conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Music, It's, Without with the genre: Biographies & Memoirs, Memoirs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'No Off Switch'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: No Off Switch
  On the night of 6 April 1994, I was sitting at the bar of my girl-friend's restaurant in Crouch End. All the customers and other staff members had left. Juliette was cashing up and I was flicking through the news headlines on the teletext of the television up on the wall. I spotted a story that a plane carrying the presidents of Rwanda and Burundi had been shot down near the airport in Kigali, the Rwandan capital, killing both heads of state. 'This means big trouble,' I remarked to Juliette.
  For the previous year or so, I'd been noting the worrying escalation of atrocities in Rwanda. I phoned Geoff the following morning and repeated my assessment.
  Over the next couple of weeks, although the reporting of what was happening was patchy to say the least, a picture was emerging of mass slaughter of civilians by their own government, its army and militias, and – most shockingly – by other civilians with the encouragement of those agencies. Few in the outside world, even those normally well-informed of African matters, had a real grasp of why. It was also clear that a rebel movement of English-speaking Rwandan exiles from Uganda, the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF), had remobilised and, recruiting from those sympathetic to its cause within Rwanda, was moving fast across the country to stop the slaughter and to overthrow the genocidal regime.
  It is also undeniable that the Rwanda slaughter did not get the coverage its victims deserved because many foreign correspondents were too frightened to set foot in the country. It was considered to be – correctly – completely out of control, a situation of unprecedented obscenity, madness, ferocity, horror and unpredictability. Journalists were regarded by the government troops, the drunken militias and the gangs of murderous civilians to be an interference and legitimate targets. So, coverage of the butchery in central Africa fell, in part, to your man from Radio 1.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Already, Kigali, coming, something, going.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: No Off Switch
  On the night of 6 April 1994, I was sitting at the bar of my girl-friend's restaurant in Crouch End. All the customers and other staff members had left. Juliette was cashing up and I was flicking through the news headlines on the teletext of the television up on the wall. I spotted a story that a plane carrying the presidents of Rwanda and Burundi had been shot down near the airport in Kigali, the Rwandan capital, killing both heads of state. 'This means big trouble,' I remarked to Juliette. 
  For the previous year or so, I'd been noting the worrying escalation of atrocities in Rwanda. I phoned Geoff the following morning and repeated my assessment. Already, he told me, sketchy reports were coming through from Kigali that something very serious was going down: barricades on the streets, vigilantes, killings. 
  Over the next couple of weeks, although the reporting of what was happening was patchy to say the least, a picture was emerging of mass slaughter of civilians by their own government, its army and militias, and – most shockingly – by other civilians with the encouragement of those agencies. Few in the outside world, even those normally well-informed of African matters, had a real grasp of why. It was also clear that a rebel movement of English-speaking Rwandan exiles from Uganda, the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF), had remobilised and, recruiting from those sympathetic to its cause within Rwanda, was moving fast across the country to stop the slaughter and to overthrow the genocidal regime. 
  It is also undeniable that the Rwanda slaughter did not get the coverage its victims deserved because many foreign correspondents were too frightened to set foot in the country. It was considered to be – correctly – completely out of control, a situation of unprecedented obscenity, madness, ferocity, horror and unpredictability. Journalists were regarded by the government troops, the drunken militias and the gangs of murderous civilians to be an interference and legitimate targets. So, coverage of the butchery in central Africa fell, in part, to your man from Radio 1.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A roar went up. And with that, I turned to head for the wings. But Johnny had appeared at my right shoulder, gazing out. I hesitated. He leaned into the mic.
