Ah Mr Reardon.

Ah ‘Ed Reardon’s Diary’, Radio 4, Monday, 11.30am. My highlight of the week. It cleanses the system of all the false hopes and razzmatazz of the rest of the media without dipping into the deaths list abyss of the news and the reporters barely concealed glee of multiple deceasments. Haiti’s trapped thousands may prove we are mere flies on the windscreen of earth’s juggernaut but to CNN it’s another juicy caterpillar. Ed will probably be ghost writing an obituary in Bromley as we speak; proof, if it were needed, that we all have to do what we need to to survive. Such a pleasant antidote to our hundred channels of sugar coated mirrors. I swear we’ll be licking the screen soon to get our extra fix of emotion. ‘Strictly’, lick, lick, lick, ‘Celebrity Big Brother’, lick, slurp, dribble.
Ed shows us life’s not like that, it’s more trying to climb a loose scree slope, like reducing a sand dune with a spoon, prepping one’s lawn with a comb. One is destined only to make a noble attempt, and that’s all. To reduce this nobility to lick-able emotion is to join Nero in his string quartet while our backs become unduly warm, and something more tangibly begins to lick us. Apparently snooker players are being encouraged to do little entry dances as they approach the table in the hope it will be more appealing to a younger audience. No doubt Formula One drivers will soon be seen contentedly sucking dummies on the grid and footballers playing with a Fisher Price Activity Centre in the dugout.
As Ross would say, “It’s all goood.”