling.

Scott Fitzgerald also had tea trouble. When invited round by Edith Wharton, he frothed the liquid jade so assiduously with booze beforehand and risqué conversation during (a story about an American tourist couple staying unawares in a Paris bordello) that he was nearly as badly humiliated as those 19th-century Chinese. Wharton, unshocked, merely wondered aloud what the couple had done in the bordello and afterwards pronounced the entire occasion “awful”.

Some would blame his alcoholic preliminaries, but I’m not so sure. Tea has started wars and ruined lives; we should be wary of its consolations. On that sober note, I reach for the corkscrew and allow the subject to drive me softly, beguilingly, to drink.

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 27 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Cool Britannia 20 Years On

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