Monday, 16 December 2019

Rumbled by a Robot

Preparing offshore Radio Paradijs  (14.04.1981)

It was a beautiful Tuesday in April 1981 when hundreds of hungry guests silently filed into the large breakfast room at the Rivièra Hotel in Las Vegas. In spite of the slight morning chill, clear skies promised another swelteringly hot desert day. The low murmur of conversation in the great hall made the sense of expectation all the more palpable in the air. Most people in the room had flown in from all over to attend the yearly Trade Show of the National Association of Broadcasters (NAB) at the famous Convention Center. A notice on the large promotion tower outside the Riviera welcomed the NAB members to town and also announced that Barry Manilow would be opening his show in a few days’ time.

Although residing at the much more modest Savoy Motel I attended the breakfast meeting in the luxury Riviera having been invited by Broadcast Electronics’ sales representative Paul Kudurshian and Peter K. Onnigian, the CEO of Jampro, the company supplying our floating radio station with its FM antenna bays. Suddenly, my toast barely buttered, the PA system sprang to life. An urgent voice advised everyone to go back to their hotel room and switch on the television set as the Columbia was closing in on Edwards Air Force Base. What followed was a not so orderly stampede to the elevators in the lobby. Our little group made it to Peter’s room with only a handful of minutes to spare. The first ever Space Shuttle was about to touch down. The screen showed the faint ghostlike unsteady image of the incoming spacecraft hardly visible against the blue morning sky. As I observed when motoring down from San Franciso the day before, thousands of Winnebagos had descended on the military base in the Mojave Desert. Their owners assured themselves a ring side view near the dry lake bed runway. Next, there was cheering all around when finally, seconds after the main body, also the nose wheel of the craft touched the ground and the mission, taking the astronauts 36 times around the globe, had been well and truly accomplished.

When the hotel guests returned boisterously to the Riviera breakfast room, it was patently obvious to even the most distracted observer that the successful landing of Columbia had given America its confidence back. That confidence had been thoroughly lost a decade before during the war of attrition in Vietnam. Attrition means the calculated death of countless young men and women of different races and places in a wearisome endless war until one of the opponents finally gives up. America had been forced to give up. But now, by the looks of it, the country felt back on top. The space shuttle had made America great again...

Later the same day, our meeting coordinating the delivery of broadcasting equipment for the future Radio Paradijs concluded, I was unexpectedly given the opportunity to visit the NAB Trade Show. Accompanied by Paul Kudurshian a courtesy shuttle bus took us to the Convention Center at nearby Paradise (how apt!). I was able to get into the members-only venue because Peter Onnigian (1921-2015), who had been a patron of the organisation for many decades, gave me his NAB badge to pin up. No sooner had I entered the lobby of the exhibition center than I heard a metallic voice call out “Welcome Peter”. I paid no attention to it until the message was repeated and I saw a primitive robot rolling itself in my direction. Only then I noticed that the creature’s glass bowl head contained a camera and realised that the contraption, having read my name badge, was actually talking to me. Luckily the robot never found out that I was an interloper who couldn’t afford the NAB’s forbiddingly high annual membership fee.
The exhibition was a veritable world of wonders for me. Stepping into the hall there were two television screens in which one could see oneself. On the second screen there was a slight delay. It was then that I realised that the picture was being beamed up and back down with the help of an orbiting satellite. To enable this, two low-loaders with the ground station and large satellite dishes were parked to the side of the Convention Center.

Purely by coincidence that afternoon I also met the manager of Ecos del Torbes, the Latin station from Venezuela in the 60 m band, that I used to listen to at night as a young boy. A little later Paul Kudursian introduced me to one of the Continental engineers who helped the original radio Caroline on the air in 1964. Subsequently I stood face to face with a 30kw Broadcast Electronics FM transmitter, built in Quincy Ilinois. The very transmitter, I was assured, that in a few weeks, was to be shipped to Dublin for installation on board the Magda Maria of our Radio Paradijs. Unobserved I walked to the back of the transmitter and drew a small sign on it with a yellow marker pen. Much later, upon receipt of the equipment in Ireland, Ben Bode confirmed that indeed there was a small yellow marking on the back of the transmitter. I couldn’t check it myself since in July 1981, when the broadcasting gear arrived in Dublin, I was busy setting up the land-based subsidiary of Paradijs in Italy. Never a dull moment.

