S03E03: Hospital Radio

[female voice] "Keeping you alive from two 'till five is just what the doctor ordered". Yes.

[female, seductive] "Keeping you alive from two to five. Just what the doctor ordered". No. 

[male voice] "Keeping you alive from two to five, it's just what the-". No. 

[male, frivolous] "Keeping you alive from two to five is just what the doctor ordered!". Oh no.

[female, brighter] "Keeping you alive from two till five, it's just what the doctor ordered". And, er... also... yes. 

Hello everyone, I'm Alan Partridge and I'm running the rule of some very talented, some not quite so talented, young broadcasters. Each with a sample snippet of voice by way of audition tape or a 'audio file'. 

What are they applying for? Well, in the last month I've been parachuted into a consultancy role at a brand new broadcaster. With the parachute safely deployed, I'm floating serenely onto terra firma and hopefully, with a tuck and roll, to land safely and lend my wisdom, nouse, savvy and guile to help recruit a roster of exciting new presenters. 

And this isn't just any broadcaster. It's arguably the most important institution in all of British broadcasting. A vital and noble service. It is very much the beating heart of the UK's media landscape. Now if you're sitting comfortably in a fair-sized lounge, you're probably thinking, "Hmm, he means the BBC", I bloody don't! Obviously it's not the BBC, if the BBC ever had a heart it went into cardiac arrest when they cancelled Tomorrow's World and Goodnight Sweetheart, and stopped beating completely when they commissioned a second series of Vigil. It's only kept alive by the intravenous-drip of licence-fee money and the ventilator of Doctor Who. 

Frankly it ought to have a sign around its neck saying 'Do Not Resuscitate'. Nope, the BBC has suffered irreversible brain damage and it's only the Conservative Party who have the balls to turn off the machine.

Nor am I talking about GB News, which after a shaky start is actually turning into a bloody good channel if people would just give it a chance! It has a style all of its own, managing to fuse the fury of a divorced woman with the sardonic humour of a divorced man. A broken marriage made in heaven!
So, what broadcaster is it? Well, it's hospital radio. Think about that. This community of humble stations, often broadcasting out of a broom cupboard or an outbuilding by the incinerator where they keep the squeaky wheelchairs and knackered plastic curtains, is one of the true heroes of British radio.

Hospital radio is often seen as the bottom-rung of the radio ladder. And yeah, it's easy to pick on it the same way Jeremy Clarkson picks on people who live in council houses, or poor people who drive rubbish cars. It's low-hanging fruit and, if you want a juicy gig, well, you're going to grab it! Well, I've got news for you, folks. Hospital radio matters! Giving hope to the hopeless, joy to the joyless, and care to the careless.

Albeit alongside the constant smell of Dettol, which many people associate with death, but to me is the reassuring smell of cleanliness. I've always been a fan, capful of Dettol in the bath, capful in the washing machine, mug-full in the loo! When it comes to germs, the best form of defence is attack. If it's chemical warfare, on a domestic level, get your punch in first. It's a place where people pull together and cope, manfully and womanfully, with shoestring-budgets, second-hand equipment, and ancient speakers with a brown fabric face that don't go very loud because pregnant mums complain. And that's good! That's a good thing! 

Better that, I suppose, than the volume of announcements on an Avanti West Coast train. "This train will be stopping at Lancaster, Preston, Wigan North Western...", we know! "The buffet car is now open, we'll be serving a selection of hot and cold snacks", we know! We know this stuff! Everyone on the train knows! Please, pipe down! 

I spoke to the woman checking the tickets. I said, "Can you not turn it down, please?". She said, "We can't control the volume", I said, "No, but you can control the volume of your own voice. You can control how close you stand to the microphone. That's just physics! Try it. Eh? It's interesting what you can achieve when you apply your mind to it!". Now, I admit that was a little sarcastic, but I find sometimes the quickest way to get your message across is a burst of sarcasm. A bit of fun for the user, a bit unpleasant for the usee. Sarcasm. I support its use.

[theme music sting] 

Now, hospital radio may not have the production values of BBC Radio or commercial radio or student radio or in-store radio, but... a hospital, my god, it has bags of heart and plenty of guts, as does the incinerator! Got to try stand-up. 

Hospital radio has always been - [belches] pardon me - very dear to me. Very dear to me, which is why I was thrilled to be approached by the very hospital radio station where my broadcasting career began. The hospital, formerly known as St Jude's, has since relocated to a new site and operates on a different name with a brand-new management structure after a public inquiry found that a few patients had kicked the bucket unnecessarily due to, you know, a bit of just sloppy... a bit of, you know, just wrong drugs administered. 

