Erectile problems? Try – NIAGRA! ’ said the cheery pseudo-American voice-over artist as I pushed on the revolving door. I entered the building, flashed a smile and my ID at Tom, then walked slowly up the stairs. London FM’s output poured forth from every speaker; it’s a bit like pollution – hard to avoid. It’s in the reception area, the corridors and the lifts. It’s in the boardroom and the basement canteen. It’s in every single office, and the stationery cupboard. It even seeps into the loos.
‘ So remember – NIAGRA! Get out £9.99 and get it UP! ’
Delightful, I thought, as I studied my pale reflection in the Ladies on the third floor. And then I thought, oh dear. You see, whenever London FM is going through a bad patch, the ads get worse and worse. In fact, they act as an unofficial barometer for the station’s health, which is not very good right now.
‘ Unsightly fat on your upper arms? ’ enquired a solicitous female voice. No, I thought as I lifted them up to brush my long, dark hair. ‘ Ugly dimples on hips and thighs? ’ I gazed at my shrunken middle. Nope. ‘ Introducing the new Bum and Tum Slim – THE fast, effective way to lose inches. ’ I don’t want to lose any more inches, I thought – I’d lost half a stone in a week.
I glanced at my watch, and a sharp surge of adrenaline began to make my heart race. Nine thirty. No putting it off. I’d have to go in and face them all now. At least then it’d be over with, I thought wearily, as I picked up my bag. The staring. The stifled titters. The sudden silences when I walked by; the giggles by the coffee machine, the furtive conversations by the fax.
Breathing deeply, I walked through the newsroom, passed the sales department and went into the Capitalise office. Mayhem met my eyes. Once again, the cleaners had failed to show. Books and papers spilled across desks; wastepaper bins overflowed. A spaghetti of editing tape lay on the floor, while an upturned cup dripped tea on to the carpet. In one corner a printer spewed out sheets of script which no one bothered to collect. Where was everyone? I wondered. What on earth was going on? Then, from the adjacent boardroom came a shrill, familiar voice, and I realised that the planning meeting had started early. I opened the door and crept in. Good. They were too busy arguing to notice me.
‘CWAP!’ screeched Melinda Mitten, our ‘star’ presenter, and I marvelled yet again at how a woman with a serious speech impediment could have become a professional broadcaster. Actually, there’s a simple explanation for this: a) her uncle owns the station and b) her uncle owns the station. He’s Sir Percy Mitten, the hosiery king. Very big in tights. And his stockings were always said by those who knew to be the ‘ denier cri’. But two years ago he sold Pretty Penny for, well, a pretty penny, and decided to buy London FM. Like many a business baron he wanted to move into the media, and owning a radio station had become de rigueur. Once derided as brown-paper-and-Sellotape outfits struggling to survive, commercial radiostations had acquired a certain cachet. In fact, they were the ultimate accessory for the successful industrialist with his eye on a seat in the Lords. And so we turned up for work one day to find we’d been the target of a takeover. Our owners had sold us, like a used car, to the Mitten Group. No one had had a clue. Not even Jack. It was a fait accompli. He’d been informed about it on his mobile phone as he made his way into work. For a while, chaos reigned. No one knew what to expect. Words like ‘rationalisation’ and ‘belt-tightening’ were bandied about like balls. Anyone over thirty-five was told to expect their cards. Bob Harper, ‘the voice of London FM’, was summoned and summarily sacked and, the next day, Melinda arrived in a Porsche and a cloud of Poison.
‘Hello, evewyone,’ she’d said amiably. ‘I’m the new pwesenter.’
In the event, apart from
‘ So remember – NIAGRA! Get out £9.99 and get it UP! ’
Delightful, I thought, as I studied my pale reflection in the Ladies on the third floor. And then I thought, oh dear. You see, whenever London FM is going through a bad patch, the ads get worse and worse. In fact, they act as an unofficial barometer for the station’s health, which is not very good right now.
‘ Unsightly fat on your upper arms? ’ enquired a solicitous female voice. No, I thought as I lifted them up to brush my long, dark hair. ‘ Ugly dimples on hips and thighs? ’ I gazed at my shrunken middle. Nope. ‘ Introducing the new Bum and Tum Slim – THE fast, effective way to lose inches. ’ I don’t want to lose any more inches, I thought – I’d lost half a stone in a week.
I glanced at my watch, and a sharp surge of adrenaline began to make my heart race. Nine thirty. No putting it off. I’d have to go in and face them all now. At least then it’d be over with, I thought wearily, as I picked up my bag. The staring. The stifled titters. The sudden silences when I walked by; the giggles by the coffee machine, the furtive conversations by the fax.
Breathing deeply, I walked through the newsroom, passed the sales department and went into the Capitalise office. Mayhem met my eyes. Once again, the cleaners had failed to show. Books and papers spilled across desks; wastepaper bins overflowed. A spaghetti of editing tape lay on the floor, while an upturned cup dripped tea on to the carpet. In one corner a printer spewed out sheets of script which no one bothered to collect. Where was everyone? I wondered. What on earth was going on? Then, from the adjacent boardroom came a shrill, familiar voice, and I realised that the planning meeting had started early. I opened the door and crept in. Good. They were too busy arguing to notice me.
‘CWAP!’ screeched Melinda Mitten, our ‘star’ presenter, and I marvelled yet again at how a woman with a serious speech impediment could have become a professional broadcaster. Actually, there’s a simple explanation for this: a) her uncle owns the station and b) her uncle owns the station. He’s Sir Percy Mitten, the hosiery king. Very big in tights. And his stockings were always said by those who knew to be the ‘ denier cri’. But two years ago he sold Pretty Penny for, well, a pretty penny, and decided to buy London FM. Like many a business baron he wanted to move into the media, and owning a radio station had become de rigueur. Once derided as brown-paper-and-Sellotape outfits struggling to survive, commercial radiostations had acquired a certain cachet. In fact, they were the ultimate accessory for the successful industrialist with his eye on a seat in the Lords. And so we turned up for work one day to find we’d been the target of a takeover. Our owners had sold us, like a used car, to the Mitten Group. No one had had a clue. Not even Jack. It was a fait accompli. He’d been informed about it on his mobile phone as he made his way into work. For a while, chaos reigned. No one knew what to expect. Words like ‘rationalisation’ and ‘belt-tightening’ were bandied about like balls. Anyone over thirty-five was told to expect their cards. Bob Harper, ‘the voice of London FM’, was summoned and summarily sacked and, the next day, Melinda arrived in a Porsche and a cloud of Poison.
‘Hello, evewyone,’ she’d said amiably. ‘I’m the new pwesenter.’
In the event, apart from
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