26. LAST TIN OF TUNA, IN LONDON ENGLAND

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”.

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22. SPECIAL LEGISLATION FOR THE OCCASION

Politicians in The Hague however were not charmed by tv-programming from the high seas. They rushed through the so-called “anti-REM-wet”, legislation making broadcasts from structures on the Dutch Continental shelf illegal. That became possible because of a UN-resolution concerning the rights of coastal states over their part of the Continental shelf. This led professor Eric Suy, a resident of Knokke-Heist (Belgium), to publish a study in 1965 about the “Volkenrechtelijke aspekten van de REM-affaire”. From 1974 to 1983 Suy was Under-Secretary-General for Legal Affairs at the United Nations.

In the meantime, in December 1964, the owners of the REM-island, announced that its TV operations had been sold to a British company, High Seas Television Ltd. Ownership of the REM-island itself was transferred to a Panamanian company. But it was all to no avail.

On the morning of December 17th 1964 a flotilla of boats accompanied by police helicopters arrived at the REM-island. Dozens of police officers disembarked, and at 7 minutes past 9, Radio Noordzee went off the air in the middle of Anneke Grönloh’s “Paradiso”. 

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21. TELEVISION THAT MADE WAVES

During the first half of August 1964 work continued on the REM-island off the Dutch coast. The antenna mast was completed and towered some 90m above the surface of the sea. The reinforced roof of the broadcasting and accommodation unit started to serve as a helipad and the official opening of TV Noordzee was set for September 1st. Every day after finishing my Summer job as a caddy at the Golf course in Knokke, I rushed home to point the rotary antenna in northeasterly direction, parallel to the coast, in the hope of catching the REM’s television debut. Each time I had my box camera at the ready. 

Then on Thursday August 13th the persistent background snow on the telly, purportedly some of the residual electromagnetic radiation left over from the Big Bang/Bounce at the start of the universe, was suddenly replaced by a picture perfect test card showing the sea, the REM-island and the lettering ‘tv NOORDZEE’. Media history was being made, but the start of television programmes from the offshore structure also caused dangerous waves in the Dutch parliament. 

Two weeks later the official opening of TV Noordzee started with Marjan Bierenbroodspot and Hetty Bennink welcoming viewers on a very windswept Rem-island. That was followed by a 20 minute documentary on the building of the broadcasting structure. Viewers in Holland were very enthusiastic about the TV-Noordzee programming which was aired before the official station Nederland 1 started its evening programmes and after this state-run broadcaster closed down around 22.00 hrs. 

To help finance the 9 million guilders REM-island operation, 7 million guilders worth of shares were issued. Such was the popularity of the project, that the issue was heavily oversubscribed. Many small investors became minority shareholders. On the date of issue, 13 August 1964, the share price was 20 guilders. As stated earlier, within 10 days, the value of the shares had rocketed to 143 guilders. 

By October 1964 audience surveys showed that TV Noord­zee had 2 million viewers every night. TV and radio from the REM-island were not on the air simultaneously. Radio Noordzee operated between 9am and 6.15 pm, and 15 minutes later the TV station signed on.

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04. PORTABLE RADIO BLUES

It was in the late 1950’s that I became a regular listener to Radio Luxemburg, the English service in the evening on 208m Medium Wave. I vividly remember sitting at the dining table with my father enjoying ‘Wooden Heart’ by Elvis on Luxy. It must have been 1960, as at the time the song was in the hit parade for weeks on end. Tuning in to Radio Luxembourg was like a breath of fresh air, maybe even akin to being fed a few liberal doses of pure oxygen. Until early in 1960 Luxemburg was the only radio station in the whole of Europe that played the latest records non-stop. It was the same year I started to learn English at school. I was 13 then.

