With radio drama, there should be the perfect menage a trois between the writer, the performer and the listener. Ideally, the voice shouldn't be recognised. You shouldn't be able to put a name to the voice, because it should be only the character that matters. No costumes, no need to worry about the demographics of casting a man who isn't slap down gorgeous - or, heaven forbid - an actress who isn't absolutely beautiful from the moment she wakes up to the moment she finally goes to sleep - and probably every second in between. Not even a double page spread about what he or she keeps in his or her fridge in 'Okay' magazine. You walk by them in the street, sit next to them on the train. Because they really are such things as dreams are made of. