Key for the radio room? Take it with a pinch of SALT

FOR many years BBC Radio Sheffield had a correspondent in Barnsley, and for a number of years they had a series of little studios in the town that people like me, who did occasional bits of broadcasting that didn’t require getting the train to Sheffield, used to use.

They were little rooms with a microphone and a mixing desk and a set of headphones and you dialled a number and suddenly there you were, on Radio Sheffield or on any BBC local or national station.

I was reminded of this the other day when I did a talk at the Metrodome for that wonderful organisation the U3A, and I was reminded, as I walked into the building, of the time that the studio was in the Metrodome.

I think we’re talking the late 1980s/early 1990s here, and as I recall the studio was a tiny box-like room at the bottom of the stairs.

It wasn’t used very frequently, and you had to ask for the key at the reception desk.

Sometimes they were experienced staff and knew where the key was and they were able to pass it to you but sometimes it was a member of staff’s first day and they didn’t know where the key was and, to be honest, they didn’t believe that there was a Radio Sheffield studio in the building and you were just winding them up.

Once I was in the studio doing a live broadcast for (I think) BBC Radio 4. I was talking away and waving my arms as I do when I’m talking, particularly when I’m talking on the radio, and I slowly became aware of the person who’d given me the key standing outside the room holding a notice up at the window that said SALT AWARE.

I didn’t know what it meant: perhaps it was some kind of secret code. I carried on spouting on whatever show it was I was spouting on. The woman went away and came back with another piece of paper that said SALT LATE.

I wasn’t aware that the Metrodome was powered by salt, but maybe it was.

Perhaps the note was meant to convey that the Metrodome was about to grind to halt and run out of power because the salt supply had run out.

The lights would flicker and fail and the studio would grind to a halt.

I must confess that it’s quite difficult to think about salt at the same time as talking on the radio about something that’s not salt.

No recordings exist of my on-air efforts that day but perhaps I did accidentally say the word SALT during my conversation. The woman went away and then came back another note that said SALT ARRIVING!

The exclamation mark gave the message a touch of urgency.

Perhaps all was now well; maybe the salt truck had made it through the traffic and they’d poured the salt into the boilers and the building was powering up rather than powering down.

She went away and came back with a man in a suit. She held up a long and more detailed note which said SALT HERE SALT ON RADIO NOW.

Older readers will have guessed what was happening: Salt (or SALT) was in fact the old councillor Hedley Salt and, in some double-booking incident, was meant to be on Radio Sheffield at the same time I was on Radio 4.

Luckily my bit on the radio was winding to a conclusion and Hedley Salt was able to go in and speak just as I was going out. SALT OK, I was tempted to write on a note and give to the woman, but I didn’t.

I think, although I may have got the chronology mixed up, that after that the studio was in some council buildings off Eldon Street.

The key, in this instance, was kept behind the bar of the Queen’s Hotel but nobody on the staff ever seemed to know that. A typical exchange would go like this.

Me: I’ve come for the Radio Sheffield key. Receptionist: This is Barnsley. Radio Sheffield’s in Sheffield. Me: Yes, this is where you get the key for the Barnsley studio. Receptionist: Well, I don’t know where it is. Me, pointing to a key hanging on the wall with the words RADIO SHEFFIELD on it in big letters: That’ll be the one. Receptionist: Ah, I always wondered what that key was for.

Ah, the joys of regional and local broadcasting! These days, of course, you can do it all from your house on Zoom or FaceTime but it’s not as much fun.

You don’t get somebody at your spare room window holding up a sign saying SALT TWO MINUTES AWAY, do you?