Radio Times/1923/11/30/Cardiff Calling!

UST as if "Comradios" did not hear enough of "Cardiff Calling" every afternoon and evening, here is a peremptory demand that Cardiff shall call from out the pages of this cheery journal.

Well, to begin with, we give nineteen different programmes each week. Mary of them moat necessarily fall short of our "conception," but, at least, we do our best to express our ideas of what a programme should be.

Of course, we in our hearts know well what we are doing, via the B.B.C., for Wales and the West Country—aye, and far over England and into Scotland too. But that is for another to speak of. The Station Director is the very last man who can tell of it. He may point with pride to the long series of Sunday Symphony concerts (the most popular evening of the week); to the equally lengthy series of "Literary Nights," and so forth. That may he pardonable in passing—but no more. Such pride as we may have in the generous affection and esteem lavished upon us by our "Comradios" can, and does, only serve to bring home to on the negligible value of our work in comparison with what should be achieved.

As regards the constitution of our staff, well, that there is William Norman Settle. We call him Deputy Director. And he is as proper a man as you may find on a long summers day. You should see him on a lonely road at midnight, with his petrol tank empty, holding up a brother motorist and draining the unfortunate's tank of its last drop for his own needs. It is a quality which stands us in good stead when dealing with recalcitrant artiste.

To the children W.N.S. is known as "Uncle Norman." The unkind ones add "of the creaky joints." Why, is unknown; unless his habit of carrying about a large oilcan has anything to do with it.

"Uncle Norman" is our science man—you see, he drives a car—and so we call upon him to supply all the "noises heard off" for our plays. Firework displays, by means of—good gracious, I nerdy gave it away!—are his speciality; also the lowering of castle draw-bridges.

Next comes "Uncle Leslie," known to his intimates as Leslie Birkett Page. He plays Rugby football on Saturday afternoons. The two black eyes and broken nose he invariably brings back as souvenirs of his afternoon's enjoyment are powerful arguments against the application of tele-vision to broadcasting.

Then there is Arthur Melville Jinman. He is chief of the engineers. A cheery soul is Jinman.

But what of the ladies? Well, there is Betty Grimwood—"Auntie Betty" of the golden voice, and a Scots lassie. To hear her tell a Border ballad—"The Twa Sisters o' Birnie" or "Earl Mairs Daughter"—is a joy not lightly to be foregone. She loves the "Kiddiewinks" and they love her. Edith Thatcher looks after our letters and types beautiful answers. Florence Johnson stores them away in comely order and does it thousand little things to help the wheels go smoothly round. "Auntie Iris," a little lady of world-wide fame—oh, but I haven't room to talk about them all! "A rosebud garden of girls," and I doubt if one is over twenty-three years of age. We are proud of our posy.