Between 1975 and 1983, I was a DJ right here at St Jude's broadcasting live during the deaths of some 215 patients, natural causes. I like to think I was heard during a similar number of births, although pregnant mums often had other ideas. How have I ended up back here? Well, it all came from my good friend Grant Shapps. Bit of bad luck for him, fortuitous for me, during Parliament's summer recess, he bought an old sun-bed off eBay. Madness, madness. Plugged it into his greenhouse and clambered inside.

Well, like the Venus flytraps he cultivates in the very same greenhouse, the jaws of the sunbed closed around him and Schnappsie panicked, flailing around and shattered the bulbs in an effort to get through. The poor little fellow was only lucky to be sun-kissed for his new constituency video, but the lacerations to his legs and arms required hospital treatment and, as a man of many aliases, he couldn't remember which name his private healthcare was under, so it ended up coming to his local NHS hospital. 

Well, Grant was appalled to learn there was no hospital radio in operation. He said he spent his time reading a book and chatting to an elderly constituent in the next bed. He had a miserable time of it and said, "Alan, I had an absolutely shit time! Where on Earth was the hospital radio? If I'd had hospital radio, I wouldn't have had to talk to that man who seemed to think I could help him".

He escalated his complaint, the chief executive gets involved and, on Schnappsie's recommendation, I've been brought in as a safe pair of hands to help them build a brand-new broadcast offering from the ground up. Well, they actually said, "Would you mind having a quick look at these CVs and tell us what you think?". I said, "Uh-uh! Nada". I said, "If we're going to do this, we're going to do it properly. I will take on a wider remit, shaping the ethos, structure, content and personnel".

It was a bold play, but it was the kind of role the task required, very much one of Svengali. I said, "Forget the fee", they said, "There was no suggestion of a fee". I said, "Forget the fee, I just want a desk with a rotating chair, the power to hire and fire, and a login so I can tune-in even when not at the hospital. Forget the fee, I genuinely just want to give a bit back", and I know adding the word 'genuinely' makes things sound less genuine, but in this case, I do, and I genuinely mean that. 

And I'm not doing it for any favours, I won't be asking to jump any waiting lists, I personally prefer the speed, cleanliness and private room proffered by my beloved Bupa. It also avoids the Grant nightmare, having to talk to... poor chap next to you just telling you he's counting the days, and the only pleasure he gets is from seeing his grandchildren who live two hundred miles away. 

But as Grant pointed out, voluntary work can provide significant long-term reputational benefit, and ultimately, material remuneration. That's the key! I don't just want people to think I'm good. What can I buy with that? Maybe a bit of goodwill, "Hmm! Okay, keep talking". You know what I mean?! I'll never forget Grant said, "Alan, be nice, put a bit back, look people in the eye, give them a firm handshake, smile, keep your hand out of the cookie jar in the short term, and all the money comes! All the money comes!", he said. The eyes really glare! Anyway, that's the thing about Grant, always got his eye on the big picture. 

So we got to work. We really are building the station from the ground up. On the first day, they brought me into the proposed radio studio, a dank, windowless little room, and said, "What do you think?". I said, "I think you're taking the piss! And I'm not allowing one of my DJs to deliver a three-hour show from here. What's wrong with the bigger room next door? At least it's got a window".

They said "That's where we store the dialysis machines", I said, "Do dialysis machines need a view?", again, judicious use of sarcasm. I said, "Besides, they're on casters". They said, "Wha-", I said, "Small wheels, dodo! Pop them outside under a rainproof tarpaulin cover, wheel them in when you need them". They said, "Maybe you don't understand dialysis", I said, "Maybe you don't understand tarpaulin!". I held my ground. We got the room. 

I later hauled in the porters and said, "See this crate of beer? I've got six of them in the car". I said, "You guys paint this room so it has the same colour scheme as a kind of adult creche, you can tuck into these beers while you're at it!". Well, they jumped at the chance, and although two of them have been reprimanded for drinking at work and the third cautioned for feeling up a nurse, the studio looks absolutely fantastic! 

