Dead Air by Iain Banks Read Free Book Online Page B

speech, and variations thereof, for nearly a year and this was, IMHO, a particularly fine and well-delivered example of the breed, which I thought might have elicited a pained grin if nothing else from the lovely Nikki, but it drew only a woundingly blank Oh-yeah, ho-hum look across her glowing features.
    ‘Could do with power steering, couldn’t it?’ she suggested.
    ‘And a better turning circle. But glad you spotted that,’ I said. ‘The chance to maintain upper body strength through in-car exercise is a truly valuable no-cost option.’
    ‘Yeah, right,’ she said. She was silent for a few moments, then nodded at the radio. ‘That’s not your station playing, is it?’
    ‘Ah, no; that’ll be Mark and Lard on Radio One.’
    ‘Isn’t that disloyal?’
    ‘Deeply. Can I let you in on a terrible secret?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’m only half joking about it being secret,’ I said first. ‘The press haven’t heard this yet and on a quiet news day with a following wind it could just make it into print and conceivably cause me problems in a straw-that-breaks-the-camel’s-back kinda stylee.’
    ‘Guide’s honour,’ she said, saluting ironically.
    ‘Thanks. Okay; here it is … hold on …’ I’d been gradually nudging the Land Rover’s much-dented front further and further into the traffic stream for the past few vehicle-gaps, and somebody in a nice car had finally got the message. I waved cheerfully at the silver Merc that let us out of Old Compton Street, as we swung onto Wardour Street to start heading north in a vaguely Highgate-ish direction. I looked at Nikki. ‘Yeah. It’s this: I cannot fucking stand commercial radio.’ I nodded. ‘There; it’s out now and I feel better for it.’
    ‘Including the station you work for, obviously.’
    ‘Obviously.’
    ‘So you listen to Radio One.’
    ‘It’ll get turned off promptly at three, but for large parts of the day, yes. And I have a definite weakness for Mark and Lard. There; listen.’ In fact, all we were listening to was the Landy’s rattling engine and ambient outside traffic noises until the Boy Lard squeaked, ‘Carry on,’ and the programme resumed. ‘See?’ I said. ‘Dead air, there; silence. Used to be anathema for DJs and radio people in general. Nowdays, well, nobody’s much bothered about leaving pauses any more, but these guys have made it into a feature. Repeat until funny, as they’d say themselves. Genius.’ I glanced at Nikki, who was looking sceptically at me from beneath her mass of red hair. ‘But the point,’ I insisted, ‘is that the Beeb has minimal advertising. I mean, they carry trailers for their own shows and those can get wearing enough, but what they don’t have is relentless high-rotation drivel every fifteen minutes from fucking loan companies, ambulance-chasing shyster legal firms and Chipboard Warehouse’s owner shouting at you from too near the mike to come on down and feel the cut of his special offers. I hate adverts. I prefer the licence fee. That’s how I want to pay; up front, efficiently, then get to listen to what I want to listen to and nothing else, whether it’s pop-clones or Beethoven or the sort of crap all-day talk shows that taxi drivers listen to.’
    ‘I suppose that guy Phil points out that the adverts are what pay your wages.’
    ‘Phil?’ I laughed. ‘He’s a Radio Three and Four man. Hates adverts even more than I do.’ I glanced at her again as we troubled the usually little-used upper regions of the Landy’s gearbox in a miraculous void in the traffic, which gave us an almost clear run to the lights at Oxford Street. ‘Don’t get me wrong; he’s a good producer and he’s a real muso - goes to see a band practically every night, whether it’s at Wembley Arena or a pub in Hackney - but he can’t stand Capital Live! either. No, it’s our friendly local Station Manager to whom it falls to bring the realities of commercial radio regularly to our attention.’
    We crossed