That feeling is what led me to create TV Live Forum. I didn’t go into it thinking I could recreate what had been lost, because something like that builds over decades and can’t simply be replaced overnight. But I did think it was possible to build something new that captured the same spirit, somewhere familiar enough to feel comfortable but fresh enough to stand on its own. In the early days, it genuinely felt like that might happen. People joined quickly, and many of the names were instantly recognisable, which gave it a sense of continuity. At the same time, there were new voices coming in, which helped give it energy and movement. Threads built up, conversations flowed, and there was that same sense that you could log in at any time and find something interesting to read or take part in.

For a while, it really did work. There was a rhythm to it, the kind that only online communities seem to find when they’re at their best. Discussions ranged from the smallest details of presentation to wider industry changes, and people brought knowledge, passion, and, at times, strong opinions. That was part of the appeal. It wasn’t meant to be bland or overly polite, it was meant to be a place where people could challenge each other and dig into the detail. And in those early months, that balance mostly held. It felt like something worth investing time in, something that had a future if it was handled carefully and allowed to grow in the right way.

But as time went on, the tone began to shift, and it did so in a way that was slow enough to be hard to pin down at first. What had been healthy debate started to edge into something more pointed, and disagreements began to feel less about the topic and more about the people involved. There were a small number of individuals who seemed to push things further each time, not just arguing their point but going out of their way to provoke reactions, to needle, and to make things personal. It created an atmosphere that was harder to control, because once that tone starts to take hold, it spreads, and it changes how others engage as well.

Running a forum means you don’t get to step away from that. You see everything, you deal with complaints, and you carry the responsibility of trying to keep things on track without stifling the very discussions that make the place worth visiting in the first place. It becomes a constant balancing act, and one that doesn’t really switch off when you log out. I spent a lot of time trying to manage that balance, stepping in where needed, trying to calm things down, and hoping that, over time, the tone would settle and the community would find its way back to something healthier. There’s always that belief that with the right approach, things can improve, and for a while I held onto that.

In the end, though, it became clear that it wasn’t going to turn around in the way I’d hoped. After 16 months, I reached a point where I had to be honest about what it had become and what it was doing to me personally. What had started as something enjoyable and worthwhile had turned into something draining, something that sat in the background even when I wasn’t actively dealing with it. It began to affect my mood, my stress levels, and my overall mental health, and that was the point where the decision became unavoidable. No online space, no matter how good its intentions or how strong its start, is worth letting it have that kind of impact.

Closing TV Live Forum wasn’t an easy decision, but it was a clear one. There’s always a sense of responsibility when you build something that other people use and enjoy, and walking away can feel like you’re letting them down. But there comes a point where you have to draw a line and recognise that your own wellbeing has to come first. Once I stepped away, that weight lifted far more quickly than I expected. It gave me the space to reset, to breathe, and to focus on getting myself back to a better place. Over time, things improved, and I was able to look back on the whole experience with a bit more clarity and perspective.

I’m also genuinely glad that the conversation itself didn’t disappear. It found a new home on Pres Café, which in many ways has become a superb replacement for what I tried to build. One of the key differences is the level of moderation. It’s much stricter, and that makes a real difference. The tone feels better, the discussions feel more constructive, and there’s a clearer sense of where the boundaries are. It shows that these kinds of communities can still work, but they need the right structure and consistency behind them to keep things on track.

Now, five years on, I can see it for what it was, a meaningful chapter, but still just one chapter. I don’t regret starting TV Live Forum, because for a time it did exactly what I hoped it would do. It brought people together again, it kept that shared interest alive, and it created moments and conversations that were genuinely worthwhile. At the same time, I don’t regret ending it, because knowing when to stop is just as important as knowing when to begin. Sometimes the strongest decision you can make is to walk away, not because something failed, but because you understand that it has run its course.

With a bit of distance, that’s how it feels now. It had a clear beginning, a period where it really worked, and an ending that, while difficult, was necessary. And that’s alright. Not everything is meant to last forever, and not everything needs to. What matters is what you take from it, and for me, that’s a clearer sense of where the line is, and the confidence to step back when it needs to be drawn.

No studio. No travel bulletins. No alarm clocks set to ridiculous hours for early broadcasts. Just a small suitcase, a train ticket, and a few days in Weymouth to rest and reset.

It feels strange even writing that.