  The column was not exclusively negative, neither was it always a weekly anti-Birtist rant. I heaped praise on quality programmes wherever they were broadcast. Radio 1, in fact, was rarely the target of my criticism, although the column of which I was most proud was the one in which I reviewed the Radio 1 Rap Show, the week after Tim Westwood had been shot on a south London Street. The programme was presented by Funkmaster Flex, a friend of, and a stand-in for, the bullet-riddled son of the former Bishop of Peterborough. Mr Flex did not go so far as to acclaim Westwood's misfortune as, by the measures of gangsta rap, a smart career move, but he did fill the show with back-to-back records which celebrated routine misogyny and recommended, sensitively, reflex macho gunslinging to settle the most minor disputes. I spent eight hours with a tape of the programme going through each record, line by line.
  I was ready for the fatuous justification of gangsta values when it came from Controller Andy Parfitt and his lieutenants – one of whom, a middle-aged educated British male, in a managerial role within the BBC, had begun dressing as, and adopting the vernacular and body language of, an escapee from Riker's Island. 'Radio 1 has a duty to reflect the nation's communities and the diversity of contemporary music culture,' Parfitt declared loftily in a statement responding to criticisms of the programme. By 'the nation's communities' he meant black people. The implication was that the Funkmaster's trigger-happy American gangsta pals and advocates of violence towards women were valid representatives of, or role models for, black culture in the UK.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: And with that, I turned to head for the wings. But Johnny had appeared at my right shoulder, gazing out. I hesitated. He leaned into the mic.
  The column was not exclusively negative, neither was it always a weekly anti-Birtist rant. I heaped praise on quality programmes wherever they were broadcast. Radio 1, in fact, was rarely the target of my criticism, although the column of which I was most proud was the one in which I reviewed the Radio 1 Rap Show, the week after Tim Westwood had been shot on a south London Street. The programme was presented by Funkmaster Flex, a friend of, and a stand-in for, the bullet-riddled son of the former Bishop of Peterborough. Mr Flex did not go so far as to acclaim Westwood's misfortune as, by the measures of gangsta rap, a smart career move, but he did fill the show with back-to-back records which celebrated routine misogyny and recommended, sensitively, reflex macho gunslinging to settle the most minor disputes. I spent eight hours with a tape of the programme going through each record, line by line.
  I was ready for the fatuous justification of gangsta values when it came from Controller Andy Parfitt and his lieutenants – one of whom, a middle-aged educated British male, in a managerial role within the BBC, had begun dressing as, and adopting the vernacular and body language of, an escapee from Riker's Island. 'Radio 1 has a duty to reflect the nation's communities and the diversity of contemporary music culture,' Parfitt declared loftily in a statement responding to criticisms of the programme. By 'the nation's communities' he meant black people. The implication was that the Funkmaster's trigger-happy American gangsta pals and advocates of violence towards women were valid representatives of, or role models for, black culture in the UK.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He was back with me on the Island permanently, and with his mother's written consent, before the end of TT race week. We watched the main event, the Senior, together. It was the first time in four years we'd enjoyed the races as father and son. Dolly came over for it too.
  IT IS NOW just before Christmas 2010. Sonny has been home for six months. Dolly is still in Scotland, understandably feeling the attachment of a little girl to her mum. She visits us as often as her mother allows and we speak on her mobile every night. Dolly will be joining us here next week for Christmas, the first the three of us have had together in four years.
  If there are any doubts still lingering that I am not now as strong as a monkey's tail, a perception maintained and reinforced by persistent tabloid characterisation of me as a 'shamed DJ' or 'troubled DJ', Sonny and Dolly should be consulted first. They are the ones who are best placed to judge their daddy. Their judgement is the only one which matters to me.
  And should the day come when I can afford the treat they both deserve, I have promised I will take them to Zimbabwe to see the Victoria Falls, the most spectacular natural wonder in the world. After that, Dolly will fulfil her fantasy to go shopping in New York City. There she will buy everything that is pink on Fifth Avenue. We will then fly from New York to Houston where Sonny, especially, will be filled with the same wonder as me at the Lyndon B Johnson Space Museum with its Saturn V rocket, all 364 feet of it, laid out to greet visitors on the front lawn.