On Sunday morning, my stereo alarm kicked in and a Radio 2 show came coughing out of the speakers. Yes, I set my alarm to Radio 2. It's an age thing – I’m older than time itself - and if I had any credibility at all, I wouldn't dare admit this, but what the heck, it’s worth it. 

The show that woke me up is called Steve Wright's Sunday Love Songs, in case you haven't heard it. It's a God-awful show I can't believe anybody would ever want to request a record for, but then, I've never understood dedications of any kind.  

When I was 11, I did phone up the local radio station and asked for the DJ to say hello to "anyone who knows me", which tells you exactly how many friends I had as a kid, but that's my first and last experience of such sad antics. I warn you now - if, for my 50th birthday, one of my deviant associates dares put an old picture of me, a gappy toothed, bowl-haired 10-year-old, in the local paper, I'll spend the rest of my birthdays behind bars in one of Her Majesty's special hotels.

Any way, let's get back to Steve Wright's Sunday Love Songs. The format of the show is this: somebody phones in and leaves their dedication and request. Steve, whose voice is still heavy with the slightly confused air of a man trying to work out how to complete an online tax return - then reads the dedication and plays the record. It's a simple format for a simple audience. After listening to the whole show, I have come to the conclusion that we Brits are a race of emotional retards.  Harsh? Yes. Fair? Yes. Why? Read on.

This Is Not A Love Song

Some listeners have interesting ideas about what constitutes a love song. On Sunday, Steve read out a dedication from a man called Barry. Barry had been with Elaine for a few years but they'd broken up. After a few years, they were back together, they had a child, the roses were blooming in their garden, the sun was shining over their house and bunnies and sheep were gambolling through nearby fields, you get the idea. And the song Barry chose to mark this momentous reunion? 'Every Breath You Take' by The Police.

Not only is this a lesson in why bass players should not write songs - and has a video where Sting appears to be doing to his double-bass what my dad's dog used to do to my aunt's leg - it is not a love song. It's a stalker song, for God's sake! It has all the romance of a good savaging from a pit bull. Check out the lyrics if you don't believe me. Woman dumps man. Man watches her. A lot. There's Elaine, trying to get on with her life, and all the while Barry's sitting outside her house in his rusting Ford Capri, listening to the rain drum on the car roof and occasionally pleasuring himself over the photos he took while she was asleep. And now they're back together? Run, Elaine, run! And don't leave a forwarding address.

Do also consider Foreigner's abysmal chunder anthem 'I Want To Know What Love Is' - clue, guys, it's not something that can be discovered by an early 80s American hair band. And this song scrapes the barrel of romance until it makes the awful noise of cheap chalk on a bad blackboard. "In my life there's been heartache and pain - I'm not sure I can face it again." What are you saying here, Romeo? The minute something goes wrong, it's thanks very much and have a nice life?  Any way, ladies, when a man dedicates this song to you - and you wondered why every time you said you were getting up he asked you to wait five minutes - he doesn't want to know what Love is. He wants to be reminded what Sex is.  Right now. There’s a big difference, though if you've been with your partner for more than five years, it probably amounts to the same thing. In this instance, Steve dedicated this to Linda, who's been with Simon for nine happy years. Excuse me, but you've been together for nine years and you still want to know what love is? Hey, Simon! Welcome to Dumpsville!

Desperation Row

Belinda from Mattishall called in.Over to Steve: "Tell Gary it's fine, and one day at a time is fine with me too." This was sad in itself, what with the hint of desperation it implied, but this was nothing compared to what followed. David from Bournemouth: "Tell Susan I'm sorry and we can still make everything work. I love her more than anything and it'll never happen again." The record he chose?  'Careless Whisper'. But of course. Seems to this listener that if old David's lips had only been whispering, there'd have been no problem. Except I get the feeling "whisper" is a euphemism for "infidelity" - and David was probably whispering into the ear of a half-cut old slapper he picked up in Brannigans and took home for a good servicing. That's your problem right there, son, and shame on you. Reasonable choice of song, I guess - "guilty feet ain't got no rhythm" is hardly Shakespeare, but it's still a pretty good line. Especially when compared to, say, "don't leave me hanging round like a yo-yo." It's one of those guilt songs which works. Unlike Gareth Gates's 'Stupid Mistake'. Yes, Gareth, you were. Now bog off.

Any way, forgive me, David, for sticking my nose in - though, as you've decided to share this little mistake with the rest of the British Isles I feel I have the right - the only person you need to apologise to is Susan herself. Getting someone with a microphone who doesn't know you to say 'sorry' for you to a whole nation of people who have no idea who you are, who Susan is, or what you did, is not going to help matters. What's wrong with these people?

Would You Please Just Get A Room?

Yvonne from Devon: "Hector and I have been together for 58 years. We've got six kids and 31 grandkids and I still love him as much as I did when we first met."  Actually, that's quite sweet. Fifty-eight years with the same person. Anyone who's ever been speed-dating knows how long three minutes can be when it's with the wrong person, so fair play to them. 

No, my irritation here is reserved for those who want to slobber all over each other, and decide to use Steve Wright as the saliva - you know the sort. The couples who have actually become the same person. They choose songs like 'Just The Way You Are' - a classic control freak song. "Don't go changing" - yeah, or else. Or 'Your Song'. No I don't mind if you put down in words how wonderful life is, etc.  Write it down, that's fine. Now, if you're going to get some cross-dressing egghead to sing about it and then request it be played on national radio to ruin my Sunday morning, I'm going to mind that a lot. Just so you know. These couples make me want to break things.

Kevin from Aldershot: "Tell my lovely wife, Theresa, she's made me the happiest man alive and I can't imagine my life without her any longer."

Rachel from Bridlington: "Dwayne has made my life so lovely and happy I can't breathe without him."

Henry from Gateshead: "Steve, please tell Barbara I love her more than anything in the entire world." 

Oh really, Henry? Go on, then. Let's see you choose. Barbara or Food! Barbara or Water! Barbara or Oxygen! Prove your love! Prove it! Damn you, prove - oh. He's dead.

Don't Shoot The Messenger

None of this should be taken as criticism of Steve Wright, who is as close to the epithet "ultimate professional" as it's possible to get. Sure, he was better 15 years ago on Radio 1, but life was better 15 years ago, Radio 1 or not - all we cared about were A levels, The Stone Roses, and trying to finger your mate's girlfriend's mate behind the bus shelter after a bottle or two of Merrydown cider and a puff or two on an oregano cigarette. No mortgages, house prices, promotions, career plans, weddings, baby names, or worrying whether ordering the £12.95 bottle of house white on a first date makes you look like a tightwad. 

No, throughout the years, first on Radio 1, then ILR (after he was the sacrificial lamb in the cull which saw DLT and the rest of the cheeseballs off to the salt mines of local radio), and now resurrected on Radio 2, he's always been value for money. I interviewed him once, in the course of making a documentary film at Leicester University, and he was brilliant. Even gave us some cutaway soundbites to throw in. And we did, like delicious croutons into a bowl of turd soup; his contribution dragged our film up to the heights of 'pretty awful' and a 2:2 none of us really deserved.