Friday, 20 April 2018


In 1969, with my favourite (offshore) stations gone, my radio listening was at a low ebb. Professionally I was getting used to office life at the ferry company in Zeebrugge and the occasional trip to Camden Crescent in Dover, where the shipping company's HQ was situated. I remember one of my UK colleagues once made me don a hair cap and subsequently showed me around the large temperature controlled computer room in another part of town. It was the first time I came face to face with such a device. It was a big bulky beast that ingested large stacks of punch cards. Apart from subsequently disgorging reams of invoices it did very little else.

It was also the year that John Lennon and Yoko Ono staged a “bed-in” for peace during their honeymoon in Amsterdam. To the delight of children in 1969 the bouncy Space Hopper hit the shelves. On Belgium's independence day (just a coincidence), to the amazement of grown-ups and youngsters alike, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin went and proved once and for all that the moon was not made of green cheese. Music fans especially remember 1969 as the year in which the legendary Woodstock Festival took place.

In the meantime I didn't have an inkling that in an office in the Albisriederstrasse* in Zürich two young Swiss gentlemen were preparing my happiest adventure in radio. Erwin Meister and Edwin Bollier knew each other from school and after graduating they went into business together. To begin with they purchased a car-radio patent. Later, in 1968, they made good installing a communications network for the International Red Cross between Europe and Eastern Nigeria. This was to fascilitate the aid operation during the war of secession in Biafra in the late 60's. The technology made the largest humanitarian airlift possible since the Berlin blockade in 1948. It is estimated that the relief effort by all the agencies involved saved the lives of 2 million Biafrans. However it may also have prolonged the conflict. Then after a few other lucrative business deals, with money in the bank, the Swiss duo set out to realise a long held dream, to equip an offshore radio station for the German and British market.

Mebo Telecommunications AG, owned by the Züricher businessmen, acquired a Norwegian coastguard ship the Bjarkoy and renamed it Mebo. As the vessel proved too small to serve as a radioship it was demoted to the role of occasional supply tender, a purpose for which she really was too big. As base for the marine broadcaster a larger craft was sought and found, the 630 tons former freighter MV Silvretta, which was duly assigned the name Mebo 2.

To the best of my recollection it wasn't until early january 1970 that I heard the news that a new offshore station was being fitted out in the port of Rotterdam. There both vessels were also psychedelically painted in a multitude of colours, an image which at the time was humorously described as “an explosion in a paint factory”. With hindsight this word picture would prove to be an ominous one...


Monday, 12 March 2018


After my studies in Ghent and with really only RadioVeronica left for musical enjoyment, the reality of life set in. The idea of gap years not having been hatched yet, employment had to be found straight away, if not sooner. For the longest time I had been dreaming of working in English language radio, but with Caroline and even the smaller offshore stations gone there was little chance of that wishful thinking ever coming true. So I went hunting for more mundane jobs. Being a bit stubborn however, I only applied to positions of employment where knowledge of English would be an important factor.

At the Irish Embassy in Brussels they were most surprised to receive my application since -although not specified in their ad- they “were only looking for females”. In the late 60's 'emancipation' apparently did not apply to men. I had more luck when seeking a position at the Zeebrugge office of Townsend Car Ferries, the company which had started a roll-on/roll-off service between Dover and the Belgian port in 1966. Because traffic was increasing steadily the company needed someone who could look after the Belgian side of the accounts and explain things in proper English to the Dover 'overlords'. I started work at Townsend Belgium on December 6th 1968.

Just before joining the working classes I had a “gap-10-days” in Austria. (My only true vacation ever) In Ostend my friend and next door neighbour Walter and myself were joined by a busload of mostly elderly English holiday makers for the trip to Seefeld. And yes in the end we knew all the words to “She'll be coming round the mountain”...

It was whilst swimming at Die Kanne that we first heard Ö3 (Euh drei), the new third programme of Austrian radio, a pop music station that sounded somewhat Caroline-ish (it still does to some extent). As a result we spent quite a bit of time soaking up the hits at the swimming pool.

Working for Port Manager Noel A. Johnston MBE (photo above) at Townsend Car Ferries in those early days was an absolute pleasure. The office people busy in the small cottage near the old lock in Zeebrugge formed a tight-knit family, all trying to get the ships loaded and out on time through the very narrow Visart sluice gate. That was especially important since one of the captains was said to consider just two speeds when negociating the lock: “dead slow and stop”.

