I, Radio Pirate

I was on the radio yesterday. Well, not really the radio. The internet radio, the Oxford student radio, that nobody really actually listens to except for the people to whom I write, saying "I'm going to be on the fake radio tomorrow, please listen to me."

It was fantastic. The radio is in this funny building tucked away behind some park/monument down Queen Street. I have to get people to let me in because I don't have the right access codes. Sometimes this involves me standing around in the dark, hoping against hope that someone will turn up. My Canadian/Hertford friend, Adam, has a weekly show and invited me to guest-host with him once, which was far too much fun. And now, when he can't do the show because he's busy, oh, I don't know, going home to see his family for Christmas or somesuch nonsense, he asks me to fill in.

Yesterday was an all-request show. I asked for suggestions, my friends responded with titles and mp3s and my musical collection expanded and my happiness increased. Tennessee Backroads from my dad, Dana Falconberry from Rosanna, Placebo from Sasha, Imogen Heap from Claude, Stan Rogers from David, Joanna Newsom from Jacquelby, and much more...

It was freezing cold in the studio and I got confused with technical stuff a few times and at the beginning I felt like I was just talking to myself but I put out a request for text messages if anyone was listening and had soon heard from my Oxonians and Londoners and I felt reconnected. Why is it that I love having my own radio show but can't stand the idea of expressing my opinion in class?

I had nice compliments: "your radio voice is very good." "you sound much more relaxed and audience-intimate today." "That was faneffingtastic!" All from people who love me and who hopefully wouldn't tell me if I was awful. All very much appreciated. Thanks for listening.

I love the radio. Screw academia, hello CBC. Now...what did I do with that Media Studies acceptance letter from McGill?

(image courtesy The Good Bard)