28 February 2004
26 February 2004
24 February 2004
23 February 2004
20 February 2004
19 February 2004
18 February 2004
Lessons learned from today's show
One of the worst interviews Sarah ever did was with Randy Crawford. It wasn't Ms Kennedy's fault -- Crawford was in a 'rather strange mood'.
Sarah asked Lynne Bowles if she could go anywhere in the world, where would it be. 'Wales' said the dour traffic reporter.
'Chesticles allowing,' Sarah will greet us all again tomorrow.
17 February 2004
16 February 2004
13 February 2004
12 February 2004
Lessons learned from today's show
On reading in the papers about the cost of weddings, Sarah suggests economising by not wearing any knickers.
SK hates the phrases 'lots more to come' and 'stay with us'.
She also dislikes weather forecasts that are delivered too fast.
Ms Kennedy 'goes downhill after 7:30'. Up until that point though, she's at 'full throttle'.
Sarah thinks Joe Brand is excellent.
Sarah is going to the Kentucky Derby this year.
11 February 2004
10 February 2004
9 February 2004
The Guardian salutes our Sarah
The following high-quality piece of journalism comes from today's Guardian newspaper. Well done to them!
Sarah Kennedy (Friday, Radio 2) does nothing frantically. You wouldn't want her to, given that her show starts at 6am. It's a sleepy, otherworldly ("I've always wondered what Red Bull is all about; I didn't know if it was alcoholic or not") and cosy programme - the radio equivalent of a crocheted tea-cosy - presented by Kennedy in a style that has top notes of Terry Wogan and Pam Ayres, and yet is all her own. As a presenter, she has a knack of creating quite powerful visual pictures, some of which you rather wish she hadn't.
Last weekend, for example, Kennedy heard "a great thundering like wilderbeasts in the spare room". It was, as she expected, a cat playing with a vole. "The vole," she explained with much pathos, "did a runner. The vole shot down a hot pipe. The smell ... as you can imagine." Yes, the vole melted, leaving a house so smelly ("we've got two Airwicks, the stuff you stick in plugs and we've even burned incense") that she has had to cancel impending lunch guests who were lined up "for pasta and salad".
As Radio 2's only female presenter in the weekday schedules - an imbalance it would be good to see rectified now that the station has a female controller - Kennedy is to be treasured. Her style may be quirky ("Are cockles and winkles the same thing? It's a winkly problem," she ponders, oddly, on news of the deaths at Morecambe Bay), but somehow she makes perfect sense in that half-waking, half-snoozing state so much of her early audience must inhabit.
The following high-quality piece of journalism comes from today's Guardian newspaper. Well done to them!
Sarah Kennedy (Friday, Radio 2) does nothing frantically. You wouldn't want her to, given that her show starts at 6am. It's a sleepy, otherworldly ("I've always wondered what Red Bull is all about; I didn't know if it was alcoholic or not") and cosy programme - the radio equivalent of a crocheted tea-cosy - presented by Kennedy in a style that has top notes of Terry Wogan and Pam Ayres, and yet is all her own. As a presenter, she has a knack of creating quite powerful visual pictures, some of which you rather wish she hadn't.
Last weekend, for example, Kennedy heard "a great thundering like wilderbeasts in the spare room". It was, as she expected, a cat playing with a vole. "The vole," she explained with much pathos, "did a runner. The vole shot down a hot pipe. The smell ... as you can imagine." Yes, the vole melted, leaving a house so smelly ("we've got two Airwicks, the stuff you stick in plugs and we've even burned incense") that she has had to cancel impending lunch guests who were lined up "for pasta and salad".
As Radio 2's only female presenter in the weekday schedules - an imbalance it would be good to see rectified now that the station has a female controller - Kennedy is to be treasured. Her style may be quirky ("Are cockles and winkles the same thing? It's a winkly problem," she ponders, oddly, on news of the deaths at Morecambe Bay), but somehow she makes perfect sense in that half-waking, half-snoozing state so much of her early audience must inhabit.
5 February 2004
3 February 2004
2 February 2004
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