Only weeks after I began my employment the highlight became the first Christmas office party. It was held at the renowned “Chez Willy” restaurant with succulent “râble de lièvre” (saddle of hare) on the festive menu. In fact it was also my first time in a chic restaurant. Little did I know that this classy eating house would some time afterwards become one of my regular stomping grounds entertaining visiting company dignitaries, nor that a year or so later, in early 1971, “Chez Willy” would turn into a favourite dining place for Messrs Meister and Bollier of Radio North Sea International.

Wednesday, 7 March 2018


It was a cold and fairly somber Sunday when I got out of bed on March 3rd 1968. As always the first thing I did was switch on the radio. But all remained silent. Caroline was not there! It was only when I got downstairs and tried Caroline North on the big Saba receiver and found that her frequency too remained completely quiet, that a feeling of forboding set in. The next day my fearful apprehension was confirmed by the newspapers. In the early hours of Sunday both the Caroline and the Mi Amigo had been boarded by Dutch seamen in the pay of the suppliers Wijsmuller and towed to the Netherlands because of outstanding debts.

As a matter of principle I did not turn to Radio 1 for my music fix. In the months to come it was Radio Veronica that brought some solace, and sometimes also Radio Kuwait on shortwave. Few people remember this, but for a time Kuwait, with a stable and strong signal, was one of the best pop stations around. Truth be told, I had less time for music in those days, because my exams were drawing near...

In the wider world too it was a troublesome period. It began in May 1968 with a student revolt in Paris which turned into a general strike involving millions of workers and the worst rioting for decades. President Charles de Gaulle resorted to brutal police force to counter this attempt at revolution which immobilised most of France.

Subsequently also students in Belgium, especially in university cities like Ghent and Louvain, took to the streets. Suddenly that brought two plain clothes members of the secret police to my house. I was upstairs studying and unaware of the fact that these men threatened my mother not to let me join the protests, or “worse would follow”. The then Belgian prime minister Gaston Eyskens had just formed a coalition government with the help of the Christian Democrats (CVP) and the Socialists (BSP), two parties that had lost seats during the elections in March '68. Eyskens feared that if the protests continued they would bring down the government and revolution would ensue... With hindsight, it wàs the year that the Beatles brought out their hit “Revolution”, not that the Belgian prime minister would have been aware of that.

In the Netherlands all remained calm during the disruptive May days of 1968. It has been said that this was partly due to the existence of Radio Veronica. The station went some way in making the country a happier place and functioned as a valve to diffuse any pent up tension among students and workers alike.   

Friday, 2 March 2018


Being a 60's offshore anorak, like so many others, it was with dread that I followed the ominous countdown to August 14th 1967 when the Marine Broadcasting Offences Act would take effect at midnight. Even before the ultimate day stations were closing down for all sorts of reasons. On July 23rd came the end for Radio 227, one of the twin stations on the Laissez Faire. Next was fort based Radio 390. The “Woman's Magazine of the Air” ended its transmissions on July 28. On August 6th it was Radio 355's turn, the second of the twin stations.

According to my diary in spite of a southerly wind there was nothing summery about August 14th 1967. The temperature barely reached 14 degrees C. And all day the sun refused to put in an appearance. In fact it was very very cloudy, perfectly reflecting my somber mood. Like one waiting on death row I listened to Radio London, as the minutes ticked by in the life of the station. And then "their Final Hour" was upon us. At 16,00 hrs (3 pm in the UK) Paul Kaye's became the last voice to be heard on Big L. It had also been the first voice on the station.

After the close down, like so many thousands, I retuned to 259, to hear Caroline welcome the Radio London listeners. But then it was time for me to make tracks, as duty called. I had a Summer job to get to at the Games Arcade in Blankenberge.

Later that evening also Radio 270 and Tommy Shields' Radio Scotland closed down. In spite of interference from the electric games in the Arcade I did manage to hear Caroline turn into Radio Caroline International as the pioneer station defied the Marine Broadcasting Offences Act at midnight (1 in the morning my time). To this day hearing Johnnie Walker's “Man's Fight For Freedom” still makes my eyes go moist. (Lyrics)

Tuesday, 27 February 2018


Very much like Marcel Proust's 'madeleine moment' it was the smell of fresh paint at a friend's house that today brought another personal highlight from the offshore days back to mind... I remembered that there was a time when three Radio Carolines were on the air. At that crucial occasion it so happens that I had to spend a few nights in the spare room. My own bedroom was being repainted, by my dad and myself. In fact the smell of paint permeated much of the house.

