Desert Island Discs

There seems to be a trend in declaring the death of mediums at the moment. Just yesterday I had a long, semi-concious and fully drunken chat with my bassists father who called me "niave" for thinking the media could survive the recession.

One such medium, that in my opinion would have already died a death if it weren't for car stereos, is Radio. Those god awful afternoon dramas, annoying DJs, terrible playlists, amatuer adverts and the fucking Archers aside, it is simply a medium that filled the gap between social cohesion and TV.

The fact is that everything Radio can do, TV can do better. With a few exceptions - one being Desert Island Discs. There is something so inherently sonic about the show that the idea of adding the visual seems completely destructive. Music is an Aural pleasure, and thus a TV or live version of it would leave one not knowing where to look. In fact I think most people would close their eyes and pretend it is a radio show.

I listened to Desert Island Discs for the first time in years today, because the hero that is David Mitchell was on. As a self confused non-muso he chose a wonderfully mixed bag including, amongst others, "Rainbow Connection" sung by Kermit the Frog, Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Major and Radiohead's "creep". He also chose "Spanish Flea" by Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass, stating that is would be the perfect song to go mad to on a desert Island. To watch David Jiggle about to the Spanish Flea on TV would be too much to bear.

Listening to Radio still has its pleasures, ones I forgot until this morning. It makes you concentrate on the music (thus why Dizzy Rascal's "Bonkers" is so completely intolerable in this form....actually any form) and also listen to what it's speakers say, rather than gawp at how the camera adds ten pounds to David Mitchell (although less cameras must be on him recently). Radio still has it's place, it's just that that place has moved, and it needs to remember why it is different to TV not why TV is better than it.

Long live Desert Island Discs, and long live Radio.

Fern Cotton's feet are a little too small in my opinion.

Radio presenters are a classic English target. Awkward conversations about the weather are often followed by a scathing appraisal of the "idiots on the radio". Jo Whiley managed to escape this kind of criticism, but largely only because she managed to avoid public conciousness by being (feel free to stop talking about anti-seasonal precipitation and disagree) pretty inoffensive.

Caitlin Moran however, very much hates the woman, and in her own enviable style puts her down like an old dog: "her on-screen style that seems to inspire the main rage — a decades-long, squirming awkwardness that makes her look as if she’s about to corkscrew right off her chair and start drilling into the ground. This awkwardness extends into her conversational rhythm, which is angular — possibly free-jazz — in origin."

But Caitlin - you must be preparing your razor sharp tongue once again, because a much easier target has swaggered in front of the sniperscope. Fearne Cotton will now be doing the midmorning slot. As a young, attractive and slightly trashy sounding lady she is bound to be victim to some highbrow brow raising. I as a young, virile young man have no problem with her. Except she's shit.

How can she now present the Live Lounge when she dated a Fame Academy offshoot and the Lostprophet singer (the only man alive to exclusively sing through his nose). How can she take over the £250,000 a year salary off the back of a career on Top of the Pops and Red Nose Day?

Whiley, for all her sins, was a music lover, a recognisable voice, a live lounge co-creator and the voice of reason on T4 unsigned (if that exists). Fearne, they may not be massive shoes to fill but at the moment you look like you have very small feet.