Why come to me? As I say, I know both the ropes and my onions, it's the little things only an experienced broadcaster has gleaned. I know how to navigate the minefield of inappropriate song titles that bedog an audience of the infirm; 'I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight', 'Knocking on Heaven's Door', 'The Final Countdown', not good. It's not what you want to hear, and it's not what you want to give them. You want upbeat; 'I Will Survive', 'Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go', even that's borderline.

So, you know, muddy waters. Sounds like a medical problem. Now, I'm not going on air myself. No, those days are long gone. In the days of broadcasting, quick tip, jump before you're pushed. I am very happy these days to exist in the shadows, a background role, a guiding hand.

These days, I assume I saw more of a sort of éminence grise, an eminent grouse, more organ-grinder than monkey, and staying out of the limelight takes a bit of recalibrating. I've always been the front man, the Bono, the Jagger, the Barlow. Now I'm more Pete Waterman, George Martin, Brian Eno... Elton's lad, Barney Turpin... the brains of the operation, someone who provides a plinth upon which others may shine. And I'm confident they will, so far I've managed to put together a wonderfully eclectic mix of on-air talent. There's a real gang show vibe to the place!

To see young people with such energy and ideas, not all of them great, some of them are terrible, but young people get a bad rap. If you look hard, you can find the good ones. 

On breakfast, I've got newcomer Hayley Swales, she's privately educated, has a Duke of Edinburgh Awards up to her eyeballs, she doesn't tick any diversity boxes but she does have access to her dad's car which is crucial when your call time is 5:30am, so that balances it out. Bit of a goody-two-shoes, but sometimes you need that. We can't all be Chris Evans, you know, that's a tough thing to be. You've got to walk a tightrope between shaking the tree and just being not a nice person, and most of the time he gets that right. I mean, look at Greg James, Joe Wiley, a couple of teachers' pets but they get the best gigs.

Hayley's not a DJ of colour, nor does she have a disability, but diversity's delicate. You've got to choose your moment, start slowly, in this case with a female DJ who doesn't own her own car, but then when you've got people on-side you can start wheeling out, or wheeling in, the guys we all want to help.

Because it's all very well arguing for new ways of doing things, but you've got to be able to sing for your supper and like it or not, and I don't like it, wheelchair-ramps don't grow on trees! I know what you're thinking, "What about those ones made of bamboo?". Bamboo isn't trees. It is lightweight and has the most tensile rigidity of any natural material. If you want to know more about bamboo, google bamboo.

Early afternoons it has a bit more edge, Co-presenters Damien and Duane. I've suggested we don't use the word 'Drive Time' as listeners ain't going to be driving for the foreseeable, I've named it PDBB, which stands for 'Pre-Dinner and Bed Bath'. Bit of fun, better to laugh at this stuff than to dwell on it, and there I've gone for an older slant. Dawn Odell knows the hospital inside-out having worked in orthopaedics for fifteen years before she was asked to leave... during the business I mentioned earlier. 

Late nights are Freddy Kielty. The old ladies love him, he's gay. That's all we have so far so there's recruitment still to be done, but we get on like the very house-fires that have filled up the Burns Ward, and that sort of humour is very much the MO of the whole set-up. I suppose I'm like- I joke with the team that I'm like the boss in Charlie's Angels. The angels are the young, energetic, fetching ones, whereas the boss of Charlie's Angels, can't remember his name, he gets to - well, it'll be Charlie, won't it? - he gets to say, you know, "Do this" and "Do that", you know, and "I'm going to sit here while you do that with her and you just do something on your own", you know. And the other one, you know, 'cos Charlie had three of them to play with, remember, and they had to do what he said... So, yeah, yeah. It's just good to be back. 

Enthusiasm's surging me through, I'm out of bed like a scalded cat, or a scolded cat. I've got yesterday's show to trawl through, feedback to email, a few favours from my friends in the business community, "Can Robert Dyas donate a kettle to give away as a prize?", "We'd love to Alan, but we're a bit strapped in the economic climate...", blah, blah. Well, I say "Norfolk Gazette is doing a piece tomorrow about charitable giving, so I'll just explain to them what you said to me and I'm sure that explanation will go down really well". Suddenly you've got your hands on a brand-new, mid-range, plastic kettle!

Blagging gifts to the bedridden, not an easy job. Sometimes you push an open door, sometimes you've got to push a bit harder. You've got to use one of those machines the police use when they're doing a drugs raid. "Get back! Police! Give me a kettle!", you get the picture. Sort of an elegant version of a forced-entry. I'm a bit nicer than that. 