Months before the threat of anti-pirate legislation doomed, it was mostly the power of water and winds the wireless buccaneers off Britain's coast had to contend with... So during a massive storm late on January 19th 1966 the MV Mi Amigo, home of Radio Caroline South started drifting and subsequently ran aground on the snow-covered beach at Holland Haven (Frinton-on-Sea). At the crack of dawn radios remained silent as transmissions had ceased when the ship entered British waters. After failed attempts by the tugboat Titan, the Mi Amigo refloated herself at high tide by winding on the repositioned anchor. Upon inspection it proved that the hull was damaged and the vessel was towed to Zaandam in the Netherlands for repairs in dry dock.

In those days -not to be unfaithful- I did my best to regularly tune in to Radio Caroline North off the Isle of Man. But then suddenly Caroline South was back, but from a different ship. Mrs Britt Wadner (1915-1987), the blonde 'Queen of pirate radio', had offered Ronan the use of her Swedish Radio Syd* ship 'Cheetah 2”. The vessel having been driven from its usual anchorage in the Baltic by pack ice.

Much technical wizardry and many dead-airs later the programmes of Caroline South resumed on 199 m from the Cheetah on February 13th 1966, be it at fairly low power. Then on April 5th the Mi Amigo appeared alongside the Swedish vessel after repairs and a refit had been finalized. It was time for the fun to kick off.

The idea was that the Cheetah would relay the programmes on 199 m from the Mi Amigo which was now broadcasting on an announced 259m (253 in fact) with 50 kWatts of power. That did happen, but for a time also separate programmes were aired, resulting in two Caroline Souths, and off course, in the Irish sea, there still was Caroline North. What is more, a lot of on air banter was at times going on between both South ships. Evenings for me in the spare room, my paint-free refuge, were full of laughter during the link-ups between the vessels. I remember listening to Dave Lee Travis and Graham Webb on the Cheetah and Tony Blackburn with Norman St.John on the Mi Amigo. The fun wasn't to last though. On May 1st Britt sailed her radioship to Spain and later on to The Gambia, where she obtained a broadcasting license. And in our neck of the woods Caroline South sounded as loud as Big L. It's an ill wind...

* Syd means South and is pronounced more or less like Sud in French.

More of AJ's radio- and other anecdotes.

Sunday, 25 February 2018


Musicwise 1967 stands out in my mind as the year the Beatles' iconic album “Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band” was released. There was a rush among the students at university, myself included, to get a tape copy of the album to coax us more or less gently through study time leading up to the exams... Luckily by that time I was the proud owner of a sturdy Grundig tape recorder.

During the Summer of 1967, -the so called Summer of 'Love'- when the US was rocked by race riots, also the end was in sight for most of the British offshore stations. I took a job to help pay for my studies, working for two months at the Sportland Lunapark on the seafront in Blankenberge. At the time many British holiday makers flocked to the popular Belgian seaside resort and were regulars at the games hall. Among them one of the sons of Spike Milligan. I also made the acquaintance of quite a few Southwalians like Nigel Jones from Barry Island and Michael Hibbs (photo) who lived at Treherbert in the Rhondda. For any Flemish readers of this blog I can further add that also the famous revue artist Charles Janssens (1906-1986) religiously played a few games at Sportland after finishing his performance at Blankenberge's well known Wit Paard.

At the games arcade I had opted for the late shift which meant I was working from 5 in the afternoon until about 3 at night. As a result I had most of the day to go to the beach and tune in to the 'pirates'. Cycling home at night I used to carry two small transistor radios in my pocket, listening to Caroline in one ear and to Big L in the other.

Saturday, 24 February 2018


Already in late 1966 the writing was on the wall for the radio stations off Britain's coast. The government of Harold Wilson, egged on by Post Master General Tony Ben, was determined to bring in legislation to make it illegal for British citizens or companies to supply the pirates, work for them or advertise on the stations.

On January 1st 1967 there was a bit of good news for a change. As announced earlier by Caroline on New Year's Eve, Radio 390 returned to the airwaves. I remember, the next day, writing a letter to Prince Charles protesting against the British government's actions to sink the pirates.. “Why not”, I thought “the crown prince is a paid-up member of the Big L club and has a Radio London T-shirt...” After a few months I got a reply from the Home Office with the usual lies.

