The Who, What, Why and When.
A peek through the steel famed window into the small ground floor flat on a reasonably pleasant council estate (it was conceived to be a showcase for rented housing — it declined rapidly, and today no longer stands) reveals a small box bedroom.
Sparsely furnished; to use an old saying ‘there was hardly room to swing a cat’, we see a white laminate wardrobe topped by books and a pair of cheap plastic rear parcel shelf car speakers, red and black thin wires trailing down and vanishing into a silver plastic radio.
The only other furniture — a single bed topped with layers of blankets and a thick counterpane is reflected in the oval glass mirror of the wardrobe.
Rain pelts mercilessly against the window and the coming winter would bring ‘The Big Snow’ a viciously cold December and January — ‘The Coldest on Record’, or so the news would soon report. The large plain window overlooking the small, neat, Rose lined garden, fenced washing area and onto the local primary school playing ground, would each morning that coming winter display intricate and amazing ice formations, fantastical designs of fern-like structures. The issue — those patterns would be on the inside of the window, no heating in this box room.
It’s 10.30pm and the gangly, blond-haired boy should be asleep. He isn’t.
The radio is on, but barely audible so as not to wake his mother. His father died a year and a half ago. The relationship between mother and son, which before that had always been close has deteriorated too almost nothing. Nowadays counselling would be offered, but then it was just a case of getting on with things and she never came to terms with the boy’s father’s death, turning that despair into anger against the child. ‘It should have been you that died’.
There is eager anticipation in the boy’s eyes as he listens intently for the words that will transport him out of the cold room and his refuge from the world and into a world of expansive landscapes; cosy dwellings, campfire comradery, heroic acts and friendships so strong that they would endure to stand atop a fiery mountain in the very heart of evils domain.
A Book at Bedtime.
It is 1981 and the BBC has dramatized J.R.R.Tokein’s Lord of the Rings.
Recognised now as a broadcasting landmark, this full cast radio dramatization by Brian Sibley and Michael Bakewell first aired on BBC Radio 4 in 1981 in 26 half hour episodes.
For now, for the eager eyed teen, it would provide an escape as he lay there listening to the wind howl and stone giants toss boulders across vast ravines while the fellowship of friends cowered beneath a rocky outcrop on cruel, cruel Caradhras.
In the years to come it would be the foundation and pivotal moment that sparked a lifelong love of storytelling, audio drama, fantasy and ultimately audio recording and tabletop role playing games.
We all have stories to tell. We all tell stories, even if it is only a recounting of our day to another. It is part of what makes us human.
Maybe, just maybe, I have a story to share too.
The how, the who, the what, the why and when — of my journey through the ever-changing landscape of friends at a table, under a cliff, as giants hurl boulders that can never really hurt us.
The boy, in case you were wondering — he grew up as boys do but he tried to retain some of the ‘child’s imagination’ in his mind.
He went on to compete for England’s youth at swimming, play in an orchestra at the Royal Albert Hall, take up weightlifting and martial arts, work in media and publishing for 22 years before changing direction into conservation, start and run a wildlife rescue and as a result deliver education and write for national media while also appearing on TV, to be one of the first podcasters in the country and, well, to continue to voraciously consume and tell stories for all of that time.
So why a podcast?
It all started with the BBC and the Lord of the Rings radio production back in 1981. I didn’t have a TV in my bedroom but I did have a radio which I had wired up to a cheap pair of car speakers to ‘improve’ the sound.