My teacher in Heist, Xaverian Brother Ildefons Rotsaert, spoke proper King’s English, but devoted much of his tutoring time perfecting his hate of Communism. Although I was very determined to do well, after the first week I proved to be the worst pupil at English in the whole class. Apparently I had even failed to grasp the correct spelling of the ‘definite article’. The shame was too much to bear! This wasn’t supposed to happen. My father’s family had spent the entire war in England and many family members felt more British than the Brits. No wonder I kept quiet about what I considered to be ‘an absolute disaster’. Before my parents ever found out I had turned things around. So much so, that just days later I was ‘best of class’ for English, and remained so. However that was not the case for many of the other subjects. But I considered that to be of lesser importance…

A few months earlier, by continuously pestering my parents, and purposely doing rather well at school, I was allowed to choose my very own transistor radio. Well, that is not exactly true. My parents bought me a portable radio. It was the cheapest model available, but still a heavy strain on my mother’s purse. For a while I was ecstatic with my -medium wave only- red and cream coloured ‘Tesla Minor’. It was built in Czechoslovakia but still had vacuum tubes instead of transistors. As a result my infatuation with radio soon turned into too high maintenance a love affair. My Tesla Minor became a major disappointment as it only performed after ingesting a bulky and expensive battery, which in addition was very short lived. Especially since I spent long hours listening to Radio Veronica, the offshore station which had just started broadcasting off the Dutch coast in April 1960. That was a full four years before Caroline’s bell tolled. I remember walking to my grandmother’s during the Summer of 1960, with my Tesla tuned to 192m, listening to Veronica. I might just as well not have bothered to bring the portable. On a warm day in Heist one could hear Veronica’s hits and ‘Nur Die’ commercials just about everywhere as they poured into the streets from every open door and window. That Summer it seemed all land based stations were out of favour.  No prizes for guessing why.

The luxury of having a portable tube radio however utterly drained my finances. Hence, the Tesla set was soon demoted. It was put in the corner of our veranda and the small loudspeaker was hooked up to the main radio. That way we could also listen whilst enjoying the Summer sunshine. The main thing was that it didn’t cost me anything anymore, which meant that I could save up for a proper transistor radio.

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01. THE WIND-UP GRAMOPHONE DAYS

I was a mere toddler when I first came into contact with radio. It was at my grandmother’s house in a place called Heist, on the Belgian coast. I vividly remember my aunt Gilberte doing the ironing to the music on the BBC Light Programme. Occasionally also my boisterous self was sushed into silence because the Archers were on. These daily exploits ‘of country folk’ were not to be missed. My aunt had been listening to the BBC, especially programmes like "It's that man again", throughout most of the war, when the family lived and worked in Cornwall. 

It was also in early infancy (my neighbour had only just taught me how to curse properly) that I discovered the wonder of music. That happened when my mother ‘inherited’ a vintage wind-up gramophone, because her great-aunt Clementine went into a retirement home, and had no further use for it. The sturdy wooden box arrived with a large number of very fragile records and handfuls of steel needles. Much to my father’s and my surprise the gramophone was not awarded pride of place in my mother’s living room. Without any malice intended, my mother was in the habit of calling everything ‘hers’. Hence it was ‘her house’, ‘her garden’ and ‘her everything else’. The only exceptions being the dustbin and the ditty-bag with ship’s provisions. They were described as ‘yours’, meaning my father’s. Although there was no form of entertainment in the house, the gramophone, with all its intriguing possibilities for a young boy like myself, was banished to her ‘spare room’. It was a small bedroom, which stood largely empty, and had no bed in it. There the gramophone sat for a long time, forgotten by everyone, but me.

Being only six at the time, it took me a while to pluck up courage to go and investigate this tantalizing toy in my mother’s third bedroom. In the end, making the best of unguarded moments, I managed to figure out how the contraption worked. After many failed attempts it finally produced some sound, mostly scratching. More ‘fiddlings’ later however Beniamino Gigli and Maurice Chevalier were singing their songs perfectly in tune. That is, until I was slow in winding up the handle. Then these great stars tended to forget their lines.

The fun didn’t last long however and I was found out. But my father, who for once was not at sea, came to the rescue. He figured, that since my mother wasn’t doing anything with the gramophone, I should be allowed to play with it. I’m sure my parents regretted this very soon. During the Summer break, which lasts for two months in Belgium, my gramophone playing day started at seven in the morning. I opened the window in the small upstairs room and began waking up the entire neighbourhood with musical and opera hits from as far back as the roaring twenties. As in the early 50’s ‘noise pollution’ had not yet been invented there were no complaints. The early morning antics of Josephine Baker, Lucienne Boyer and Jean Gabin went unchallenged. With hindsight it definitely was the barely tolerated airing of these hits from ‘les années folles’ that gave rise to my love of music. 

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