LISTENING IN.

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 65, 17 March 1934, Page 6 (Supplement)

LISTENING IN.

ITS COMING THROUGH. «XXDLA ITITCH TRIPS VTTCH.' CHILD'S GUIDE TO BROADCASTING Scents: A typical suburban drawing roc:n. A wireless machine, enclosed ii. a cabinet of a- peculiarly revolting Jacobcn design, dominates the room. It is tin; ornament of the home, and is promptly and proudly plioivn to all callers, though it will shortly have tc compete with the sweet peas which arc sprouting outside the window, and on the print of bursting into all the more reprllant shades of j ink and mauve. An Edwardian father is kneeling before the cabinet, fiddling. His small son gravely regards him. Q.: What arc you doing, father? A.: Trying to got Moscow. Q.: Why? A.: Nev "• mind why. Q.: But I thought you said Russia ought to be kept out of England? A.: Do not crunch your almond rock so near my ear. Q.: I was not crunching almond rock, father. ,A. (excited): Then what was that noise? (A curious grinding noise comes from the loud-speaker.) Russia! Yes, . . . yes, it is! Quick —get your Auntie Nellie. Q.: Auntie Nellie hates foreign stations, father. A.: Nonsense. Q.: (tonele?sly): "When you got Spain the other day she said she didn't wonder they had revolution.; if that was the sort of noise they had to listen to. A.: Be quiet. Fetch her at once. Q.: And when you got Berlin she said what was the use of having won the war? A.: For the last time. Q.: Any/ay, the noise has stopped. (There is a moment's silence. The father glares furiously at the boy.) A.: Only guttersnipes allow almonds to dribFe down their chins like that. (The father continues to fiddle. A shrill screech comes from the instrument.) Q.: Ooh . . . father, was that Moscow? A.: .Atmospherics. Q.: Is Atmospherics a Russian station? A. (pompously): You would not understand what atmospherics are. Q.: What are they? A.: Er, a disturbance in the ether. Q.: What's a disturbance in the ether? A.: Er —waves . . . er —waves . . . and do not'lick your lips in that disgusting manner. (Another shrill screech comes through, accompanied by these words, delivered in dulcet accents: "Atgofion Givr leuanc.") Q.: Ooh! The Bolsheviks are having a battle! A.: .Nothing of the sort. It was Daventry, having a Welsh interlude. Q.: Does Daventry like having Welsh interludes, father? A.: How should I know? Q.: Should I have, a pain if I had a Welsh inter A. (bitterly): You have left toffee marks all over the Jacobean pedestal. And stop talking! Something's coming through. Ah' (A radiant smile breaks over his face. A voice is heard saying: "Maladies des Poulets. Si vos poulets 110 mangent pas leur grain . . .") A.: B'you hear that, son? That's gay Pareeh * > Q.: Is it very gay, father? A.: Of course it is! Why—listen! (The voice continues: "Examinez, bien lee jambes d- chaque poulet . . The father assumes a knowing smile, as though listening to something very daring.) That's gay Paree all right! Lucky you don't understand all he's saying! Q.: But I do, father. A.: Oh! (He hastily turns the handle and the voice is lost.) Q.: The gentleman was talking about chickens, father. A. (testily): Well—well, you needn't tell me that. Q.: .He was saying that you had to look at the chickens' legs. A.: Well, what about it? Q. (monotonously): Are there many chickens in. Paris, father ? A.: Fm sure I don't know. Q.: And do you always have to look at the chickens' legs in Paris? A.: Why do you ask such silly questions ? Q.: I only wondered if that was what Auntie Nellie meant when she said you only went to Paris because . . . A, (violently): You have a burnt almond on the extreme end of your nose. Have you do of decency? (And now, very faintly, and with a perpetual accompaniment of whistles, pings, buzzes, and noises reminiscent of the birth-pangs bf an eel, a savage melody floats through space into this little room. The father folds his arms, and assumes a grim expression. So docs the son.) Q.: Is that Russia, father? A.: At last! (The music continues, faint but raucous, terrifying, eminently revolutionary.) Listen! Can you hear the brutality of it? The violence .. . the discords? Q.: What d'you think they're playing, father ? A. (portentously): Who knows? Perhaps it is the mocking funeral march of some wretched victim of the Tcheka! Perhaps it is some fierce revolutionary hvmn . . . for all we know, the band may be playing at this moment in the great square at Moscow, while thousands of fanatical revolutionaries glare with wild eyes into the night! Q.: boh . . . father! A.: Or—most likely it is the accompaniment to some revolting orgy staged by the Bolsheviks . . . perhaps it is relayed from some vast communal restaur-1 ant, where unspeakable women and bloodthirsty men . . . ah! They are beginning to sing . . . perhaps we might catch some words . . . (Accompanied, as ever, by whistles and explosions, a distant male voice is. heard wailing these words: "Lidla Vitch, frips Vitch, ah lahyoo! Lidla Vitch, frips Vitch, ah lahyoo!" A.: "Lidla Vitcli, frips Viteli!" Did you hear that? Q.: Yc-s, father. What does it mean? A. (brokenly): Never ask me that, my boy. There are some things too —what are you doing? Q.: Nothing, father! A.: Leave that handle alone! Q. (giving it an extra twist): Yes, father. (The music bursts out, loud and clear, and stops. A voice is heard saying: "You have just listened to Jack Payne and the 8.8.C. Orchestra playing "Little Witch from Ipswich. I love you." We will now switch over . . .") A. (turning it oil, and glaring at the small boy): We will now switch you over to the back of the pofa.. And bv the time I've finished with you, you'il have had enough "Payne" to last you a long, long time.