“Good morning folk!!!!!” I roared into the microphone, which was in turn passed out to listening ears of my audience. “It’s another beautiful day with temperatures in the twenties. White fluffy clouds and songbirds all over the sky singing their songs of joy! Let’s start with “Another Day in Paradise ” by the inimical Phil Collins.”
The sweet voice of Phil drifted through the air, brightening people’s lives and making everything a little more bearable.
As the song finished I sprang into action. “It’s Dave Millar, the D.J. with the silver tongue. We’ll be ploughing through some raves from the grave, some hits from the past and some melodic melodies. We will have a phone - in and you can tell me all your thoughts on a topic I will give to you after this hit by Cilla Black; “Anyone who had a Heart!””
“Anyone who had a heart, would look at me and know that I loved themmmmmm…..!” I crooned along, totally ruining the song for any fan. The old ones were the great ones, I always thought. Memories of the past, golden summers running along golden beaches, endless days and gallons of ice cream. Watch it, I thought to myself, reminiscing is a trait of the old.
And so the morning rolled on with song after ballad after anthem and time passed.
“Ok people, today’s topic for the ‘talky talky phone – in debate’ is, mmmmmmm.” I deliberated, I thought that I had a good one but imagining some of the phone calls I decided to aim a little higher, not too high just a bit more mentally demanding.
“Irony, which today’s chat will be all about. And listen everyone, irony is not what you build bridges and ships out of. It is a figure of speech in which what you say is the opposite of what you mean or it can also be an event or result that is the opposite of what is expected. It’s like me saying to someone, “great party!” when it is actually a flop! Or a fire engine catching fire. You know what I mean ……! Now, lets have a bit of music before the first call. How about Good News Week by Hedgehoppers Anonymous?”
The phones remained silent. Had I tried to be too highbrow? I wondered. Should I have gone for something that had been hashed and rehashed, but was safe? I was on the point of changing the topic for ‘Your favourite film’ when a light shone on one of the telephones on my desk.
“You are through to Dave Millar, the D.J. with the silver tongue. What do you want to share with us?”
I could hear breathing on the other end of the phone, so I knew there was someone there.
“Yes, yes! Do you want to say something?” I shouted into the silent void.
“Is this irony thing like a joke or something?” the voice hissed.
“No,” I replied. It is supposed to be the very opposite of the situation!” I cried, exasperated.
“Oh, I see,” said the caller. “It’s like me calling a black cat, white?”
“No, it is more subtle than that.” I could see this situation deteriorating fast.
“Let’s play a record and then take up the thread afterwards? Eh? Here’s “Famous Blue Raincoat” by Leonard Cohen?”
I wracked my brain. How could I pull the potatoes out of the fire and save the situation? There had to be a solution.
Leonard moaned to a close and suddenly I had dead air.
“Well that was good wasn’t it?” I quickly said into the microphone.
“Is that you using the irony thing? asked my pesky caller. “It was pretty depressing.”
“No, well yes if you happen not to like Leonard Cohen. Personally I like him.” I interjected a bit testily.
“Well professor,” the caller laughed. “How about you giving your listening public a personal example of this, what did you call it? Irony”
I had been out manoeuvred. Damn it, I was in control! I thought angrily.
“Right you got it…..what’s your name?” I shouted.
The voice deepened and for a moment it sounded echoey.
“You must know your Bible, professor. My name is Legion for we are many.”
“Very funny. OK I’ll call you Leg for short. Is that OK?” I would show the bugger.
“OK with us prof,” came the reply.
“Well, I used to work for Radio KLS and had a very popular evening show. The audience was in the thousands and I was invited to attend civic functions, garden parties and shows. My salary was in the thousands and I drove a very expensive car.
I lived in a very expensive neighbourhood in a five bedroomed villa complete with swimming pool. Life was good and to quote a song, the living was easy.”
Leg chuckled. “So what happened? How come you got kicked out of Eden
“There is always some flaw in the most expensive diamond, a worm in the rosy apple, the …”
“Ok prof,” interrupted Leg. “We get the picture, get on with the story!”
“First some music, Madonna singing “Like a Virgin”,” I had to stay in command of my audience. I was no puppet awaiting the pull of the strings.
As the music faded there arose an expectant hush. Tangible like the expectant silence as a film or play starts.
“Jessica was my wife. I had married her after my twenty first birthday and for a few years we lived happily. Sharing everything, experiencing together the joy of two people being one entity. She spoilt me and I ruined her. I bought her jewellery, cars and took her on holidays. Nothing was too good for her in my eyes.
