John Peel's Shed

Fortunately for my poor research, it was pretty obvious that this John Osborne, when he turned up to the Radio Hour, wasn't the one who wrote those angry plays in the 1950s. He is, instead, the author of two books - one of which I have read, quite by accident, and the proud owner of a box of records out of John Peel's Shed. There was something magical about getting tucked into the box and played on the show records that had been touched by the hand of the radio legend.

I also enjoyed the strange sound of surface crackle on the vinyl, and the danger of using vinyl - unlike MP3s or CDs, there is a good chance to play vinyl at the wrong speed, or drop it.

Osborne himself is an engaging conversationalist: it's probable that the best parts of our chat happened off air, when we were chatting over the musical choices. Since  the book I have read, Radiohead, is about his adventures in listening to radio and how it rescued him from the mundane world of data-entry, he's more informed about the mechanics of radio than I am. He is enthusiast about the potential of radio as a focus for a dispersed community: he recognises that it might be an old medium, but still has a remarkable pull. His new book, currently in research, is about sea-side resorts. Like radio, he says, everyone seems to have a story to tell or a recommendation.

His actual show shares a great deal with the Live Art pieces by the likes of Richard Dedominici: personal, taking a subject that appears marginalised or obscure, then working towards some kind of general understanding. Despite the inspiration for his performance, there isn't that much about John Peel in the show: it's more about Osborne's own experiences, with the box of records acting as a stimulant to a few of his adventures.

Although it is unlikely that anyone will capture the complete extent of John Peel's influence on radio - the BBC has an entire station that tries and fails to carry the flag - Osborne is more interested in his own experience: other characters are left in the background throughout his monologue and, aside from the selections played from the magic box, it is a gentle stroll through one man's early manhood. There are few moments of revelation - a failed attempt to get a date and his father's gift of carefully recorded cassettes are rare, emotive anecdotes - and Osborne is content to ponder without drawing too many conclusions.