Radiostation Histórias

අහන්කාරයොන්ගෙ හැන්දෑවෙ සැරිසරන්න එන්න....

Out to surpass the ratings of a competitor radio station's talk show, an old friend asks Red for help. Deciding that a steamy nightly discussion on sex and love problems would give them the much needed edge, Red's help is then enlisted to play the part of an in-house adviser. Everything was going quite smoothly, until love turned into more than just a mere discussion.

People don't just disappear, do they? I don't mean a clothes-on-beach John Stonehouse sort of disappearance. Nor a dead-nanny-on-floor Lord Lucan type of crime. Those were elaborate, doing-a-runner schemes. As was my father disappearing for good with the teenage bride of a neighbour. That had simply been middle-aged madness, but I digress. No, I mean a person who achieves a vanish-into-thin-air disappearance, leaves no trace whatsoever and is never heard from again. Sometimes it does happen.

In March 1989, an advertisement appeared in the press, seeking staff to work for a new radio industry magazine. There had been several attempts to publish a radio-only trade publication since the launch of commercial radio in 1973, all of which had ended in failure. The industry had still not become large enough to sustain substantial amounts of paid-for advertising, or to build a large enough circulation to make such a publication financially viable.

A sci-fi mystery about a poor intern who got trapped within a studio with no help, a strange void, and only the radio as an aid. Will they escape? Why is there a void? And do lists make anything remotely better? Lyle, the poor intern, really hopes to gain any answer.

Join Julian and his co-host Coco each week as they report on the strange happenings of their little harbor town that no longer exists. From coffee machines not working to the resurrection of dead gods, can the two survive long enough to uncover the secrets plaguing this town?

Stephanie Brown is a dedicated student and a late-night radio host, living a life of routine and responsibility. Her roommate, Cassandra McLeod, is her complete opposite - a social butterfly with a penchant for romance and grand gestures. As their final year at Langley College draws to a close, Cassandra dreams of a magical night at the masquerade ball, where she hopes to be swept off her feet by her Prince Charming. But when Cassandra's dreams are shattered by a last-minute betrayal, Stephanie steps in to save the night. Disguised as the mysterious Phantom Zorro, she whisks Cassandra away into a night of unexpected romance and adventure. In the days that follow, Cassandra is determined to find her Phantom Zorro, unaware that the person she seeks has been right beside her all along. As secrets are revealed and emotions run high, Stephanie and Cassandra must navigate the complexities of love, friendship, and self-discovery.

31 March 1990 was the memorable day when London's first licensed [South London community of interest] black music station, 'Choice 96.9 FM', arrived on-air. Until then, the availability of black music on legal radio had been limited to a handful of specialist music shows, even though about half of the singles sales chart was filled with black music. The decision by then regulator the Independent Broadcasting Authority [IBA] to license a London black music station was part of a huge government 'carrot and stick' campaign to rid the country of pirate radio. On the one hand, new draconian laws had been introduced that made it a criminal offence even to wear a pirate radio tee-shirt or display a pirate radio car sticker. On the other hand, the establishment knew that some kind of olive branch had to be offered to the pirate stations and their large, loyal listenership.

"Leadership of the [UK broadcast] industry appears to remain in the hands of predominantly white, able-bodied men". Broadcast Training & Skills Regulator, Equal Opportunities Report 2008 In the United States, 'diversity' has been described as: * One of the "paramount goals of broadcast regulation in America"; * "One of the foundation principles in communications policy"; * "A broad principle to which appeal can be made on behalf of both neglected minorities and of consumer choice, or against monopoly and other restrictions".

It was a little after seven o'clock in the morning when the phone rang. Normally, I would already have been out of bed by that hour on a weekday. However, the previous night's 'DJ meeting' [open to all 44 KISS FM presenters] had tired me out. I was awake, but I was still trying to urge my body to get out of bed. The mobile phone stationed beside my bed rang noisily and forced my brain into action far faster than it wanted.