The imminent demise of the offshore stations was not the only problem at the time. I also had to try and commit professor Hesman's German “Kulturgeschichte” to memory. I found that this was best done with the deep brown voice of Jim Reeves in the background. Luckily both Radio 390 and Radio 355 (former Britain Radio) now had a Jim Reeves Show on Sundays. The reason being that after a boardroom battle station manager Ted Allbeury left 390 and went on to run Radio 355, taking most of his middle-of-the-road programming ideas with him and some of the dj's. Theodore Edward le Bouthillier (Ted) Allbeury (1917-2005) had been a real-life spy during the Second World War, decades before he got involved with radio and then started writing best-selling novels.

Not only Britain Radio had changed name... As it proved unsuccessful Swinging Radio England went Dutch and turned into easy going Radio Dolfijn and still later into Radio 227. It was hard to keep up with the changes. Later more upset as one by one the fort based stations fell by the wayside and my exams doomed...

Wednesday, 21 February 2018


In 1965 and 1966 it really kicked off along the British coast. Although because of my studies in Ghent I had somewhat less time to monitor the goings on at stations like KING, 390 and Radio Essex, the start of Radio Scotland from the Comet and the moment when Swinging RadioEngland and Britain Radio rocked up on board the Laissez Faire did not go unnoticed.
In Ghent, after lunch in 'De Brug', a handful of us would hang out at the Blandijnberg talking about the music of the day and about offshore radio. Often, when we had an hour to spare, we went to the closeby 'kot' of Jos Borré to listen to Radio Caroline. During lessons we even 'pestered' one of the assistant professors, McCauley, with tales about the pirates. So much so that, for our benefit, the young Scotsman later included a question about the offshore stations in the written English exam.
In the day Germanic philology still consisted of the study of three main languages: Dutch, English ànd German. For me listening to the offshore stations had been a great help to get a good grasp of colloquial English. That came to the fore when one day, during a talk about the poet Keats, professor Willem Schrickx (1918-1998) told a joke in English and in a packed auditorium I was the only one who laughed. Which made an unhappy professor comment in his native Antwerp dialect “d'er is er ier mor ene deen Engels kent”.
At university my German didn't quite match my knowledge of English. But it wasn't too bad either since for a number of years I had been obsessed with Franz Kafka. In fact I had read every single word this Jewish author from Prague, who wrote in German, had ever committed to paper. 
By sheer coincidence my professor German, Herman Uyttersprot (1909-1967), had written extensively about Kafka. Uyttersprot was good fun in spite of the fact that he stood before us making jokes whilst dying of throat cancer. One of his last bits of fun was teaching us a new German word to describe the French scantily clad film star Brigitte Bardot. He called her “eine Nacktrice”. My time in Ghent was not always plain sailing, especially the Logics course proved somewhat of a nightmare. But in spite of a very heavy workload every night I tried to hear at least one hour of the Johnnie Walker Show on Caroline.

Monday, 19 February 2018


Shortly after the former US minesweeper Density (renamed Galaxy) arrived off the coast of Frinton-on-Sea (Essex) in the second half of December 1964 listeners -like myself- immediately were charmed by one of the most successful American jingle packages. It was created by Pams of Dallas and consisted mainly of the so-called series 18 “Sonosational”. The initial jingle repertoire had been further enhanced by scores of clever edits. It was Radio London's early programme director Ben Toney, a Texan, who had overseen the production of Pams Radio London jingles.

In the 50's and early 60's US stations had developed a tradition of using a superlative connected with a station name, like “Colourful KQV” and “The Mighty 690”. Jingle beds had been composed to allow for such superlatives. That's the reason why Radio London became “Wonderful Radio London”. The station was also referred to as “Big L”. A lesson learnt when years later we were managing local station Radio Dynamo in Knokke-Heist (Belgium) and called it “De Grote Dee” (The Big D).

Creating Radio London's jingle package to a large extent meant adapting jingles that had been made for other stations in the States. That is why unexpectedly also a jingle in Spanish was lurking in the series: “Esta es la estación número uno en London England es mi favorita. Wonderful Radio London, Olé!. (6th jingle) This caused some confusion. Because the jingles were so fast and slick not everyone could easily understand some of the lyrics, especially when they were suddenly confronted with a foreign language. Hence it is no surprise that 10 year old John Bennett was completely baffled by Big L's 'Spanish jingle'. It resulted in a beautiful piece of mondegreen. John thought he heard “It's the last tin of tuna in London England, see the ballerina. Wonderful Radio London. Olé”.

More of AJ's radio- and other anecdotes.

