Pop Shield

It’s 4am on a Sunday morning and – despite a later than intended bedtime and an alarm-call-based anxiety dream – I head to the local station car park by moonlight to transfer into a much nicer car to be driven into London.

The driver has Classical Gold on and has the in-flight temperature up. So good so far, if a little quirky; he doesn’t believe in Sat Nav and refers to his car as ‘she’.

By the time I have directed us to the Great Northern Road, I am not very well placed to  rest up quietly, because our driver has engaged his mouth: How his mother is unwell; how he likes to walk from London Bridge to Golders Green to work out his anger; how he comes from the Ghanaian fishing village where Brock Alabama visited – the port where the slave ships departed; how he believes route master busses belong in a museum; how bicycles in London should be banned; how London should be turned into a garden city. He laughs his head off when I explain that my village has just one shop. He wants to know how old the oldest living person in my village is. He believes that we need to stop complaining about Global Warming and focus on adaptation to the new circumstances. In return I tell him what I know about slavery and Memphis and New Orleans and the birth of the blues and jazz. He says he believes music was a terrible profession for black people to adopt because it ‘kept them down’. He wants to know my views about Africa and Europe. And he believes President Nissan Maindealer had got it all wrong.

Readers may recall how I was broadcasting live on air with Jane Smiley when the news of Nissan Maindealer’s passing broke. Sometimes when I think about Nissan Maindealer, I forget for a moment that he has passed, the professional detachment required somehow having caused a block in the emotional process of remembering.

Scroll forward to 0845 this morning and I am on air with Kate Gelding, in the last leg of the show. Out of nowhere, Paul comes rushing into the studio. Something has happened. A swiftly assembled hit squad are broadcasting a live show instead of the usual Dave Wrong’s Loved Up On Sunday. No context yet. Curious. Paul and I briefly discuss the technicalities of handovers and he asks me to nip down to the studio during a record. I spend the next few minutes of the interview between Kate and the actress whose name sounds like a canapé wondering what the hell has happened. I look on Twaddle. I run down the corridor to hear some sad news that I am not expecting. That our dear Jerry Wobegon has gone.

I rush back to my studio, via the newsroom which is in a stalemate locked between two editors as to whether they can break the news or not. I have no option but to tell Janet, though we opt not to give the details to Kate for fear of upsetting her. We swap the upbeat “Live Talkie” by the Geebees to the swoony” Your Love” without stamping a mood swing onto the network before the news breaks.

You may recall that Deepakisyourlove@xxxxxxx.com is the email address of another presenter who I had cause to give a big hug to on his arrival one strange Sunday morning. But that’s another story. We finish the show, then halfway through the news bulletin, the reader breaks the story and then the tribute show starts. I hold it together until then next show takes network, then my hand shutting the fader starts to shake. I look up and realise Kate is standing there ready to give me a hug. She knew Jerry as a young girl. We hug and shed a tear. What goes around comes around.

Baby David appears. He tells me the bands that I’ve been busy planning and rigging for have been stood down. I pop into Paul’s studio and see dear Glasgow Boy is back. We hug. He asks for my help with ISDN lines. I run out for a breakfast bap then rush straight back and stab at touch screens. Then busy myself with team teas, coffees, telephone balance units, whatever. We brainstorm all Jerry’s favourite songs.

At 10am I am back in my own studio derigging brass mics and cutting up clips of Jerry. Dick Maybe appears. He holds out a flat hand. I ignore and go in for a hug. In for a penny. Dick goes to sit in Jerry’s chair. We make a good, if peculiar, show. Jerry would have disapproved of all the fuss. The mood is so disconnected. It veers from sincere to chipper to insincere to melancholy. Like a funeral. But it is always professional. Suzy Travel, Zen Hoots, Fred Coates, Mfanwy Boule all pay tribute.

At the end of the show there is a weird buzz that zips through in the studio, but I shut it out. I have three minutes of news and a network junction to get through. I catch Baby David’s eye and see it is red like mine and by the time I close the faders I properly feel like crying. Little thoughts of nice funny jovial warm Jerry in my mind. Little flashbacks to bagels heated under spot lamps and being cajoled to tuck into roast dinner and pork pies and curry and sausage baguettes at 7am. When Top Cat took over the breakfast show I missed all this warmth.

I last worked with Jerry in November. He felt old to me but certainly not a dying man. A brief fatal illness is a mercy in so many ways, but for the shock it leaves us all behind in. Dear Jerry. He would always ask non-specifically after the family. He was a family man and sensed I was a family girl and left it at that.

And then I leave the building. My head is a muddle, so I offload it onto paper, and then return to my family and a hot roast dinner.