Enemies of Reason Poundshop potshots at the media moral maze.

An open letter to Radio 2

Dear all,

I was driving to work this morning, feeling quite cheerful about things. The weather, though drizzly, was a little better than I'd been expecting, and besides, it was Friday, so I had a little bit of anticipation for the weekend in my mind. The M4 was quiet - just a few lorries, and some berk in a Saab who decided he wanted to drive right up against my bumper despite there being two perfectly good outside lanes for the purpose of overtaking, but nothing I couldn't handle with a bit of zen-like patience and calm - and my journey towards work was progressing smoothly. Indeed, I found myself in the unusual position of being 15 minutes early, so I slowed down to well within the speed limit to save a bit of petrol and relax into the drive. This might sound boring to you, I understand. In fact, I'm trying to convey the blandness of everyday commuting by telling you about the brain-numbing tedium. Moreover, the particular stretch of the M4 along which I travel is one of the least interesting in British motorway history; the visual highlights include a few trees, one or two sheep in fields, and the odd plane overhead. Extraordinarily dull stuff, but not too bad once you've got into it.

I was listening to Radio 2. There aren't too many choices, to be frank - once you get past junction 15 for Chippenham you enter into a kind of frequency hinterland, where only Classic FM, Radio 2 and some god-awful local radio nonsense ("Here's what was on our breakfast show this morning! Wasn't it great and zany?" No, no it wasn't. Just play some sodding music and let me get to work, will you? Please?). Essentially, once you're locked into one radio station, you don't want to go changing channels or you'll be left out in the cold while it tries, and fails, to find them. So you're stuck with what you're listening to. But don't let me make it out to be some kind of choice of convenience - I'm quite a fan of Ken Bruce's chirpy witticisms in the morning, and the music's generally all right.

That was until today, of course. I'm not blaming Aled Jones (who was sitting in for Ken Bruce) because I don't think he was responsible for what happened this morning. He's a religious person, I'm led to believe from having seen him presenting Songs of Praise, and though I'm not a Christian myself I understand that this particular religion's tenets involve being nice to other people, forgiveness, loving your enemy, doing unto others and so on. I can't see Jones, a man of God, deliberately infecting the airwaves with the kind of musical abortion I heard at about 10.55am today.

Yes, it had started out as a pleasant enough morning. An ordinary morning. A nice morning, you could say! But then you had to ruin it with the most execrable garbage it has ever been my misfortune to hear in my entire life. The worst song in the history of recorded music. A track so bad that it could have immediately induced suicide in even the most cheerful and perky of listeners. It was as if I was hearing Satan himself delivering a freshly-squeezed turd into hell's very own murky toilet bowl. Yes, I am referring to 'Me and My Monkey' by Robbie Williams.

I can't begin to try and understand what made anyone think this would be a suitable song for three in the morning to try and force people to stop listening and go to bed, let alone at a reasonable time of day when we're meant to be up and about. Who actually thought this would be acceptable? I find it hard to believe that a human being, someone who actually works at a radio station, would think it a positive step to dredge this poison-ridden corpse of a musical effort up from the midden of ex-boy band album tracks. And yet, clearly, it happened. Either a terrible mistake has been made, or someone actually thought it was all right. The former is regrettable, but forgivable if it's a one-off event; the latter should be a treasonable offence, in my opinion.

In case you are unaware as to this song and its appalling lyrics, I will repeat the words below. I must warn you that you may find it a distressing experience, and could well end up vomiting blood before you get to the second chorus. I cannot be held responsible for any self-immolation or violent convulsions which may result from you seeing these words. So you must see them at your own risk. But perhaps the experience, evil though it is, might give you some insight into the trauma I went through on the motorway today, at 10.55am, out of the blue, when all around seemed to be going well. Until that man Williams came into my life.