Sunday, 18 February 2018


In the day, apart from human visitors, the radioships were also a favourite but brief place to rest for migratory birds and sometimes for fogbound gulls. But hardly ever were flies seen on board, the distance to international waters simply being too great for insects to fly. At least the djs never ran the risk of painful mosquito bites.

Once however a fly did get on board the Galaxy, Radio London's vessel. It must have been hiding in the supplies which were delivered by the Trip Tender. The “distinguished visitor”, as Paul Kaye described the fly, quickly found its way to the messroom. Because it was the only fly on the ship it was soon treated as a pet by the djs and crew. They even gave it a name. They found that Franky the Fly had quite a good ring to it. A few days later however tragedy struck in the form of Chuck Blair's “negligent hand”.

Immediately the radioship was turned into a hive of activity; a funeral had to be organized. Proceedings were directed by news chief Paul Kaye (1934-1980). The ceremony held, including a “funeral fly-past” and some gun salutes, was broadcast live on the station during the Pete Drummond show at 2 pm on Friday June 2nd 1967  In the address it transpired that Franky the Fly had been a lover of music “from the tips of his wings to the end of his... dying days”. The funeral service was a brilliant piece of radio theatre and you can enjoy it here: TheFuneral of Franky the Fly.

More of AJ's radio- and other anecdotes. 


In the second half of 1964 more fortbased stations took to the air along the British east coast. In the Thames Estuary Radio City (ex Radio Sutch), Radio Invicta (later rebranded as KING and subsequently as the legendary Radio 390), started broadcasting from derelict World War II forts. Then arrived the heavyweight.

With many offshore stations already on the air Wonderful Radio London came late to the party. But when Big L started transmissions on 266, just before Christmas 1964, the station sounded so much better than Caroline and the other broadcasters. Especially the jingles made the station come across slick and professional. Also, from the start ‘Big L’ offered a very strong signal. One could hear it everywhere. And that was literally true.

In those days -although I was 17 and an outspoken atheist- my mother still forced me to attend church on Sunday. For a long time I had been most unwilling to do so, especially since my parents stopped going to church years before. To survive an hour’s worth of tedious boredom I usually took some Franz Kafka (my favourite author), disguised as a prayer book. With the advent of Radio London attending mass became less of an ordeal however.

It so happens that the new PA-system in the church at Zeebrugge was not properly grounded. Apart from producing a hum, the whole system also conducted itself as a very crude receiver. The result was that when sitting next to any of the loudspeakers in the church one could hear Radio London in the background. As the priest only made sparing use of the microphone, Big L’s programme could be enjoyed almost without interruption. This sort of gave a whole new meaning to “Go to the church of your choice”, one of the Pams-jingles that Radio London used from time to time over the weekend.

More of AJ's radio- and other anecdotes.

Saturday, 17 February 2018


In the dying days of TV-Noordzee viewers had been encouraged to become members of the TROS, an acronym for Televisie Radio Omroep Stichting. This organisation aimed at and succeeded in becoming one of the official broadcasters in The Netherlands, as the number of its required members grew in leaps and bounds. Just a year after the demise of the REM-project the TROS was given time slots in the Dutch public broadcasting system. It became the first of the so-called broadcasting pillars (omroepzuilen) to programme the kind of light entertainment the public really wanted to hear and see. Up to that time the other ‘pillars’ had mainly focussed on issues such as education, religion, culture and politics. The growing popularity of the TROS programmes soon forced the original Dutch broadcasters to follow suit.

After Radio & TV Noordzee was forced off the air at the end of 1964 the REM Island lay derelict for ten years. From 1974, when the tell-tale mast was removed, until 2004 the platform was used by the Dutch government to automatically measure sea temperature, salt concentration and wave height. In addition also meteorological information was collected. Early in the new century the measuring platform, which had been renamed “Meetpost Noordwijk”, had outlived its usefulness. In 2004 the construction was put up for sale, but no buyer was found. Two years later, in September, the remainder of the former REM-island was dismantled with the help of the large pontoon crane Rambiz, supplied by the Vlaamse Berginsmaatschappij Scaldis. In 1987 the enormous crane had also been deployed to right the capsized Townsend Thoresen ferry Herald of Free Enterprise off the coast of Zeebrugge.

The upper structure of the REM-platform was temporarily stored in the port of Vlissingen. Later it was purchased by the housing association De Key and moved to Amsterdam, where in July 2011 it opened as a restaurant. 

More of AJ's radio- and other anecdotes.