"You're listening to SPAR Live, and the only way to make it stop is to CUT YOUR OWN EARS OFF!"

Greetings, Internet friends, Romans, countrymen.

Lend me your ears (well, eyes, actually - unless Microsoft Sam is reading this to you, in which case there is a certain broccoli-related phrase you could make him say for your own amusement. But that's another story.) Somehow I think I may have gone off track a little bit, and I haven't actually started.

First let me start by apologising for disappearing for a little while over the festive period. Suffice to say my temporary absence involved large quantities of Tetley's and John Smith's, as well as the predicted visit from the Hangover Monster (you know, the one who creeps up on you at night, defecates in your mouth and then bangs on your head with a sledgehammer) on a few occasions. I hope that all the readers who have gotten this far had a reasonable Christmas and New Year.

Now that the trivialites are over with, let's moan about something. At some point before Christmas, the good people at my place of work decided to install a radio system within the shop, so that customers and staff alike could enjoy the tuneful melodies emanating from the speakers, and possibly be influenced by the subliminal messages that are doubtless hidden behind every song. ("You know you need some more cooking oil .... come on, it's only £8.95 a bottle!")

The unfortunate thing about this newfangled radio is that it is permanently stuck on one station - SPAR Live, the grocery store's equivalent to the pre-recorded messages that blast out every time you go to Tesco. Only this has music, which one must imagine is good for the wallets of the record producers. The main problem with SPAR Live is that the quality of broadcasting is almost unimaginably bad. Think about a radio station where the presenter has the charisma of a small, slightly burnt cake, where he (yes - it's a he) is given a job only slightly easier than trying to melt sand with a cigarette lighter - having to introduce songs at the same time as plugging completely unrelated products at criminally high prices. Add to this the somewhat repetitive advertisement announcing the "No-Repeat Work-Day" (now there's irony for you), and the constant adverts for Terry's Chocolate Orange, and you're somewhere near how bad it is. But it isn't. It's worse.

I am searching in vain for the tuner so I can put something on that is less likely to drive me clinically insane within twelve minutes of entering the shop.

Failing that, there is an axe under the counter.

Revolutionary and somewhat destructive regards,

Red Andy