Then, KLS hit problems and several of my co workers had to be laid off. I was forced to take a severe cut in my salary, but I held onto my job, although my work load increased. I had to fill in slots that my late colleagues had hosted. I was up early in the morning and often staggered in late at night totally exhausted.
Our bank balance was firmly in the red and my salary just about put food on the table.”
Leg grunted. “It sounds like you hit rock bottom prof. How did your wife take it?”
I made out I hadn’t heard his question and decided to set the mood. “A song from Richard Marx, “Hazard”.” A lovely ballad with words that bit into the soul.
It was easy to tell the story. Easy to drop back into the hell which our idyllic marriage had become.
“Unfortunately, my loving wife became a shopaholic,” I admitted brazenly to my audience. “My fault, mea culpa, I had introduced her to ‘the good life’ and she had swallowed it hook, line and sinker. I begged her not to go shopping. I pleaded with her to attend therapy. We did not have the funds, but she was soon running up accounts in shops. She called it retail therapy and said that it was the only thing that filled my absence at home. I was trapped in my own Catch – 22. To stop my wife spending, I had to be home. Yet to earn money I had to be at work!”
I looked around the studio with the tape machines and the CD drives and wondered where reality stopped and fantasy began. I was recounting the tale of a failure – me, to an audience of avid listeners. I felt as if I was reliving a soap opera.
The electrifying sounds of Visage’s “Fade to Grey” heralded the continuation of the recounting of my shame.
“Finally, I decided to kill her. Yes, this may sound drastic but I could see me ending up spending the rest of my natural life paying for her shopping sprees. It was her mental aberration and nothing or no one was going to stop it peaceably. I hated her. I detested her for the misery that she had caused us. But I had to be clever and not get caught!
I planned for the perfect murder. One where I would appear totally innocent and have a watertight alibi.”
I picked up a CD, it was Barbra Streisand’s “Guilty”. It suited the mood and gave me a chance to sort out my thoughts. Barry Gibb’s deep voice gave the piece a sacred rendering. A kind of crying out of the soul to a higher entity for forgiveness and understanding.
“We’re back folks, so it’s on with the tale of woe.
I decided that my strongest chance would be supplied by something that I knew inside out. Music was to be my alibi. My job, as its cradle. The one would strengthen and support the other. The plan was, I considered, foolproof.
I was to make up a tape recording of music and my chatter and have it running for two hours. During this time I would leave, carry out the dastardly deed and be back to the radio station before the tape finished. For all intents and purpose it would sound as if I had never left. That was the theory…..
That day I put the tape on the player and after setting my watch, pushed the start button. Instantly my inane chatter filled the air and with a final look round the studio, I made my getaway.
The streets were quiet as I made my way home. It was early afternoon and the evening rush home hadn’t started yet. I pulled into my drive and switching of the car engine got out and approached the front door. I unlocked the door and stepped into the hall. The house was as silent as the grave as I went from room to room looking for Jessica. Eventually I established that she was not there and I turned my attention to what lay about.”
Pausing melodramatically I broke the mood.
“Next bit of music is a request. Leg, do you or any of the ‘many’ want anything special played?” I waited expectantly.
“Prof,” came the reply. “Can’t you just get on with the story? We’re all dying (emphasis on ‘the dying’) to hear the end.”
“What sort of D.J. would I be if I didn’t play some music? Come on what can I titillate your ears with? Z.Z. Topps? Barry Manilow? The choice is yours.” I felt as if a million ears had tuned to my show.
“Ok Prof, Jimmy here would like to hear some Frank Sinatra. Have you got any of his recordings?” Leg growled.
“Uuhhhhh! I am afraid Frank Sinatra is not a favourite of mine, Leg. What about Enya?” I spluttered, caught out for a moment.
“Whatever prof, but what you got against Sinatra? In my book he’s a fair singer”
The sweet voice of Enya echoed around the studio and out into the airwaves. I was once again transported back to my past. A summer day, a light breeze and a beautiful girl on my arm.
Eventually “Orinoco Flow” faded off into silence and for a brief second I felt as if I was standing on the edge of a precipice.
“The denouement or for ‘non profs’, the end game. Dave Millar’s plea for understanding.
As I had said, the house was empty, the bird had flown, but not without leaving me a message. A pile of shopping bags full of clothes lay on the settee and I knew that my dear wife Jessica had been on another of her shopping sprees. I felt my temper rising. I was ready for the deed. She had pushed all the right buttons.
