Tanning Tales and Arthur in the Underworld on BBC Radio 4

You know when you've been Tango'd.

Tanning Tales; Arthur in the Underworld

BBC Radio 4

“I’m rubbing extraordinary butter into my kneecaps,” preens the presenter Kit Hesketh- Harvey, preparing his body for a spray tan. “I’m exfoliating. Yes, listeners, I am trimming.” Tanning Tales, a documentary about the immense UK tanning industry (1 July, 11am), burlesqued the subject enough for even the conveyor belt of the usual gender studies professors to laugh it up. One confessed that a daughter had chosen a university purely on the basis of how tanned the other students had looked on open day. I think she ended up in Nottingham. A landlord despaired over the state of his mattresses: “We thought it was from bodily fluids . . . but then we realised the orangey colour followed more or less a body shape.”

Any bounce that the programme had was slaughtered by Hesketh-Harvey – formerly of Kit and the Widow – who suffers from the same compulsion as Nicholas Parsons to peddle that unctuously camp tone that Radio 4 doggedly believes is humorous and stylish but comes over as the default setting of a peppery tyrant hauling a freight of indescribable mocking and violence. The “charming” this, the “wonderful” that. “How gorgeous!” “How terribly glamorous!” “Oh, you are splendid, you adorable redhead.”

Other standard male tones celebrated on the station include the “rapturous murmur” to which even David Attenborough has been known to resort. But it can be compelling. The writer Horatio Clare, in Arthur in the Underworld (4 July, 11.30am), a spooky and meaningful documentary about the great author of the supernatural Arthur Machen, travelled to Wales to see if he could spy an elf or a sprite in a forest. “Unfocus your eyes,” recommended Machen grimly, when committing to search for such surely malign but alluring creatures. (“You do just want the ground to open up and something to come out from underneath.”)

Squatting in the unnatural conifer gloom, Clare confessed to having fallen into a mass grave for sheep when he was a child lost in a forest like this. Speaking in the dreamy rat-tat-tat of someone perpetually tottering on the edge of a properly crazed monologue, he was suddenly distracted by the call of a nightjar hunting for beetles and off Clare went again, his chatter unstoppable, low and melodious, like a sports car purling madly into the unknown.

Tanning Tales is a Radio 4 documentary about the UK tanning industry. Photograph: Getty Images.

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 15 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The New Machiavelli

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Listening to recordings from the Antarctic, I felt I could hear the earth groan

The Science Hour on the BBC World Service.

A weekend of listening to the radio news ­revealed nothing but sounds of the sucker-punched going through their pockets in a panic and repeating, “I thought you had the keys.” So, never was talk of “a perfectly flat area of just whiteness” more alluring. The oldest Antarctic ice yet recorded was recently found. “For millions of years,” the presenter Roland Pease assured listeners  (25 June, 9am), “snow has been falling, snow on snow, all the while trapping bubbles of air and other chemical traces of climate . . . insights into the ice ages and warm periods of the past.” How was this ice located? “The finding part is pretty easy – you just go there and start shovelling, and ice comes up,” the lead geologist, Jaakko Putkonen, said.

There it was, buried under a layer of dirt “in barren wastelands” high in the middle of Antarctica. An “incredibly mountainous and remote and . . . quite hideous region, really”, Pease said, though it was sounding pretty good to me. The world dissolved into a single, depthless tone. Then Pease mentioned the surprising fizzing of this ancient ice – trapped air bubbles whooshing as they melt. Which is perhaps the thing you least expect about ice regions and ice caps and glaciers: the cacophony. Thuds and moans. Air that folds and refolds like the waving of gigantic flags. Iced water sleeping-dragonishly slurping and turning.

On Friday Greenpeace posted a video of the pianist Ludovico Einaudi giving a haunting performance on a floating platform to mark an imminent meeting of the OSPAR Commission, as it decided on a proposal to safeguard 10 per cent of the Arctic Ocean. Einaudi looked occasionally stunned by the groaning around him. A passing glacier popped and boomed like the armies of Mordor, ice calving from its side, causing mini-tsunamis. When last year I spent some time at the remote Eqi Glacier in Greenland, close to the ice cap, local people certainly spoke of the ice as if it were living: “It’s quiet today,” delivered as though gazing at the fractious contents of a Moses basket.

“This huge cake of ice, basically flat”, Putkonen said, perhaps longing for a moment of deep-space silence, for peaceful detachment. He wasn’t the only one being forced to reappraise a landscape very differently.

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 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit lies