At 11.58pm each  Wednesday, after a day spent in a barely contained expectancy, the whole of Bradford and the Aire Valley rushes breathless with an excitement that verges on the sexual, to the nearest radio. Their roiling senses inflamed beyond reason, eyes madly dilated,and tongues lolling provocatively from carelessly rouged lips, they await the sound of their hero.
As the Town Hall ominously tolls midnight in the distance ( I don’t know whether there is a Town Hall, whether it has a clock or whether it tolls, but I’m on a roll here) a hushed anticipation descends, only to be broken by a lone voice from the radio speaker. A voice that blends a gossamer lightness of tone,with the stentorian air of a life lived on the cutting edge of artistic innovation. Yes, it’s Radio 1’s Huw Stephens.
Meanwhile, somewhere behind Jack Fulton’s, a man in a cardigan played these…