The Count of Lanzarote

When I sit down with Rhys, I’m taken straight back to that long, hot summer of 1976, and the surreal first day at Bembridge School when only two pupils turned up to class. That odd little set‑up forced an instant friendship — a mix of mischief, loyalty, and a world where tastes form fast and memories stick. For anyone who loves coming‑of‑age stories, school nostalgia, or the way music bonds people, this conversation shows how one tiny moment can steer decades. The jokes about being “second in a class of two” land because they’re true, and they frame a bigger point about identity, belonging, and meeting the right person at the right time.

The heart of our chat is music discovery — especially the shock of late‑70s punk rock crashing into the soundtrack of parents’ records. We move from chart‑toppers to the deeper stuff that becomes yours: first singles bought with pocket money, first album obsessions, and the thrill of hearing The Jam hit number one. There’s a brilliant snapshot of British youth culture: Radio Luxembourg under the pillow, taping the Top 40, swapping chapel hymns for Sex Pistols lyrics, and that moment when one band makes you abandon the respectable path of learning instruments properly. It’s a rich dive into 1970s UK music, punk history, classic rock, and how musical taste evolves.

But the stories widen beyond the records into the life that music sits inside. Rhys’s background brushes up against famous names through chance and graft: Beatles encounters in Bembridge, fitting floors for high‑profile clients, and a day spent watching Madness record while a job ran massively over, I wonder why! That blend of hard work and proximity to pop culture feels very British, and it highlights something important: you don’t have to be a performer to live close to art. We talk Live Aid, gig memorabilia, and the way concerts become personal archives — emotional markers in a life.

A major modern turn comes with Monster Radio Lanzarote, the community station Rhys helps run — built on personality, not playlists. He talks about taking over after a friend’s illness, growing the presenting team, paying royalties, following broadcast rules, and using an app to reach listeners around the world. For anyone curious about online radio, FM community stations, or building audience engagement, there’s gold here: interactivity, requests, giveaways, and the charities that make a station part of daily island life. There’s even a nod to pirate‑radio history and the enduring romance of DJs with aliases.

The most human moment comes when the laughter gives way to grief and resilience. Rhys talks openly about the losses his family has carried, and the way his mum continues to show up with warmth and energy. That honesty reframes everything: music isn’t trivia — it’s how we cope, remember, and reconnect. By the end, the conversation turns reflective with a question every listener can steal: if you could play one song to your youngest self, what would it be — and what would you want that kid to feel? We close with festival tears, a Boomtown Rats moment, and pure Walkman wonder, tying the whole episode to one truth: the songs we keep are the stories we keep.