29 March 2005

Likeable Links

Broadcasting Basement advises against the use of the Internet. However, we have recently become aware of a minority of our listeners and employees who are interested in such technological hoo-ha and would like to recommend a few sites over the coming CUT (Convenient Unit of Time.)

Firstly, for fools with computers who like reading about other fools with computers, there's RinkWorks' Computer Stupidities section and TechTales' vast archives. We have been informed that TechTales suffers from irritatingly flickery advertisements and wish to suggest the following workaround:

To view the archive of a specific month, visit http://techtales.com/YYYY_MM_tft.html where MM is the two-digit month and YYYY is the year. For example, to visit the archive from May 1999, you'd visit http://techtales.com/1999_05_tft.html

That's all for now, but remember, this station's still alive and kicking, so stay tuned!

19 March 2005


Tiny Tickle UnRadio is proud to present Occle, the world's shortest silent radio play, which was written and performed by William Shakespeare's lesser-known half-brother, Wallace Brakespeare, who is here with us now. Brakespeare is 444 years old and currently living in a privately-owned gravel pit in South-East England. But before we air the recording, please tell us a little about how you came to write it, Will -- er -- Wallace.

Well, I first had the idea for a really short radio play in 1773, so I guess you could say I was ahead of my time.

I wouldn't guess; I'd suppose.

Whatever. So, back then nobody was interested in my idea. I went to several agents who actually had the nerve to tell me that radio hadn't been invented yet! I knew that -- that was the problem! I was hoping they'd be able to help me, but they all told me to get out of their respective offices... Those insensitive little shits! They don't know what it's like! They have no idea what it's like being an artist who's held back by technology and constantly in his little brother's shadow!

Yes... erm... thank you. We do try to avoid swearing on this station. You never know, there may be little children listening.

Yeah, well... they can all go and--

This interview is over. Run the tape, for goodness sake!


Well, that really is a short silent radio play.

What were you expecting?

Alright, alright, I'm sorry, just please don't swear.

Fine. Shall I continue with the story?

Since we seem to have so much air-time left, please do go ahead.

Right, well... Once I'd got over the initial frustration, I thought, "OK, Wally, you've got hundreds of years to write your play, so relax and do a good job of it." I started my first draft that night. It was hard going, staring at that blank page. The page stared back at me. Course, when I was finished, the page was still blank.

Understandably, yes.

Nonetheless, I went to sleep knowing it was a job well done. Well, it was good for a first draft. But the next day I couldn't find that page... I searched high and low and from side-to-side, but all I could find was a page with nothing on it, and that couldn't be it. So I eventually calmed down and decided to write another draft from memory. I could still remember it pretty well, 'cause my memory's good if I get enough sleep. Anyway, the next day there was nothing but that dratted blank page again. I started to think that William was stealing all my drafts. It was like that for the next few centuries. I don't know how he continued to steal my drafts after his death, but he did. When radios and recordings were eventually invented, I'd written enough drafts to be able to improvise the play on the spot, so I simply recorded several improvisations and kept the best one. First, it was recorded onto an old cylinder, but I had to keep transferring it to new cylinders because they wore out so quickly. Then I transferred it to a record and later to tape. By then, it was so scratched and horrible it was almost impossible to hear the silence, so I had it digitally re-mastered. It cost a lot, but I have to give them some credit; they did it SO quickly! That's the story behind the recording you just heard.

Well, that was fascinating. Do you have any plans for the future?

Yes, I'm writing the sequel, which I hope to make even shorter and quieter.

Even quieter? How can you get quieter than silence?

It's amazing what you can do with computers! Anyway, I'm also forcing myself to make this one shorter by using a smaller piece of paper.

I say, that is indeed cunning. Well done and I hope you have better luck with this play!

Thanks, I'm sure I will.

Well, that's all for now. Do be sure to tune in later.

18 March 2005

Peculiar Poetry Point Prequel

The following intriguing and scary poems and songs should have been broadcast before the "first" edition of the Peculiar Poetry Point. Unfortunately, because of a minor temporal fault, that Peculiar Poetry Point was broadcast before it was recorded. We at Broadcasting Basement would like to take this opportunity to iron the record flat and straight, so that it doesn't have any of those cursed creases, by running the tape that should have been broadcast the first time. Now, where's that Play button...

And only last week John Major was heard to remark, "If I had a hammer...it'd likely feel unfulfilled as I don't have any nails," at the annual anti-DIY rally in...

No, that's not the right tape...

First up, a short Ode to Blue Tac by Xlucieh:

Blue tac is a wonderful thing
It cannot ever fail
For who would want to be putting up
A poster with a nail?