When you work in radio, life tends to run on a clock. Bulletins at fixed times. Shows that must start on the dot. Music that fades exactly when it should. Even days off can end up full of “just one quick thing” that somehow turns into a full afternoon of work.

So this week is different. For the first time in nearly a decade, I have properly stepped away.

And the destination is somewhere that carries a bit of history for me.

I’m staying at Littlesea, which is just outside Weymouth. The last time I was here was in 1992. That’s 34 years ago. Different era entirely. Back then the world felt slower, television still had proper regional identities, and nobody carried a computer around in their pocket.

I remember Littlesea being a happy place back then, so when I decided I needed a break, it felt like the right place to return to. A small personal full circle.

Of course, the universe decided that getting here should involve a small adventure.

The day started well enough. I got the bus into Basingstoke to pick up a few essentials before the journey. The usual things you realise you need once you’re actually going away for a few days.

And then my phone pinged.

That single notification that strikes fear into the heart of every British rail passenger.

Your train has been cancelled.

The reason?

Signalling problems in the New Forest.

At that moment my nice calm holiday mindset disappeared rather quickly. Instead I was standing there in Basingstoke wondering how on earth I was actually going to get to Weymouth.

Still, I headed to the station to see if there was a workaround. British train travel has taught me that if Plan A collapses, there is usually a complicated Plan B involving extra platforms and at least one unexpected change.

Sure enough, there was an earlier train I could catch.

The only catch was I’d have to change at Southampton Airport Parkway.

Fine. No problem.

Except when I got there… you guessed it.

More signalling problems.

By this point I had that familiar travelling feeling creeping in. The one where you start thinking: this journey might take a while.

But I pressed on. Eventually I got onto the train heading further down the line and things seemed to be moving again. We rolled along quite nicely for a bit until we reached Bournemouth.

Then the announcement came over the speaker.

Everyone had to get off.

The train was terminating there.

Now, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about that. Being politely ejected from a train halfway through a journey is never anyone’s favourite travel experience. But in a strange way it did help.

I realised at that point I needed a serious sugar boost. The stress of the delays had taken its toll, and a quick stop for something sweet helped reset the system a bit.

Sometimes the body knows exactly what it needs.

Eventually the third train of the day arrived. By this point I was prepared for anything. Delays. Cancellations. Possibly a sheep wandering across the line for dramatic effect.

But no.

This train behaved perfectly.

No problems. No dramatic announcements. Just a smooth ride down towards Weymouth. Somewhere along that stretch of track, I could actually feel the stress draining away.

The view out of the window helped as well. Dorset has a lovely calm feel about it once you get away from the towns. Fields, open space, and that sense that you’re getting closer to the sea.

By the time we pulled into Weymouth station, I felt a lot calmer than I had a few hours earlier.

Of course, I then made what can only be described as a rookie holiday mistake.

Instead of getting a taxi to the caravan park, I decided to walk.

In my mind this seemed perfectly sensible. A bit of fresh air after sitting on trains all afternoon. Stretch the legs. Enjoy the surroundings.

What I forgot about was the suitcase.

More specifically, the fact that my suitcase has wheels with the navigational instincts of a drunken shopping trolley.

The walk from Weymouth station to Littlesea took about an hour, and by the end of it my arm felt like it had been through a serious workout. Every bump in the pavement seemed to fight the wheels. The suitcase zig-zagged its way along the path like it had a mind of its own.

So here is a small note to my future self.

Next time: get a taxi.

Still, when I finally arrived at the park and checked into my caravan, the effort suddenly felt worthwhile.

First impression?

I love it.

The caravan is the perfect size for me. Clean, cosy, and exactly what I needed after the chaos of the journey. It instantly felt like a little base for the week.

After unpacking a few things I had a wander around the park just to get my bearings. One of the first places I checked out was the bar.

And that’s where I had another small shock.

The prices.

Let’s just say the drinks are not exactly budget friendly. I stood there looking at the menu thinking that my social life in that bar may be fairly limited this week unless I win the lottery.

So it might be more of a “quiet drink in the caravan” kind of holiday.

Later in the evening I decided to try my luck at the bingo. It seemed like the sort of thing you should do at least once while staying at a holiday park.

Sadly, I didn’t win.

But I did notice something quite amusing. The prize money they were giving away was actually bigger than what I used to give out when I hosted games at Buzz Bingo.

So although I walked away empty-handed, someone else had a very nice night.

