ARCHIBALD on RADIO HOWLERS

Radio Record, Volume V, Issue 24, 24 December 1931, Page 8

ARCHIBALD on

RADIO HOWLERS

By

BERTRAM

POTTS

With Illustrations by THE AUTHOR

/TRHIS week I wants to tell yer, Mr. Editor, me opinion about the Radio "Owler’*im what makes peaceful men beat their wives, turns them into gibberin’ apes, thereby completin’ the vicious circle. Many a ’ome what starts off ’otsy-totsy finishes up topsy-turvy, wrecked by

the ’owler’s recklessness. "E makes the ether sound oo, like the regular rumpus in Noah’s Ark at feedin’ time. in ’is ’ovel and makes porridge of th "E skulks e atmosphere, till the music makes me sick and you sick. ‘L’s a fair devil, only nobody knows ’oo the devil ’e is, except that%s milk of ’uman kindness ’as curled and turned ’is liver rancid? "Eis a’og, a dirty dog, Whose brains’ as turned and slipped a cog; For ’olidays ’e don’t go farJust listens at the abbatoir ; IVhen funerals pass ’is blinkin’ door ’"E puts on jazz and makes tt roar; ° 7E steals with glee the mourners’ blooms While writin’ limericks on the tombs; For neighbours ’e ’as ’ad a crowd 2 What's shifted ’cause ’e snores so loud; At pictures, mocks the weepin’ girl IWhat’s been forsaken by the earl; And outside lolly shops ’e stands And bumps ice-cream from small boys’ ’ands; At dances drops *is gum quite quick To smile at girls what sit and stick; From library books ’e tears a page At spicy spots to make yer rage; At children’s playgrounds busts the ring: And pours some treacle on the swings; ’E likes to feed the starvin’ ’orse IVith temptiw ’ay wrapped round some gorse; 7E jambs crook metal unawares Inside them penny slot affairs; And when ’e’s dead ’e ’aunts yer set, And squeals the more yer fume and fret! HAT ’as caused the ’owler’s ’eart to get so mildewed and worm-eaten that As a authority on psychology I reckons that ’e always wanted Father Lhriectmac to brine ’im a whistle or 2 squeaker and never got one.

causin’ ’is boyish saucy nature to turn peppery. Is brain ’as faded and give place to water pressure. If a ’owler is ever brought into captivity, ’e should ’ave a gimlet ’ole bore into ’is ’eac. the water run off, and dynamite put in and fired, to make sure

the water don’t ’ang round again. . A few night’s ago I wants to ear a special programme, what some ’ideous fowler turned into a ’otchpotch of ’ullaballoo! The rhapsody gives rasps and gasps, the madrigals sounds mad, The mellow *cello bellows

and the blinkin’ bara sounds bad; The mandolin is mangled, while the canzonet ’as kinks, The quartet must ’ave sunk a quart, the syncopation sinks; The piccolo sounds pickled, too, the barcarolle just barks, The saxophone ’as stacks of drone, the speeches splutters sparks; The tenor’s tone is more like ten, soprano’s more like soap, The trumpeter ’as lost ’is trumps, the duo’s drunk some dope; The crotchet sounds all crotchety, the ’armony does ’arm, And forte sounds a ’undred more, the chant ’as lost its charm; The chorus croaks just like a caw, the baritone is barred, The nocturne turns before it knocks, the martial march is marred; The solo sounds so low and base, the drum is three parts riun, The violin’s a vile old thing, while jasz just chews its gum; The cantatrice-she simply can’t, the trombone’s gulped a bone, The carol’s like a clatt’ring car, and gamut’s full of groan; The ditty sounds quite dotty, too, the tone gives tit for tat, | The shcrtzo wails it’s lost its shirt, the flute’s flyblown and flat. Teer. enough for me-I grabs me tele- . scope, what is descended from the one what poked Lord Nelson’s eye out, and dashes outside and climbs on the roof. I surveys all the wireless poles in the neighbour’ood, but they seems all right

except one, what ’as no incubators on the guy ropes. This was causin’ a short circpit of the wireless waves. causin’ a invisible tempest to rise, the noise goin’ squealin’ into everybody’s hatteries and gettin’ overcharoed with currants.

causin’ ’iccups and ’owls. I goes to speak to this ’owler what is causin’ the trouble, but on ‘is gate is a notice-"Beware of the Dog!" That convinces me I was right. I’ve ’eard that dog on me set! The ’owls of the dog goes up the pole and into the atmosphere, to be cogdensed into owls again in yer Joud speaker. I runs no risks and goes ‘ome. I buries some old valves with wires attached to the aerial pole to see if they would suck out the static and ’owls and leave the music named and unashamed. But it still sounds like the crack of Doom. 1 tries two aerials, a sort of two-way traffic, and tries to trap the squeals to miss it, so I tries a sieve, but there was a big ’ole in it and let the ’owls through. It sounds to me just like Old Nick-broadcastin’ pains from ’ElNl, I ’ears the cries of watlin’ souls and sniffs the brimstone’s smell; Me set begins to writhe and twist and tie itself in knots, Ji suffers agony inside, and comes all out in spots; (Concluded on page 10.)

Archibald on Radio Howlers (Continued from page 8.)

Convulsions follows throes and throbs, with shrieks and screaks galore; Me blinkin’ ears ’ears squeals and squals it never ’eard before; Its legs falls limp, the lid falls off, the set sits up and ’ouls, And ‘oops and whoops, then stoops and droops, and scowls and growls and yowls; I ’ears the whines where war is waged, where tortured men blasphemes, Where they disrobes and doctors probes, a-jokin’ while they screams;

I ‘ears the gust grow to a gale, what roars with might and main; Typhoons, tornados, tempests, too, succeeds the ’urricane; I ‘ears the groans. of gout and gripe, the denial parlours’ pangs, The inquisition’s touchy tongs, the blugeons biffs and bangs. Dog or no dog, I dashes out of the ’ouse again to see the ’owler what I told yer of. I tries to ge to ’is front door without disturbin’ Old Dog’sBody, but ’e gives a bark, and I don’t stop runnin‘ till I falls over ’Erbert’s tricycle, I gives ’im somethin’! I am very proud of bein’ the owly scientist tryin’ to diagnose the ‘urlyburly of ’owls, tryin’ to get the jostle ind jolt out of the atmosphere, sortin’ the. higgledy from the piggledy, separ‘tin’ the ’otch from the potch., As soon us I manages to get the bed out of the bedlam ll let yer know, so that yer Cin rest in peace.

3 Yours with a ’opeful ’eart,

ARCHIBALD