And the winner is...

U

The regulator used to call you cheerily if you’d won a radio licence. The phone would ring at precisely the designated time and you’d duly jump and down with joy, and hug puzzled colleagues, if the news was good. 

If the phone didn’t ring for a few moments, you anticipated the result was unlikely to be good.  Your number was self-evidently second or third on the regulator’s scribbled list.  As the minutes ticked by, gloom would descend as you realised you’d wasted a whole slice of your life.  No matter how well wrapped up in regulatory pleasantries, nothing can make the failure to win a licence feel any better.

There are no runner-up prizes, not even a licence in Macclesfield. On losing, disappointment is total. It’s a little like losing your seat in an election.  

There is the indignant surprise of failure. If you did not passionately believe that you had the very best chance of winning, you simply would not have entered the arduous race.  Blood, sweat, tears and significant expense form part of every decent licence application. Every word is caressed.

Even in the best-planned projects, there are moments of drama along the way.  I recall losing the chance of a Leicester FM licence in a pitch battle. We’d had the rival changing management at the last minute; potential board members getting strange things through their letterboxes; supporters changing side; and all manner of colourful happenings.  The licence, though, was safely returned to the incumbent.

What adds to the annoyance is you cannot really let off steam by portraying the opponent as the bad guy. Typically, every infuriating rival bid features some good friends, and involves some people you might wish to work for one day.

Despite the passion, anger and, on some occasions, legitimate concerns, few have challenged the radio regulator's vote in court and no-one has yet been successful in so doing. Those busy bodies have, it seems, been a little better at their jobs than the rail regulators. 

The day after that Ratae defeat, I simply grasped a spontaneous day's holiday and wandered around Abbey Park morosely in the sunshine, kicking the leaves, considering what might have been.  Licence wins and losses change the course of radio history and they surely change careers.

There are the occasional spurious licence applications where even those submitting them did not feel they had a cat in hell’s chance of carrying off victory, yet they did.  I shall let those lucky individuals tell their own story. There are also the winners who truly did not deserve to win and history tells its own story of those.

The current FM (and AM) local licensing regime is a ‘beauty parade’, that is to say we are invited to stroll up and down the catwalk with only the text of our licence applications to preserve our modesty.  Decisions on our relative attractiveness are based on the infamous Section 105 of the Broadcasting Act 1990, which bears a handful of dull statutory criteria.  Which applicant can best: broaden listener choice; appeal to local tastes and interests; attract local support; and be sure to sustain itself for the licence term? 

I am privileged to have served as a suited regulator for a short period in the 90s, when the

job of licensing fell to the Radio Authority, housed in its grey partitioned building close to Holborn Tube.  My department was called upon, inter alia, to feed what was then an enormously lengthy licensing process.  It even featured live applicant interviews to build up the tension in true X Factor style, although no-one was invited to Tony Stoller's house.

The Authority’s executives, most equipped with brains the size of Emley Moor, would diligently evaluate the applicants’ proposals with a huge degree of skill and, contrary to the beliefs of some, utter fairness. Then we would all march in to the meeting room, jackets on, ready to help inform the decision of the Authority Members.  These Members, always with a capital M, were an interesting crowd; and, as is the case with every Board, some took their responsibilities more seriously than others. And, again, just like in any Board meeting, discussion could sometimes leap off into wholly legitimate yet unexpected territory with surprising licensing results.

Is there an alternative route which would avoid this painful process? Not least because the winner can often buy the loser anyway. 

Independent National Radio, of course, was decided by the size of a cash bid in an envelope, just like the TV licence auctions in the early 90s, where some bidders overpaid whilst lucky Central sumbitted the minimum £2,000.  Had the highest FM radio bidder, Showtime Radio, got its backing together more successfully in 1991, then the gifted Anne-Marie Minhall would have been playing High Society rather than Handel by now.

I guess that the art of assembling good old-fashioned competitive licence applications will soon go the same way as roof thatching; as FM licences are routinely renewed whilst DAB gears up -  and the DAB system itself licenses the landlords not the tenants.  That’s going to save a lot of us a great deal of time, effort, worry and expense; and we'll probably live longer.

Grab my book 'How to Make Great Radio' - published by Biteback

The Last Farewell

It was May 2000. Two burly security guards burst into my office and escorted me off the premises at Century 106 in Nottingham, as my time in management there ended and the Capital Group ownership began.  It was an uncomfortable moment; and I was not planning to leave without a fight.