And now I’m back in the caravan writing this, with very tired legs and an arm that is still slightly annoyed about the suitcase incident.

Despite the chaotic start, I feel surprisingly peaceful.

The trains were a mess. The journey took longer than planned. And that walk was definitely an error in judgement.

But I’m here.

After nine years without a proper break, that feels like a small victory in itself.

Tonight will be simple. No work. No radio prep. No thinking about tomorrow’s show or the next bulletin.

Just a quiet evening, a bit of rest, and the knowledge that the sea is not too far away.

My legs, quite frankly, have earned the night off.

Next week I’m heading off on holiday for a few days. It feels needed. The last few months have been busy and, if I’m honest, a bit heavy at times. A change of scenery will do me good. Even a short break can help reset the mind.

Work has been moving forward too. At the end of the month I’ll be starting to present on a third radio station. Radio has been such a huge part of my life for so long, and the chance to step behind another microphone still feels special. It keeps things fresh. Each station has its own voice, its own rhythm, and that challenge is something I really enjoy.

Health has been a bit of a struggle lately. Some days have been tougher than others. That’s the simple truth of it. But I’m trying not to sit still and let that define things. I’ve been getting out more, walking when I can, trying to exercise a little and keep moving. Fresh air helps. Movement helps. Sometimes the smallest steps are the most important ones.

There is also a more serious step coming up soon. I’ll be starting proper therapy to try and change the way I’m living at the moment. That feels like a big moment. Change is rarely easy, but staying stuck isn’t much fun either. So the plan is simple: face things honestly, do the work, and see where the road leads.

For now, the focus is on the next few weeks. A holiday, a new radio challenge, and hopefully a bit of progress in looking after myself properly.

Life keeps moving. The trick, I think, is learning how to move with it.

Work has been a bright spot. My radio shows have gone well, I’ve hosted some brilliant events, and there’s plenty more lined up for 2026. Radio has reminded me of why I do this job: the joy of connecting with people, of doing work I care about, and of finding stability in something I love.

Looking ahead, I’ve set some goals for the new year. I’ll finally take a holiday in March – my first in nine years. I want to do more radio work, push myself further, and hopefully see some happiness in my love life. This year hasn’t been easy there. Seeing friends post about their happy relationships has stung more than a little recently, but it’s also a reminder that I want that too. I’m ready to put myself out there in 2026.

The last few weeks have been heavy. Draining. Eye-opening in ways I didn’t ask for. When the noise fades, you start to notice patterns: who shows up, who disappears, who tells the truth, and who spins stories hoping you won’t see. I noticed. And I’m moving on. I’m closing doors that should have been shut long ago. I’m choosing honesty over comfort, boundaries over approval, and self-respect over being liked.

Next year will look different. I will look different. I’ll speak up sooner. I’ll walk away faster. I’ll protect my time, my energy, and my work. Some people won’t like that. That’s fine. I’m no longer here to please everyone. I’m here to live honestly, do good work, and sleep at night knowing I didn’t compromise myself to keep others comfortable.

To anyone who has followed my journal entries this year, I hope you’ve found some comfort in them. They’ve been my way of making sense of chaos, marking the small victories, and processing the tough moments.

Here’s to a 2026 that’s lighter, braver, and brighter. Have a happy Christmas.

I see the same pattern play out again and again. One relationship finishes and, almost immediately, there is a replacement. The language stays the same. The habits stay the same. Even the future plans sound familiar, just delivered to a different person. It gets described as moving on, as being emotionally healthy, as knowing what you want. To me it often feels like avoidance. Like skipping the difficult chapter and hoping no one notices the missing pages.

When my last relationship ended, nothing about it was smooth. I didn’t move on. I fell apart. I went into a real downward spiral that stripped away confidence and left me second-guessing everything. Sleep became erratic. Judgement went out of the window. I didn’t line someone else up to soften the blow. I sat in it, badly, and for longer than I would have liked.

There were a couple of one-night stands along the way. They were not romantic or healing, but they were revealing. They showed me I wasn’t broken or invisible, which mattered at the time. They also showed me how empty quick fixes are. Once the moment passed, nothing had changed. The same thoughts came back. The same unease followed. That was when it became clear that distraction was not recovery, and filling the space did not mean dealing with it.