It was me and my monkey
Him with his dungarees and rollerblades
Smoking filter tips reclining in the passenger seat
Of my supercharged jet black chevrolet
He had the soft top down
He liked the wind in his face
He said son, you ever been to vegas?
I said no he said thats where were gonna go,
You need a change of place
And when we hit the strip with all the wedding chapels
And the neon signs he said
i left my wallet in el segundo
And proceeded to take two grand of mine
We made tracks to the mandalay bay hotel
Asked the bell boy if hed take me and my monkey as well
He looked in the passenger seat of my car
And with a smile he said
if your monkeys got that kind of money sir,
And weve got a monkey bed
Me and monkey
With a dream and a gun
Hoping my monkey
Dont point that gun at anyone
Me and monkey
Like butch and the sundance kid
Trying to understand
Why he did what he did
Why he did what he did
And at the elevator I hit the 33rd floor
He had a room up top with a panoramic view
Its like nothing youve ever seen before
He went to sleep in the bidet and when he awoke
He ran his little monkey fingers through the yellow pages
Called up escort services and ordered some oki doke
Forty minutes later there came a knock at the door
In walked this big, bad-ass baboon into my bedroom
With 3 monkey whores
hi, my name is sunshine. these are my girls.
Lace my palm with silver baby oh yeah
And theyll rock your world
So I watched pay per view and polished my shoes and my gun
Was sticking on kurt cobain sing about lithium
There came and knocked at the door and in walked sunshine
whats up? - you better get your ass in here boy y
Our monkey is having too much of a good time
Me and my monkey
Drove in search of the sun
Me and my monkey
Dont point that gun at anyone
Me and my monkey
Like billy the kid
Trying to understand
Why he did what he did
Why he did what he did
Got tickets to see sheena easton
The monkey was high
Said it was a burning ambition to see her before he died
We left before encores
He couldnt sit still
Sheena was a blast baby
But my monkey was ill
When I played black jack
Kept hittin 23
Couldnt help but notice this mexican just staring at me
Or was it my monkey
I couldnt be sure
Its not like youve never seen a monkey in rollerblades
And dungarees before
Now dont test my patience cause were not about to run
Thats a bad-ass monkey boy and hes packing a gun
my name is rodriguez he says with death in his eye
Ive been chasing you for a long time amigos
And now your monkey is gonna die
Me and my monkey
Drove in search of the sun
Me and my monkey
We dont wanna kill no mexican
But we got ten itchy fingers
One thing to declare
When the monkey is high
You do not stare
You do not stare
You do not stare
Looks like we got ourselves a mexican stand off here boy
And I aint about to run
Put your gun down boy
How did I get mixed up with this f*cking monkey anyhow

(I've obviously changed the swearing in the final words there. I have no objection to swearing, by the way; in the context of a good song, of course, I consider it entirely acceptable, and I don't even have a problem with it happening at any time of day or night, though I respect the views of those who would rather their children didn't hear such things during the day. No, swearing isn't my problem. My problem is with the sheer rubbishness of the song.)

You may have gathered by now that I'm not entirely enamoured with this song by Mr Williams. I should let you know that I have never written to a radio station before in my life; this is very much a first. I could have understood it if a commercial radio station, desperate for listeners, attempted to play Williams when he was at his height of popularity - that, perhaps, might have been something I could understand, if not enjoy. But for good old Radio 2 to broadcast this abysmal track to its listeners is a betrayal of the very worst kind. It's like putting on a comfortable pair of slippers and finding a mousetrap in the end. You just don't expect something like that.

A monkey in dungarees and rollerblades? What? What is he on about? Can monkeys really balance on in-line roller skates? No. Do they really wear dungarees? No. So, given that it's nothing to do with real life, is this art? No. It's some bombastic no-talent from Stoke being given unlimited resources in a recording studio and being allowed to do whatever he wants. This is the end result. Is this really what you think you should be promoting via your radio station, a vanity track by an overrated wastrel like Williams? What does it say to those artists who struggle for real music to be made - give up, you're not wanted, we'll have the inane ramblings of a washed-up dancer, backed by millions of pounds of record label money, instead?

I can't pretend that I wasn't dismayed by what happened today. Maybe my views represent those of many other listeners, who were similarly expecting a nice piece of music but were unhappily traumatised by hearing that abysmal bit of nonsense from Williams this morning; maybe there are others who were delighted to have heard it. My poor father, for example. He's 63 now, a widower, and has the usual bland old dad's taste in music - you know the drill: Phil Collins, Dire Straits, Simply Red, that sort of greyness - yet when I went round to see him at Christmas, I saw not one, but TWO Robbie Williams albums in his CD rack. Luckily, even he has seen sense and didn't progress to the nadir of the entirety of Western culture that is 'Escapology'. Even he drew the line there, and he's got 'Serious Hits Live' by Collins. Yet Radio 2, supposed bastions of quality music, decided to play Me and My Monkey. I find it hard to think of the words to express the revulsion and sadness that now lurk within me. I feel like I've been cheated by a good friend. I feel like I've been let down by my family. I feel as though my very soul has been sucked out, all because of Williams.

I wonder if you could let me know if Me and My Monkey is on some kind of playlist. If that is the case, I fear I will have to destroy every single radio in my possession, for fear of accidentally hearing its utter appallingness ever again. I will have to start wearing ear plugs when I walk into the sandwich shop in town, because they have Radio 2 on in the background. I may even consider making myself deaf in order to make sure there's no chance of hearing it.

Please consider these views from someone who generally enjoys the music you play. But you don't need to try and regain some glimpse of a forgotten youth, much like my beloved but misguided father, by scraping the barrel of musical inanity known as Williams. You're Radio 2, for goodness' sake. Please, no more from him. Finally, the record-buying public have realised the Emperor's New Clothes, as witness by the relatively terrible sales of 'Rudebox' compared with the massive PR push to make it appear to be something good. The tide is turning. Williams is history. I know I can't make you ban or remove him from your libraries; I wouldn't that for anyone. All I can say is that a little part of me died at 10.55am today.

Sincerely.

A Vowl.

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