The dining room table was set for one and a note sat propped up against the tomato ketchup.
“I have left your tea next to the sink” the note read. I looked into the kitchen and saw four potatoes (unpeeled), a tin of corned beef (unopened) and a pile of peapods (unshucked).
“We should never have married,” the note continued. “We are totally incompatible and you make my life a misery. I tried to ignore your penny pinching ways by going shopping but realised that you would only blow a gasket ….again. So I left the pretty things that I bought and I’m leaving you ….forever.” I could not believe my eyes. The bitch! I ripped up the note into a hundred pieces and flushed it down the toilet.
I couldn’t stand it any more; I rushed out the door and made my way back to the studio. My sweet wife had outsmarted me, I had planned her permanent demise carefully and everything had turned cone shaped. I fumed and smacked my forehead with my hand. I had never been so angry.
Halfway back I decided to check with my alibi. I turned the radio on and tuned it to KLS. Frank Sinatra had just starting singing and I hummed along as I made my way back. I would find Jessica, even if it took a lifetime and I would make her sorry for ruining my life. No one made a fool of Dave Millar as she would find out.
“Regrets I’ve had a few
But then again too few to mention
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption”
Frank Sinatra’s melodious voice sang on.
“I planned each charted course
Each careful step along the byway
And more, much more than this……”
I prepared to deliver Sinatra’s line in my own out of tune voice.
“I did it my way..way..way..way..way..way”
The bloody tape had stuck and it sounded if Frank had developed a very bad stutter.
I pushed my foot down on the accelerator and raced back to the studio. I eventually snapped the radio off as the repeating word started sounding accusatory.
I eventually drove through the gates and as I did I turned the radio back on to see if my gaff had been discovered. The dulcet tones of one of our junior D.J.’s voice literally poured honey like from my speakers.
“Hi there KLS folks, this is Cindy Sweeter. I’ve taken over from Dave while he is absent. I’m sure he’ll be back in a while.”
I hoped so too, but doubted it and this was confirmed when I stepped into KLS’s foyer to find the radio manager, Ben Beasley waiting for me with two burly security men. I was fired on the spot and was escorted to the door by the guards.”
“Ok prof,” Leg said over the telephone line. “Where does the ironic bit come in?”
“Don’t you want a bit of music first?” I suggested. “A few verses of some ballad to increase the tension.”
“Prof!” growled Leg threateningly. “Get on with it……!”
“Well, after a few days I began to think Jessica’s departure had been the best thing to happen. No more shopping sprees. I got my redundancy money and I got a little from the Social. I had decided to sell the house to try and reduce the bills that Jessica had run up, when I received a phone call from Jessica’s mother. She had not heard from her daughter for a while and wondered if everything was alright. She gasped when I told her Jessica had left me and asked where she had gone. I of course could tell her nothing and so it was a tearful mother in law I said goodbye to.
A day later Jessica’s father called at the house and demanded to know where his daughter was. He had driven a couple of hundred miles to get there and he wanted answers!
After that things went from bad to worse. Jessica’s parents brought the police in and I had to give them a statement. They canvassed my neighbours and learnt about our verbal battles that were loud enough for the whole street to hear. People gossiped and speculated that with the police involved I had to have done away with my wife. No one had seen her since that day she had left me and soon the police had obtained a warrant to search the house and garden with cadaver dogs. They found nothing, but I was taken into custody.
The one thing that completely weakened my defence was that blasted tape I had made. It was to be my alibi and ironically,(I emphasised the word for my listening public) it was that which proved my undoing. Rather than proving that I was in one place rather than another, the tape proved that I was elsewhere when I should have been in the studio. The police regarded it as prime evidence of my guilt.
I employed a lawyer to plead my case but even with no body, the prosecution proved to the jury that I was guilty.
And that gentlemen, is why I am now your D.J. at San Quentin Prison and will be here for all my natural life. Imprisoned not by guilt but irony!”
There was a hush as I paused and then the silence broke and I was beset by telephone call after telephone call from my fellow prisoners, who too, were innocent and had been trapped by irony.
As I took the last call and answered the last plea for understanding I played the last record for the day – “Mad World” sung by Gary Jules. The words made sense so I realised I wasn’t completely sane or whatever the definition of sane is. I picked up the microphone and delivered my epilogue.
“Good night my princes, this Dave Millar your D.J. signing off for the night.
Irony was today’s theme and whatever happened to me and how it panned out, I think it all comes down to being let down by Jessica ………………………..and Frankie!
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