The slow, ugly death of DAB, dodgy design, and how I became a radio transmitter as well as broadcaster

Digital Audio Broadcasting - DAB - is dead technology, and the first nail in its blond-wood coffin was not the statement yesterday by the beleaguered head of commercial broadcaster GCAP (closing two digital 'stations' and selling its stake in one of the main DAB broadcasting thingies), and not even David Hepworth's article in last month's Word Magazine

It was those boxes. And they were/are interesting boxes, those Pure Evoke (what a STUPID name) DAB radios. In retrospect they had/have 'future demise' written all over them.

And friends, I bought one. Well, I bought one as a present for a family member who lives in one of the isolated urban pockets of DAB reception. Only after I bought it did I discover it was, of all things, MONO (at a time when you could buy a stereo FM radio with built in CD for approximately five old pennies. And that you needed to buy a matching extension box to turn it into something that looked like one of those Russian hi-fis you used to get from Woolworths. And that it sounded like a crystal set anyway. Sure, an LCD display told you what station you were listening to. But car radios had been doing that for years.

Because whoever designed those Pure Boke radios had a brainwave: It's new and unfriendly tech, he (definitely a he) thought. Let's clad it in...wood! And brushed aluminium, sort of 1940's/50s,like in that Terry Gilliam film, Brazil. Ignoring the fact that the post-modern, valve-driven society in Brazil is both decaying and hugely threatening. This was something that looked like a radio in the same way the warning signs for roadside GATSO speed cameras show a symbol of an ancient plate camera with a bellows. It apologised for what it was.

It was big, and clumsy, too, though you could get Walkman-style versions at enormous cost (now much cheaper, but not 99p, like FM personals). And besides, all UK digital stations were available through your digital telly.

Then bingo, we all (or most of us) got broadband, wireless broadband. Recognise that wee word? 'Wireless'? Sound familiar?) Now we can listen to every conceivable radio station while we're working (headphones, sir, headphones). Meanwhile people like Logik (who make DAB receivers as well, not necessarily out of wood) start bringing out the Reciva, which is admittedly a bit like a DAB receiver, in that it's mono and not portable, but brings all the stations on the internet (and that's ZILLIONS more than DAB) into your kitchen, bedroom or living room, using wi-fi. It looks not like a twee imitation of a Garrison Keillor radio romance 'wireless', but a piece of uncompromisingly scientific equipment. It looks like a wave generator from a lab, or a defibrillator, or a Geiger counter. It's deliberately intimidating. At a pinch, it looks as if it might save your life. Or ruin it. And look at the name: 'Logik Reciva' - ugly, technical, modernist, nerdy - as compared to 'Pure Evoke' - nostalgic, backward looking, essentially fascistic.

At first, my Logik was annoyingly prone to cutting out. We live in a big old house with thick walls, and our wi-fi router wasn't powerful enough. So I decided to search for some kind of booster. Suddenly, on eBay, I glimpsed the possibility of becoming an (unlicensed) radio transmitter. You can get wi-fi boosters with a range of 10 kilometres! Holy Pirate Radio! A Belkin for £30 plugged into a wall socket and gave us complete household coverage, plus the garden and a neighbouring field. Now we are wi-fi'd to the max. DAB? you must be joking. Not that we could ever get DAB within three hundred miles of where I type.

And I've sold, so far, three Logik Recivas (what a stupid name). People visit, I demonstrate what it can do (here's East Village Radio in New York City, here's EVERY HEAVY METAL STATION IN THE WORLD!) they order one. For £38.50. And I'm not even on commission.

DAB? DOA, I'm afraid. And that's without even talking about cars.

Carr's Cheese Melts - the crack cocaine of savoury biscuitry

One packet is open, the other is sealed. I am securely supplied for at least the next week, assuming I behave in a moderate and controlled fashion. With Carr's Cheese melts, this is not easy. They are the most ferociously addictive savoury biscuits I have ever encountered.

