Why the time is right for a rebirth of children’s radio
Some time last year, during a half term of pitiless Devon rain and long, fractious car journeys, my husband discovered a way to stop our children fighting. This miracle was – is – called It’s an Australian podcast for children, about ethics. Each episode examines a different philosophical conundrum, in ways that children can relate to. Why don’t we eat pet animals? How can you tell if a friendship is for real? Is it ever OK to judge the strange practises of people from other cultures? And if not – because all children say not – what about the Romans, who threw people to the lions and wiped their bottoms on a communal sponge?
Made by ABC (Australia’s equivalent of the BBC), but available on Apple Podcasts, Short & Curly manages to combine childishness, in the best sense, with intelligence. It is the first thing I suggest when – as happens all the time these days – I get asked to recommend radio programmes for children.
That might seem like a surprisingly analogue request, in the age of the ipad. But precisely because screens are so horribly addictive – because if you try to remove an ipad from a child, he or she will bite you in the leg and scream for a week – children’s radio is ripe for a comeback. It keeps the child quiet without rotting his brain, or making his parents feel guilty. Academic research has shown that it is good for young brains, stimulating the imagination far more effectively than a screen can.
I just wish I had more children’s radio to recommend. Of traditional programming – the kind where you tune in and listen to whatever’s on – there is virtually nothing. In 1990, the BBC officially axed the last regular children’s programme from its major stations. (Go4it, a distant and enfeebled descendent of Children’s Hour, was not much mourned.) What we now have instead is Cbeebies radio: a digital outpost of such low profile and tepid quality that no parent I know has ever heard of it.
radio, a commercial venture launched in 2005 to fill the gap left by the BBC, has done a much better job of attracting attention. In fact, it is so attention-seeking – such a hellish cacophony of slide whistles, robotic sound effects and shouty presenters – that I can’t listen to it. More importantly, neither can my children. “They ruined Dennis,” mourned my son after one episode of Beanotown; and that was the end of that.
What remains, then, is podcasts. As with grown-up podcasts, American productions tend to be calmer and classier than anything from this side of the pond, and vastly more numerous. My children particularly like
(a science programme tackling such mysteries as what farts are made of), (answering questions sent in by children, including the big ones about sex and death), and
(stories written by children and dramatised by professional actors and comedians). All can be downloaded via Apple Podcasts and other apps, and used to keep peace in the car.
It’s a shame, though, to cede yet another piece of cultural territory to America. Children love to hear stories about themselves, about the local and particular landscape they live in. If ABC can make world-class children’s podcasts, why can’t the BBC? Directorgeneral Tony Hall confessed last week that young listeners (and viewers) are abandoning Auntie in favour of American streaming services. That is undoubtedly tough competition. But it doesn’t help that the BBC shows so little interest in entertaining children. Let’s hope Jason Phipps – newly arrived as the BBC’S first ever commissioning editor for podcasts
– has the foresight to correct this. If the BBC wants the loyalty of the next generation, it must first try to earn it.
The best BBC podcast to date is definitely one for the grown-ups. In The Boring Talks, a series of guest nerds expound for 15 minutes on seemingly mundane subjects such as wooden pallets or yellow lines; but they do so with such passion and granular knowledge that it always ends up being fascinating.
This week’s episode was my favourite yet. Peter Fletcher has been keeping a record of all his sneezes for the past 11 years. Date, location, velocity, and what he was doing at the time. “Sneeze number 42, 11pm, Saturday 4th August 2007,” goes a typical entry. “Marquee, Norfolk. Strong. Looking at quiche.” The narrowness of the aperture immediately makes you imagine the wider picture. Was it a wedding? Was he staring at quiche out of hunger, or because he had no one to talk to? Beautifully scripted and produced, Fletcher’s talk turned out to be a philosophical, almost poetic, rumination on how to chronicle a life through its least significant moments.