I’ve been single for almost a year now, and it has been far from glamorous. There has been no big reinvention or sudden clarity. It has been slow, quiet, and often uncomfortable. Being on your own removes the buffers. There is no one to reflect you back in a flattering light, no shared narrative to hide inside. You are left with yourself, your habits, and the consequences of past choices, which is confronting in a way nothing else really is.

This is the part many people seem desperate to avoid. Jumping straight into another relationship can look like confidence, but it often feels more like fear. Fear of silence. Fear of asking hard questions. Fear of sitting alone long enough for patterns to become obvious. Being alone has a way of doing that. It gently forces you to notice what you repeat, what you tolerate, and what you keep carrying forward without examining it.

Speed gets mistaken for strength, and busyness gets confused with healing. They are not the same thing. Sometimes strength looks like stopping. It looks like letting something hurt instead of rushing to cover it up. It looks like staying single long enough for the lesson to land, even when that is lonely or dull or deeply inconvenient.

I don’t see being single as a failure, and I don’t see rushing into something new as progress. Healing doesn’t work to a timetable, and it cannot be rushed without cost. After enough time, something steadies. The urgency fades. You feel more grounded, less reactive, and more honest with yourself. Not fixed, but clearer.

I do want to find happiness with someone again. Being at peace on your own does not cancel out the desire for connection. I hope that 2026 is the year that brings a relationship built on honesty rather than haste, on choice rather than fear. If that happens, it will come from a place of steadiness, not panic.

Some endings need space. Not as a punishment, but as a way of understanding what actually went wrong and what you do not want to repeat. Closing one door too quickly does not erase the past. It just drags it, unresolved, into the next room.

That simple line feels lighter this year. Last year’s 40th turned into a small tragic circus starring my ex and a cast of awkward moments. It left a bruise on the memory. This year feels different. Kinder. Quieter. Better. I get to mark the day with my radio friends, the people who see me as I am, not as a problem to fix or a trophy to drop. That helps.

The odd thing is I should feel upbeat, yet a low fog has hung around me for weeks. Not a crisis. Not a collapse. Just that drifting sense of being a bit lost. I’ve been working hard on events for the station. I hosted the village Christmas markets in Overton last week, and a Christmas fayre in Basingstoke. People came up to me with warm words about how much work I put in. They said the events felt lively and welcoming. I stood there with a hot drink in my hand, smiling, and part of me wondered why I felt so unsure of my own worth when others seemed to see it so clearly.

The brain loves a trick. Mine whispers that people are ignoring me, or that I’m not someone worth spending time with. Then I check the facts. I look at the friends who message, the colleagues who show up, the listeners who say the shows matter to them. The truth is my mental health is steady. It wobbles now and then, like any machine that’s been through a few storms, but it still runs. I still run. Sometimes I need to remind myself of that.

Today gives me a marker in the timeline. A chance to say the past year did not sink me. A chance to say I am here, older, a touch frayed, but still able to laugh, still able to work, still able to care. I get to choose the shape of this birthday, and I choose a warm pub, easy talk, and friends who like radio far too much. That sounds like a better celebration than anything last year threw at me.

If my mind goes wandering again, I’ll let it wander. It always comes back.

Here’s to another lap around the sun, with fewer clowns and more company. The year ahead can begin with a small smile and a pint. That will do for now, and it’s enough to keep going.

This show means a lot to me. I was born in the mid-eighties, so the decade shaped the background noise of my childhood. I grew up with synths, big choruses, colourful videos, and the sense that pop was having the time of its life. Even now, nothing hits quite like an eighties track. The sound carries that mix of optimism and edge that only that era managed to bottle.

As I got older, I dug deeper. I found forgotten singles and strange B-sides. I found artists who never quite made it into the mainstream but helped build the decade’s sound. I found the songs that shaped film, TV, and culture long after 1990 rolled around. The eighties never really ended for me; they kept unfolding, one discovery at a time.

The Eighties Playback gives me the space to share those moments. Each month, I’ll go back into the archives and play the classics you know, the gems you might have missed, and the tracks that still shine years later. The pilot episode will set the tone, and from there the show will grow into something bigger and more detailed.

I’m excited to start this journey and to build a little community around it. If you want to follow the show, hear the updates, and join in the chat, please join the Facebook group. It’ll be the best place to share memories, swap recommendations, and keep the spirit of the decade alive.

The eighties are calling, and it’s time to press play.

That’s the ugly truth. Not the movie version with the music swell and the last-minute confession in the rain – just silence. Me. Alone. Again.

