My Peter Finch Moment comes and goes


Listen to this….


Welcome.  Every Tuesday at about quarter past seven I read the horoscope, not to me but to the tens of thousands (I wish) of listeners to my breakfast show I do on local radio.  It is one of three programs I do each week but it is the only one I do on my own.  I arrive at the station at about 10 to six and it is dark but not asleep.  After a wave of my pass and hearing the satisfactory clunk of the door opening I enter a warm space filled with sound.  From midnight to my arrival we take a feed from Canberra which, more often than not, is country music.  This feed from the Community Broadcasting Mothership and is the audio stocking filler we fill our transmission airwaves with when we are not live.  0600 is a strange hour to listen to the droning tales of lost loves, dying dogs, droughts and fires, pestilence and cattle herding but that’s what they produce so that is what we get.  In a ballet of preparation I put on the kettle in the kitchen, sign the book, go to the studio, free my assorted paraphernalia from a travel case, make a coffee, sip a coffee, leave my coffee on a window ledge outside of the studio, plug in my headphones, sort my CD, watch the clock, insert my thumb drives and CDs into their proper places, set the levels and wait for the news to complete its cycle on the half hour and then, fade out the news music and press my intro select button.  I am on air.  From 6.30 to nine o’clock there is just me, my mic, my music and the computer to give me updates on travel times, freeway delays, local and national weather.  For two and a half hours I conduct a flow of music and banter and in return get an occasional SMS message from a listener making a comment about the stuff I prattle on about.  It is a very strange thing to do run a radio program solo. You are alone and It is lonely.  You have a set number of things you have to do and a considerable amount of time available to do whatever you like, but it’s all one way, it is like talking to yourself, it is an imaginary conversation.  SOP, Standard Operating Procedure, has rules like you cannot defame someone, your whole world of politics, social and commercial topics of interest are predicated with the words ‘it is alleged’ and an insurance against a law suit.  Over colourful language like….well as I broadcast this I cannot say it can I, is heavily frowned upon and you are under pain of suspension should you ‘go over the top.’  So no Peter Finch antics from this bunny, I continue to ‘take it anymore’.  The result is a vanilla breakfast porridge of sounds and comments that allows the listeners to arise from their torpor, scratch and shuffle, empty bladders and prep themselves for their day ahead.  My 3 then 2 carefully selected tracks builds in pace and toe tapping excitement until 0900 when the clock-in bell chings like a starters gun and they are all ‘off’.  To stretch the brain matter I explore the metaphysical projections by offering my predictions for the week ahead for each of the 583,333,333.33 people there are in each star sign.  Half a billion people are going to have a ‘new romantic encounter this week and could involve a close friend or a work colleague.’  They will ‘make sure they listen to that colleagues’ or friends’ advice before following through on the romantic offing’ and this will lead to ‘a happier outcome for everyone.’  I guess the chances that someone in that half billion will have just such an experience and vouchsafe to have total belief in Capricorn for the rest of their days.  But I can also safely predict that one of those Capricornians will have no such experience and die and I will be 100% right!

I feel as if I‘kick start’ my listeners and send them off for the day tapping on steering wheels, whistling through puckering lips and smiling about the prospect of having a naughty with someone at work.  That’s what I hope for of course for I cannot see anyone.  I sit there playing the console like and instrument trying to think up witticisms, alone with just my imagination.

Such is life.  Until the next time, this is Brodie Goozée.


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