By the way, Grant was right, it's not done my reputation any harm. I don't even need to crow about what I'm doing, Grant's made sure a lot of people know. His reactions range right across the board from, "Wow!", to, "That's nice", to, "Well, well, has he indeed?", to, "What's his game?". So, big VG and a tick, thank you! 

Not everyone is supportive, I've got to be honest. My partner, Katrina, thinks it's a bit pathetic, she says voluntary work is just thick do-gooders being used as a doormat by scroungers. But, you know, Katrina and I don't always agree, we're often at loggerheads but there's a wonderful tension, a wonderful frisson, in erm... in biffing and bashing each other verbally, and a bit of sparring. It's quite sexy to have a few sharp words, especially when you know the sparring is going to translate into going at it like a couple of rabbits who've had a bottle of wine.

[in car] Well, it's 8am on a Thursday and I'm on my way to hospital. No, I've not popped a haemorrhoid or, more seriously, experiencing tightness in the chest followed by shooting pains down the left arm, nor have I got blood on my bloody toilet paper! [laughs] No, I'm actually going there to broadcast.

Not sure why, but Hayley, Damien and the team have all declared themselves unavailable for work, so it must be something going around. Would I consider covering their shifts? Well, I flatly turned them down, I'm past all that, but after I hung up I happened to pop into B&Q to buy a new set of toilet seats because I wanted to upgrade to a soft-close facility to finally eliminate the dropsy clank. And while I was browsing the horseshoe-shaped bum supports, I heard an announcement over the Tannoy™ and it was my own voice. Yes, it was me! And then I remembered that I'd been paid to read out product offers and install customer messaging for B&Q across the whole of North Norfolk, and I realised, "Dude sounds good, dude sounds real good!". 

It was a commanding timbre, a smile coating each word, a playful lilt when I said ninety-five at the end of "And all for just £19.95!". Not everyone can do that! It's a skill, I have a gift. Why am I refusing to step up to a radio station in its day of need? So I phoned them back and just said two words. I'll do it.

So I'm just arriving at the hospital now, and er... I don't know why there's a- I don't know what the hell's going on, there seems to be a bit of a gathering. I always find a judicious pop of the horn [short beep] helps focus minds. A dilly-dallying elderly-driver sometimes needs to be reminded of what it is they're doing. "You're driving a car, Grandad! That's what you're doing!", and the pedestrians seem to like it. Got a little wave there. Morning! 

Come on, come on. I don't know why there's such a snarl-up. I think this is why hospitals are right to charge for parking, helps weed out some of the time-wasters, people who come in with a stubbed toe.
People who come in with a stubbed toe do not need treatment! They need a thick ear! Probably come in for that, "Oh, got a thick ear!", "Yeah, because you came in the first time! You want a fat lip to go with it? Get out!". No, there's a lot of softies about these days. "Dominic Raab a bully!" Come off it! 

[winds car window down] Excuse me, can you let me through, please? 

[female voice] "Sorry, this is staff parking". 

No, I'm not... Yeah, no, I'm a doctor. I'm a paediatrophile. [recording fades]

Well, that was not pleasant, not pleasant at all. It turns out there's a nurse's strike today and this is why the deejays don't want to come in. I was attempting to drive through the picket line, I got into a conversation through my car window with a nurse. I said, "While I sympathised with your concerns", I said, "It's not my place to get involved. I'm not crossing a picket line, I'm not a nurse. I don't have a dog in the fight, my dogs are entirely apolitical", I said, trying to, you know, leaven the mood, you know. I said, "I think most dogs are, apart from maybe a bullmastiff, they've got to be right-wing. And I can't see any corgis voting Labour. Cockapoos, Lib Dem". But erm... she wasn't... didn't raise a smile.

She said, "We're striking for better pay, you expect us to work for nothing?". I said, "I'm a volunteer!
I can't get paid less than that! You don't see me complaining!". She said, "Yes, but you have other revenue streams, and you're doing this for your brand". I said, "True, true, true, true", I mean, I will listen to people if they make good points. 

Anyway, with the conversation over, I started sounding my horn to indicate they should make way. They didn't make way, or at least not very quickly, a male nurse stood in the road in front of me, and I admit I slightly lost my composure. Whilst I... I didn't run the chap over, but I may have let my car nuzzle the back of his legs as if to say, "Oi, shift!", and people do not like that. It all kicked off.