Now I think we have a much longer song by the same composer. You may recognise the tune as that of Yankee Doodle.

Lucie is a special girl
And she really likes killing
She's trying to take over the world
With merriful blood spilling

Kill the people, kill them all!
And make the world a shrine
I'll start it all out with Sparkle
Then Carol will be mine!

Now that all the world is dead
Or at least in agony
Lucie still has Imogen
So she will not get lonely!

Kill the people, kill them all!
And make the world a shrine
I'll start it all out with Sparkle
Then Carol will be mine!

The little badger needs a friend
To make sure her life's painless
Though soon enough she will get bored
And we'll need a replacement

Kill the people, kill them all!
And make the world a shrine
I'll start it all out with Sparkle
Then Carol will be mine!

Lucie's shrine of death will thrive
With such a vicious leader
She will kill most stealthily
They will not even see her

Kill the people, kill them all!
And make the world a shrine
I'll start it all out with Sparkle
Then Carol will be mine!

Well... *clears throat* ...Uh, that's the end of the tape. I really don't know why The Powers That Be decided to broadcast that rubbish. A whole week and that's the best they could manage...

11 March 2005

The Philoso-Files

During a recent casual lunch meeting, our resident philosopher felt driven to scrawl his worldly musings onto the nearest napkin. I am just about to read out his thoughts. Listeners who are likely to be offended by this programme are advised to get a grip!

“1 × medium vegetarian lasagne, 2 × garlic bread, 2 glasses liquid frog, total cost: more than I can afford. Note to self: Leave restaurant discretely.

I have spent months thinking intensely about the fundamentals of the world in which I seem to live. Here are my conclusions, which I have, as far as I can tell, arrived at independently of anyone else who may or may not share my opinions.

Everything that I have ever encountered in my life boils down to two things:
  1. Experiences, which require senses. Senses can deceive us. Therefore, data from our senses cannot be used as proof, be it proof of a miracle or proof that scientific data is accurate.
  2. Thoughts, which, in my case at least, involve logic. I use logic to come to conclusions. Unfortunately, I cannot be sure that my conclusions are correct, since they are based on nothing more than my experiences and previous conclusions.
I cannot even conclude that I am applying logic when thinking, or even that I am thinking at all, since thought itself is an experience.

Unfortunately for me, taking up a religion would only complicate matters by raising more questions than it answered. For me, it is enough of a leap of faith to believe that I exist.”

Right... erm... Well, let that be a lesson to you listeners. Don’t read or think; it screws up your mind. Instead, listen to Tiny Tickle UnRadio, the silent radio station.

09 March 2005

More Manic Musings

We would like to thank listeners for their numerous responses to our earlier Manic Musings.

First of all, a curious commentator called Carl Cringeworth recently discovered Mrs Arseonionne's scissors in the bread-bin. This could explain how the inner five-year-olds made cheese 'n' sellotape sandwiches for lunch on that fateful scissor-vanishing day. Listeners should be informed that we are referring specifically to the inner-children at Broadcasting Basement, who live within the hearts and minds of our employees, and also do the catering.

A frequent listener, who doesn't go by the name of Lumble Gibberford, asks, "Why are there no silent i's?" Hmm... An intriguing question. Could it be that there are many thousands of silent letters, but that they're so quiet that we fail to notice them? Then again, how many eyes have you heard anyway? She also adds, "My scissors are held together by sticky-front-plastic," and, "All Blue Peter presenters are backwards." From the sound of things, it's best to steer clear of this person.

Personally, I would also like to know how it is that words are made of letters, yet letters are made of words. If any of you know the answers to these questions, you know the address! We now return you to your irregularly-scheduled bouts of inter-transmissional white noise... shhhhhhhhh...

01 March 2005

The Peculiar Poetry Point

Welcome to the Peculiar Poetry Point, where pointless and peculiar poetry comes to life. Today we have three offerings from writers who, wisely, wish to remain anonymous in order to avoid being burned at the stake. Poetry is a punishable offense in Luxembourg, you see, and we don't want Ammel Smitch and Glonnia to... Oh, I have said too much.

Little Jack Horner Returns...

Little Jack Horner
Sat in a corner
Eating a Christmas pie.

He stuck in a spoon
And pulled out the Moon
And said "Right, that does it. I'm not putting up with this level of surrealism" and wandered off in a huff.

The Glass Hand

An incredible new-found land
Has, instead of a normal brass band,
Made from sand, a pleasant glass hand,
Which glows like a rainbow and
Makes a sound like a piano, baby grand.

And now for something completely unpoetic:

What are you making?
I'm making a mess.
What's MS?
Multiple sclerosis.

More peculiar poetry to come, folks!