I met someone recently who made me feel something I hadn’t felt in years. Not lust. Not obsession. Just that rare, terrifying feeling that maybe – maybe – life wasn’t done surprising me. They had this light about them. You know the kind – the sort of person who walks into a room and somehow everything shifts a bit brighter.

And what did I do? Absolutely nothing. I played it safe. I joked. I stayed on friendly ground. Because that’s what I do best – I hide behind wit and charm and pretend I’m fine with being “the nice one,” “the good friend,” the one who never says too much.

But deep down, I’m furious with myself. Because I knew I was falling. I knew what I wanted to say. And I didn’t.

Why? Fear. Pride. The pathetic need to protect myself from rejection – even though rejection is basically the default setting by now. I told myself I was being smart. That it wasn’t the right time. That maybe they didn’t feel the same. But let’s call that what it is: cowardice dressed up as logic.

And now, they’ve moved on. Life goes on. And I’m sitting here, trying to convince myself that it doesn’t matter – that being “left on the shelf” is some kind of noble endurance test instead of what it really is: a slow, lonely punishment for not being honest.

The truth is, I’m sick of being safe. Safe gets you nowhere. Safe keeps you single. Safe keeps you watching someone else live the life you were too scared to reach for.

I wish I’d told them I loved them. I wish I’d risked the awkwardness, the rejection, the embarrassment – all of it. Because anything would’ve been better than this gnawing silence.

So yeah. Left on the shelf again. But this time, it’s my own damn fault.

It’s funny, really. When I first downloaded it, I thought it was the future of dating. A brave new world of romance, where connections were just a swipe away. Turns out it’s more like a supermarket with bad lighting – endless choice, but nothing that actually looks appetising.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a few decent chats. The odd coffee that didn’t end in disaster. But mostly, it’s been an exhausting cycle of “Hey, how’s your week going?” followed by radio silence – or worse, a reply three days later that says “Sorry, I’ve been sooo busy” (translation: they met someone with a dog and better hair).

And it’s not just them. I’ve been guilty of it too – half-hearted messages, swiping while bored, or letting someone disappear because the spark didn’t immediately hit like a rom-com trailer. It’s made dating feel less like getting to know someone and more like auditioning for a role you’re not sure you even want.

Tinder sells you this idea that love is just a swipe away. But honestly? It’s more like a fruit machine – bright lights, instant thrills, and a constant sense that maybe, just maybe, the next pull will hit the jackpot. Spoiler: it rarely does.

So I’ve binned it. And weirdly, I feel lighter. Like I’ve deleted more than an app – I’ve deleted the noise, the pressure, the constant sense that you should be looking for someone. Maybe I’ll meet someone in the real world again. You know – in a pub, or at a gig, or while reaching for the same bottle of wine in Tesco. A crazy thought, I know.

For now, though, I’m content being off the grid – romantically speaking. No swipes, no matches, no chat bubbles. Just a bit of peace and a reminder that sometimes, being single isn’t a problem to fix.

Maybe, just maybe, the right person’s out there – and not in 200 characters or less.

I found myself caught in a whirlwind of challenges that tested every ounce of my strength. I started and ended a relationship with someone I thought I loved-someone who, in reality, was harmful to both my mental and physical health. I faced physical health issues that sapped my energy and shook my confidence. And perhaps most painfully, I went on a downward spiral that nearly cost me one of the most important people in my life – my best friend – after saying things I deeply regret.

It’s been a year of loss, confusion, and self-doubt. But today, I can honestly say I am slowly getting back to my old self. I’m finding my way forward, step by step, moment by moment. And I want anyone reading this to know: you’re not alone in struggling, and it’s okay to not be okay.

Mental health is not a straight line. Recovery is not a race. Some days are better, some worse, but every step you take toward understanding, forgiveness, and self-care matters. Talking about it is one of the most powerful steps we can take.

If you are struggling, please know there is help and support available. You do not have to face this alone. The Samaritans are available 24/7 to listen, no matter what you’re going through.

Contact Samaritans:

• Phone: 116 123 (UK & ROI)
• Email: jo@samaritans.org
• Website: www.samaritans.org

Today, I’m choosing hope over despair, connection over isolation, and honesty over silence. If my story helps even one person feel a little less alone, then sharing it is worth it.

Take care of yourself, be gentle with yourself, and reach out if you need to. Mental health matters. You matter.