At least, that was the rumour I later heard from various sources.  Tales like that fascinate me. Whoever decided to create the wholly fictitious story had clearly decided that one security guard was not enough. It had to be two.

The truth was altogether more prosaic. I’d resigned, and Capital’s lovely Julie Fair journeyed from BRMB for the staff meeting to announce future plans.  When she phoned en route, I reassured her I’d put the kettle on.  Which I duly did.  The staff meeting passed without incident and we all gathered for some Macon Village later.

The sale of Absolute to Bauer brings back memories for me of last time the keys to One Golden Square were handed over.

It’s a reality in any business now that, if you’re fortunate enough to have been running something  from the top table and someone else buys it, they'll want to do it their way and that means there's just a chance they may not  need you.  There’s a thoroughly grown up response to that. They’ve bought the train set and they can play with it how they like.  But, given this is radio, and given we genuinely feel such passion for it, there’s the private temptation to want to lie on your back in the office, legs flailing, and scream like a spoilt three year old because the runny-nosed lad next door has stolen your toy.

When a company’s taken over, there is a phoney war period.  Nothing changes; albeit it feels a little ‘end of termy’.  Then, suddenly, there’s a ‘moment’ when the reality hits.  A significant decision taken without your knowledge; or people just treating you a little bit differently. It’s not that they were in any way deferential before, for goodness sake, it’s just that people are more interested in their futures than your past.

 

When Capital first arrived to survey their new Century assets, as they acquired the former Border TV radio interests in the year 2000,  I peered out the first floor window of the 106 offices in a less than beautiful part of Nottingham.  A succession of stretched black cars pulled up and the smooth Capital management team got out, in force.  It reminded me a little of those films of Wartime Europe.  Of course it was sad: we’d built a great team and more than doubled the audience in two years; 106 had just broken into profit; and I had the feeling that the format was about to break through.  And it was my home town.  Capital though, felt that a male-targeted ‘fun and football’ format was the answer for this market with only a CHR competitor, so I thought I’d leave them to it.

As Virgin morphed into Absolute in 2008, the farewell was probably one of the nicest ever, as befits the team there.  I’d always known my spell at the Company was likely to be short, given the 'For Sale' sign outside.  As I walked down the wonderful Carnaby Street, en route to One Golden Square, I cherished the moment each morning.  When Clive and the TIML guys arrived, they were open, pleasant and honest, and I hope the ‘we can probably manage without you’ conversation was not a difficult one for them to have with me.  Clive, bless him, squeezed in a small desk for himself in a dark corner next to the coat stand; whilst I remained in my office with seeming impunity, gazing over sunny Golden Square.  And, as they planned their changes, he talked them over with me, lest I knew of any relevant buried bodies.  It was a dignified end.  And the farewell, well it was true Golden Square style.  Hic.  That team will forever have a warm place in my heart.  Not many companies allow you a farewell blog on their own website.

As Huntingford/Riley/Thomson's exceptional Chrysalis Radio became the foundation for an ambitious Global Radio in 2007, I had a feeling Ashley and Richard would want to do it their way. I resigned as LBC MD, probably just before they’d had the chance to finalise their management plans, which I suspect would likely not have had a seat for me.  I said to Richard Park: 'I think we'd argue'.  He said not; but on this rare occasion, he's probably wrong.  But, turning on the radio now and hearing ‘London’s Biggest Conversation gives me a huge sense of pride.  We’d been a key part of the rehabilitation journey for this talk station; and they’ve now taken it forward in their way to become the giant it deserved to be.  

A little like splitting from a lover, there’s a time when it hurts to turn on the radio and spend time with your old station.  But after a decent interval, you can become friends again.

BBC farewells appear a little odder. They de-activated my card access key the second I resigned.  I was stuck in a hallway, banging on the door.  I guess that's what happens when you only bother staying in post two weeks. Sorry.

By the way, for the record, there is nothing timely about this blog whatsoever. I rather hope I'm not about to wave any more goodbyes just yet.

But when you’re a spiky young jock, well, you can afford a little more dramatic emotion, albeit painfully embarrassing to reflect upon now.  I walked out of Leicester Sound in a 1991 fit of pique; and left Trent in a 1987 quest for a management gig. Those were simpler exits. I just cried.

 Last Trent link and Carpenters wow-in


Grab a copy of my book 'How to Make Great Radio', published by Biteback