In fact, they are beyond savoury. They are beyond cheesiness. They are, allegedly, sprinkled with 'dried cheese'. I do not believe this. I think they have been impregnated with a chemically enhanced essence of extra mature Cheddar and possibly some kind of opiate. There's an acrid, bitter tang to them that crinkles the nasal passages and fuses perfectly with the stunning texture (thin, crunchy, but with an almost TUC wafer-like shortbreadiness). They are an acquired taste - the Marmite of biscuits - and once consumed, there is no way back, save through extensive therapy. Probably involving the horrors of Ryvita.

Eating Cheese Melts naked (the biscuit, not you; or me) does not adequately communicate their dangerous brilliance. It is as an adjunct to particular varieties of cheese that their cunning qualities take hold. In particular, Cambozola and very strong Cheddar. Anything with a nasty bacterial whiff, such as Stilton, Brie de Pays, Camembert or Danish Blue, counteracts the powerful attack of the Melt itself. Though Roquefort, oddly, works very well. Butter is simply...inadequate. This biscuit begs for the corpse of milk.

Cheese Melts disappeared from the Shetland Islands three weeks ago, provoking frenzied shelf-scouring my myself. They have now returned. I note that Somerfields have a note attached to the shelf upon which they sit, claiming that they represent 'Scottish tastes'. I fear this is true. High-fat, High-salt, encouraging the addition of even higher fat, higher salt substances. Nurse, the statins!

How they spell 'bucket' at the Brae Co-op

As they say in the posher parts of Dundee, 'Oor Wullie needs a cushion, else he'll get piles fae sitting on yon bouquet...'

Bus and bike to Banff and back

Left Glasgow at 8.30 this morning on a Megabus packed with unhappy people. Well, they looked unhappy. Read most of James Lee Burke's Pegasus Descending, picked up in a charity shop and a recent addition to his fantastic Dave Robicheaux series, set in Louisiana. The Mississippi delta made a nice contrast to the windy, chilly but essentially non-snowy Scottish landscape.

Funny thing about buses and trains in the UK, how people choose to travel on public transport and so obviously hate the fact that other people are THERE, with them. So everyone takes a double seat to themselves and builds a wall of luggage to try and prevent anyone sitting next to them. When I boarded, I could see the absolute panic on every face at the thought that this large person, clutching two bags and a crash helmet, might sit next to them. And then, weirdly, once we set off, nobody but me (and the guy next to me) put on our seat belts, despite this now being a legal obligation. Until the driver started insisting.

At least my Megabus seatbelt worked. The one on the 305 service to Banff (Portsoy, actually; I needed that alliterative 'b') and beyond, didn't. Hell's teeth, that's a tedious run, corkscrewing through every Aberdeenshire community with more than two houses. Anyway, got to Portsoy eventually on my latest eBay adventure, there to meet Dave and the bike I'd bought, site unseen (see below).

It's a terrifying moment, when you cast eyes on the object which looked so attractive online. No problem this time, though. The BMW is an absolute cracker. Dave was philosophical, but admitted being disappointed with the price the bike fetched. A result of the time of year and distance from main markets, I think.

I was worried about the ride back to Aberdeen, about 60 miles, but the ice and snow of yesterday had disappeared. It was very cold and windy, though, and the road between Banff and Aberdeen was slimy and treacherous, frequently fouled with farm waste. No place for a motorbike, really, but I made it back to Aberdeen OK. The BMW (oh, luxury) has heated grips on the handlebars, so that was a real help. And I had my longjohns.

Boat tomorrow night after a long trip away. Still, saw Magnus in Glasgow, saw round a water treatment plant, touched base with The Producers and generally got a lot done without buying A SINGLE THING in Primark. Be good to be back in Shetland, though. Once I've worked out how to tell Susan about the bike...

Let it (not) snow...

But it is. Heavily and, I hope, temporarily in Aberdeen. Tonight I'm getting the Megabus down to Glasgow to see Magnus and some movies. Why not the train, you may well ask? Well, because the only way I can get back to Aberdeen on Sunday in time to catch the infamous 305 bus service to Banff is by bus. Trains on Sunday are ultra presbyterian things, it seems, ruled by Sabbatarian timetablers. Why do I need to go Banff? Ah well, the thing is (sorry Susan) there's a BMW R1100R there needing brought back to Shetland...

My main hope is that the snow has melted by Sunday. Or was never there.