So they've changed Radio I again. Whoop-tee-fuck'n-do. And once again people of my generation are rootless in the FM world.

People who grew up with Our Tune and Steve Wright in the afternoons. People who remember Mick and Keef with the same golden glow reserved for Gilbert the Alien.

People who laughed when DLT resigned live on air and prayed that radio darts was gone for good. Us folks who put up with Gary Davies and his Bit In The Middle for so many bloody years.

How do they pay us back? Do they give us a few hours a day free from the playlist? Do they neuter Atomic Kitten for 10 bloody minutes? Do they reach into the bottomless pit of good music and keep us tuned?

No.

They axe the golden years and big up the UK's 'thriving' garage / handbag / r&b / cock / sucking / music scene.

Too young for Radio 2, disenfranchised from 1, too grumpy for commercial crap.

And I love the radio. I've always loved the radio. I like to flip it on instead of the TV, check out some tunes, listen to a story, smirk at Jam.

I used to like Nicky Campbell in the evenings, when he asked Cilla Black about drugs, and Mark Radcliffe when he took over. He had Simon Armitage as a regular guest. A poet. A damn good poet. On Radio 1.

Now we've got the one-joke Cox and her band of biased sports reporters and in-joke sharing twats, Timothy 'gunshot' Westwood, Sunday's incoherent crazy gang, and the almost completely talentless big fat world of big fat Moyles. Bad abuse as good radio, why? Are we stupid?

All they've left us is the weird, impenetrable world of Peel and the elite, arse-gazing world of Lamacq.

We've been done, people. They've pulled the wool over our eyes and played the youth card one too many times.

I've got a sour taste in my mouth as I reach for that dial one last time.

It's now, as the song goes, that we have to 'leave them all behind….'

by Adam Burns

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