[whispering] I ended up driving at breakneck speed to the far corner of a VIP car park where nurses can't go, and I went into survival mode and curled up in the footwell, which is where I am now. I was in the footwell of the driver's side, but I was sitting on the pedals, and I was worried that the brake light might be flashing, alerting them to my whereabouts. So... I'm in the passenger side, and I've pulled down the glove box as a kind of, I want to say head-lid? Um... Yeah, a small shield. 

I've got a Creme Egg in there, but it's going to have to wait. God, I want that egg. I'm having a glycaemic episode, I need the sugar. I need the sugar. I need sugar. And I think I read somewhere a Creme Egg has the equivalent of two pints of sugar. 

Phoof! I really was in fear of my life back there, surrounded by angry nurses. I don't know if you've ever got into an argument on Mumsnet, but it was a lot like that. But, you know, instead of digital mums, I had analogue ones staring at me, terrifying... up close, with their faces squashed up against the window. Any other time, it would have been hilarious, but not now, not now.

But this wasn't... terrifying. I'm not sure what to do now. I'm going to call my assistant, she's very good in these situations, even though she's not good with everyday stuff. 

[theme music sting]

It's the following morning, I'm just feeding the chickens. I didn't make it to the station in the end, as it turned out I had a fruitful discussion on the phone with my assistant. I said, "I think I need to go back there, try and win them round. If you went to the drive-through McDonald's and bought them all lunch...", she said, "I'm not sure McDonald's is the ethical choice". I said, "It's the perfect choice!". I said, "Lynn, we all want the world to change, but people will always want beef burgers!". She said, "How many nurses?", I said thirty. She said, "Well, you're looking at the thick end of two-hundred fat ones", I said, "What are you reading at the moment?".

Anyway, I jumped in her car and drove a Citroën Saxo - perhaps the least threatening car ever made -
and ten minutes later, we pull up at the picket line, she opens the boot and I address the crowd on the megaphone I keep in my car, which I sometimes put on the roof for political campaigning - I won't say for which party. I stood there shouting, "One burger per nurse, Big Macs for Junior Doctors, porters get a handful of fries, and then there are McChicken sandwiches for the managers! Sorry, guys, that was a bit thoughtless".

And it seemed to do the trick! I think they thought Lynn was a retired angel from heaven, and I was effectively using her as a Trojan horse. I mean, I don't mean I hid inside her... urgh! I just, you know, let her lead the way with that forthright manner of hers, like a Baptist Margaret Thatcher! When I'm goading her, I call her the Ironing Lady, and she calls me a cheeky bugger, but she loves it! 

And yeah, I dumped the salad, plenty of mustard, had a lovely wet beef burger, and a nice chat with the nurse, told her I have every sympathy with the demands... you're not paid enough, simple as! And if the government can fund a pay rise without raising inheritance tax or removing non-dom status for wealth generators, then that's something we could look at in a year or two. And she said, "Shall we have a hug?", and I thought, well, you know, she suggested it, you know? There were witnesses. So I gave her a very gentle hug. She squeezed quite hard, and I burped over her shoulder. I thought, that's all that winding babies. 

You know, it's not often I say this, it's not often I take a public political position, but I can honestly say that I support nurses. You know, there it is, I've said it, said it out loud. But not really a position I've held before, but one thing Sir Keir Starmer taught me was that if you're not sure what your opinion is on something, just get someone else to test the water. Find out what everyone else thinks, and then just do that. As Sir Keir said, the problem with nailing your colours to the mast is unless you've got a claw hammer, it's bloody hard to get them out afterwards!

I mean, he's not a principled politician but, my goodness, he's clever. I got home later on. I had a couple of glasses of wine with Katrina. I said, "Katrina, I know what you think about do-gooders, but I had a day where I learned about different people from a different background to my own!". Katrina downed a glass of wine and said, "You are a fucking mug!". Well, we went at it that night like a barn door in a gale! I got up this morning to find I was all over social media, 'Alan Partridge, nurse's hero', I showed it to Katrina, I said, "And guess how much that cost me? Two hundred quid! Who's the mug now?!". "What?", she said, "Partridge, nurse's bitch?". I said, "Nah! I definitely won that one!".

She said, "I don't have time for this", which means she definitely agrees. She grabbed her car keys and coat and walked out, slamming the door so hard a horrible photograph of her sticking her tongue into Jenson Button's ear fell flat on the sideboard. And on that, dear listener, I allowed myself to have a quiet smile! Yep, that time a man won and a woman lost. Toodle-oo!

[closing theme music]