As this book demonstrates John Peel was, among other things, one of the funniest writers of the second half of the 20th century.

When he arrived at the newly inaugurated Radio 1 in 1967 the place was awash with ‘Personality DJs’, i.e. the transcendentally banal likes of Simon Dee and Tony Blackburn (with whom Peel had a minor obsession and who crops up, hilariously, in these pages as the hapless Timmy Bannockburn). In contrast to these synthetic and overweening types Peel offered a genuine personality and a modest belief that the records were more important than the chat between them.

Despite this, part of the reason you listened to the Peel show was to hear Peel. Indeed, in the latter years of his career, in my case it was almost the entire reason as I know longer liked most of the music he played (I’d got older but Peel, it seemed, hadn’t).

Peel writing is just like Peel talking on the radio. Sublimely idiosyncratic and yet reassuringly ordinary, ironic yet sincere, discursive, slightly dotty yet somehow strangely sane, intimate yet enigmatic, and wonderfully warm.

Over the years he broadcast on a wide variety of networks - Radios 1, 4 and 3, the BBC World Service, British Forces Broadcasting Service - but he always sounded unchanged and unmistakably like John Peel. Similarly, readers of publications as diverse as Sounds, the Listener, Disc, the Observer, Bike magazine, Punch and Radio Times, found themselves having to devour undiluted Peel. He made no attempt to tailor his style or opinions to the supposed tastes of his various readerships.

He writes about all manner of things - Liverpool FC are mentioned one or two hundred times and he transmutes his family life in a cottage in Suffolk into a comic version of The Archers (in which he appeared) or perhaps a real life version of Vivian Stanshall’s Sir Henry at Rawlinson End (which started on his programme). But it’s not so much what he writes about that matters as the way he writes. Peel’s literary style owes something to J B Morton, P G Wodehouse and the aforementioned Sir Viv, but the captivating voice that emerges from this confluence of eccentric influences is singularly his own. If these pieces don’t cause you to smile, at the very least, then I recommend you consult your doctor immediately as you’re probably dead.

And he writes about music, naturally. In fact, as it moves from the early seventies to the noughties this book provides a pretty good history of the evolving, or devolving depending on your point of view, rock music scene over thirty odd years. And also Peel’s constant yet constantly changing place within it. At least it would do - and here we arrive at my only grumble - had the articles been arranged chronologically. Annoyingly, they haven’t been. Never mind.

Although in no way revelatory - Mr Ravenscroft has his John Peel mask firmly in place throughout - in its haphazard way The Olivetti Chronicles constitutes a better and more entertaining Peel autobiography than the official one - the sadly unfinished, indeed barely started, Margrave of the Marshes. His offhand brilliance is present on every page.

The perfect bedside companion, as the reviewers say mysteriously. ( )

A posthumous collection of 20 years worth of writings.

John Peel was a bit of a hero of mine - a true champion of music in all it's shapes and forms (and when I say all, I mean all). He had a late night BBC Radio 1 show in which he would play the most eclectic selection of music you'll ever come across. It was almost guaranteed that in the space of an hour, he would play something that you absolutely hated, but also at least one thing that you would love - at any rate the one thing he would definitely do would be to introduce you to a whole range of music that you'd never heard before - or thought to have listened to. In fact, a quote from the last piece in the book:

"The programmes I do for Radio 1 have always been (roughly) based on the principle that what you're buying, listening to and enjoying is all very well but there exists also something else, less favoured, but equally worthy of your attention. I mean, there's a guitarist in a Peruvian band (and I'm not making this up) who's a knock-out - and who knows what marvellous bands there may not be in, say, Poland or Zaire or Iceland. I want to know about them - and to let you know about them."
(Sounds magazine, 20 Jul 1974)

There was, and still is no one on Radio to match him for broadening your horizons - and, almost single handed, he introduced me to my own musical taste. OK, he had some help from Steve Lamacq & Jo Whiley's Evening session in the '90s (at which point I date myself...) and Gideon Coe on 6music these days. But basically, he was a very big influence on me and many others of my generation and the generation before as we were growing up. I still have taped snippets of his show stored away somewhere...

He was also the kind of DJ that made you feel like he was speaking just to you. Maybe some of your friends. He was cozy. His writing style, while variable, not careful, often rambling, sometimes bizarre and quite frequently off topic, is very similar to the way he spoke - every time I picked up this book, I could hear his voice - something that made me a little sad on several occasions.

So. If you're looking for literary style, you're not going to find it in this book. But charm, humour, a passion for music and Liverpool FC and a hefty dislike of the Osmonds, you will find in spades. This was a joy to read. ( )

Received from Santa at Christmas2008 ( )