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You grew up in Canada. Do you live there now or in the United States?

I live in New Hamp­shire. Basi­cally 20 minutes south of the border. There’s two kinds of immi­grants: there’s those who super assim­ilate and there’s others who think if you ever need to head for the exit you ought to make sure you’re near it. I’m 20 minutes from Canada.

Where did you go to school in England?

I attended J.R.R. Tolkien’s old school, which is kind of refreshing. No matter how well I do, I could never hope to be more than the second-best author to emerge from that school.  I had his Greek dic­tionary. Books were passed along for gen­er­a­tions. When I was at school, it was normal. Your third-year Latin textbook would be passed down until the thing phys­i­cally dis­in­te­grated. I remember a lot of the Greek and Latin I learned. At that time, Latin was com­pulsory.

How did you get into the disc jockey gig?

I love radio, and I was very happy I could come in the tail-end of the golden age of the disc jockey, when there were still celebrity disc jockeys. I like radio, because it’s in your head- it’s dif­ferent from tele­vision. I’ve done both since I was a teenager. TV has a boring reality. When you look at a tele­vision show, it’s more ordinary than life. Radio exists in your head. I played a lot of music. Clas­sical, country, all kinds of music, some of which I like, some of which I didn’t like. A good disc jockey should be able to play any­thing.

Do you speak French?

I do. If you would have asked me a couple years ago, I would have been more sheepish, but my French is fluent and con­ver­sa­tional. I sing French. I love to sing French. My sung

French is far better than my spoken French.

Any advice for a budding jour­nalist?

In career terms, I’d say it’s really hard to make a living. That whole world in the United States is dead. All these papers, they forgot the knack. They don’t attract tal­ented people.

It has nothing to do with the Internet. It’s not the tech­nology. Their product is objec­tively boring. But people have found ways to work around it. If you want to write, and you want to write and you have some­thing to say, there will always be an eco­nomic model that will work for you.

The great advantage you have over me is when you started out, you had no access to the space. You would have to submit a piece to an editor you would always be asking the gate­keepers is if you could go through the gates and have access to the space.

There are parts of the old world that I miss. They had a nos­talgic appeal, but in the end, if you want to write, or broadcast, or make a CD you can. I’m amazed by that.

What are your obser­va­tions of the courtroom?

A courtroom trial is like sto­ry­telling. Every lawyer wants to tell the best story. Each party has a nar­rative that they want the jury to buy. No judge ever likes me in traffic court cases. I walk in and the judge thinks: “You’re a snub-nose for­eigner.” The way you beat the reg­u­latory state is that you prove it can’t follow it’s own rules. I love it, because it’s a place of combat within con­straints.

Which lawsuit was your greatest triumph?

The Canadian one was a serious one. It was a free speech thing, and I’ve taken modest pride in that that dis­graceful law had a 100 percent con­viction rate until they came up against me. That’s not a small thing. It’s time-con­suming and its expensive, but somebody had to get involved. I have deep pockets and have a certain level of promi­nence. There are far too many laws, far too many reg­u­la­tions, and every time you can push back one of them — you’re doing a good thing, as far as I’m con­cerned.