An investigative journalist A town trapped in time Life and Death A Savior

He was dead. He was definitely dead, his face turned blue from the extreme cold. His body was lying face-up on the street, at the top of a staircase that led from the subway station below. I was amongst hundreds of commuters that morning who were forced to crowd to one side of the exit to avoid tripping over his corpse. Nobody gasped. Nobody said anything. Nobody stared. Nobody stopped. We all remained focused on our daily journeys to work, trying not to contemplate the precarity of our own lives.

"Clackety-clack clackety-clack, from Kalamazoo to Timbuctoo, from Timbuctoo and back!" As a young reader, I learned these words by heart from a favourite children's book, 'The Train to Timbuctoo' written in 1951 by Margaret Wise Brown. I daydreamed about the journey between these two strangely-named railway stations, evoked so perfectly by the author's prose and accompanying illustrations. Decades later, I discovered I had been sold a fantasy, it being as improbable to take a train from Kalamazoo (a city in Michigan) to Timbuktu (an ancient city in Mali) as it would to line up at Marrakesh station ticket office behind Graham Nash. Only recently did I learn that Timbuctoo (a different spelling from the Mali one) is in fact the name of: a ghost town in California; a small settlement in New Jersey; and a failed farming community in upstate New York, none of which boast a railway station. Whichever were the book's fantasy locations, I never did manage to travel there ... by train or other means. But it had stimulated dreams of foreign sojourns.

It was a hostage situation. I was sat on a chair in a large, empty room. An angry man was pacing in circles around me, shouting questions: "What have you done?" and "Why did you do that?" and "Who told you to do what you did?" Were my family about to receive a ransom note? Unlikely. The room I was in was not some dirty disused dockside warehouse but the plush boardroom of the British government quango where I was employed. My captor was the organisation's finance and personnel director Neil Romain. Had he mistaken his well-worn DVD of 'Reservoir Dogs' for a textbook such as 'Introduction to Personnel Management'? Was his qualification for this job an earlier life as a school prefect?

The final few days before KISS FM's official launch were a blur of frenetic activity and outright panic. It was only at this late date that construction of the three studios was completed by the contractors. Now, at last, they were ready for the engineers from the Independent Broadcasting Authority [IBA] to test and inspect. Much to my relief, their report required only a few minor alterations to the air conditioning system, after which the IBA issued KISS FM with a certificate of technical competence. I affixed it to my office wall, alongside the poster of Betty Boo [I had pinned as my memento of DJ Tim Westwood's 'reason' for reneging last-minute on his scheduled daily daytime show].

Dustin's older sister - forced proximity - enemies to lovers - second chance - somewhat canon compliant - between S4 and S5 (I'll come up with a synopsis later)

"Now it's time to hit the red line, keep your boots tight, keep your gun closed and die with your mask on if you've got to.."

It was only just daylight when I suddenly realised that the phone was ringing. It seemed to take me ages to drag my weary body out of bed, as the phone continued to ring long and hard. Who on earth would want to phone me at this early hour on a Saturday morning? I toyed with the notion that it might be my former girlfriend, who seemed determined to inflict as much hurt on me as possible, despite our relationship having ended abruptly through her own infidelity and lies.

Blam!! A sudden force on my back knocked me over in a second. No time to figure out what had just happened. I was sprawled front-down on the floor with a weight on my back. I shouted. People around me screamed. I could sense a struggle taking place overhead. The object on my back lifted and, from my ground level line of sight, I made out the feet of someone running ahead of me into the crowd. "Are you alright?" asked one of the group of people standing around me, looking concerned. "We saw that man push through the crowd," explained another, "then knock you over and jump on top of you. We managed to pull him off but he ran away."

Do you believe in destiny? Not the Bardot-like Angels squadron leader Destiny who battled evil-ised Captain Black and the mysterious Mysterons. No, destiny as in fate. The notion that our futures are determined long before we realise it ourselves. My earliest job, having just learned to write, was to take it upon myself to sort my parents' two-dozen albums and two-score singles into some kind of order and to biro sequential numbers on their covers and labels. Nobody had told me to. Then I instructed my parents to always put their vinyl records back in the correct sleeves and return them to the shelf in the correct order.