Drayton: Hell hath no fury like an unemployed DJ

I was at a swanky show-biz do last night in the heart of Newcastle’s glittering Pilgrim Street. A veritable Who was Who of broadcasting, held in honour of Sir Paddy MacDee and his 40 years in radio. No mean achievement.

In recent years radio has constricted. Where once the airwaves were bountiful, especially in the commercial world, they’ve been pared down, centralised and syndicated. If you thought comedy could be a tough gig, radio kicks its sorry ass. Gigs for presenters – a strange existence, you spend your working life talking to yourself and playing Adele ad nauseum – are few and far between. I’m not one to revel in another man’s unemployment, and, after bumping into to several ungracious sourpusses last night I think they should stop revelling in their own.

It must be hard though, to forget. Where once entire communities hung on their every word, no one now cares. Where once every ‘and here’s Simply Red’ and ‘there’s one lane closed on the A184’ meant something, every wind up call was brayingly hilarious. From speaking to the nation to mute unemployment. It must be awful.

Ex-Jocks – the collective noun of which is ‘a dribble’ – love to wallow in their own past importance. On Civvy Street they’re like an arrogant homeless bull, their gift to the world, their voice now the deadweight that brings forth, ‘Didn’t you used to be on Metro?’ every time they say, ‘Would you like fries with that?’

I think the word hubris was invented for these folks. The lesson from today’s sermon, in a very roundabout way is – it’s nice to be important, it’s important to be nice.