Wogan’s Willy Warmer
October 13, 2009
It’s 7am, 19 January 2009: according to psychologists the most depressing day of the year.
Engulfed in darkness, I’m bent over my car windscreen chipping away at a shiny blanket of ice. The crystal shavings tumble downwards, stinging my hands into a milky numbness. I curse at misplacing my gloves and start to fantasise about returning to bed. “Mornin’”, grunts my next-door neighbour as he emerges from his concrete igloo. “Mornin’”, I reply. Silence follows… The perfunctory morning ritual is over and we can return to being strangers again.
20 miles later and I’m stationary on the A80 – part of a miserable procession of family saloon cars crawling to work. I peer out the passenger window in the hope of seeing something different from the previous 50 days. I don’t. It’s the same sulky patchwork of muddy fields, electric pylons and sheep. In front of me an ailing Mondeo splutters petrol and smoke onto the frosty asphalt. I sigh, lean back and rest my eyes. Slowly, a smile begins to creep across my face; pursued by a gentle laugh that reverberates around the car interior. A familiar and soothing voice is coaxing me out of the shadows:
“Janet and John…”,
“Janet remarked…”,
“John protested…”,
I’m listening to Terry Wogan, aka The Togmeister, on his Wake up to Wogan breakfast show. By the time I reach work the storm clouds have abated and I’m ready to face the day; all courtesy of El Tel’s jovial banter. His whimsical musings have shepherded me through countless nuclear winters, and I will miss his companionship when he leaves morning radio at Yuletide. Wogars, in the interests of the UK publics’ mental health, please reconsider your abdication. Your departure may cause a swift increase in the number of prescriptions being dispensed for Prozac.
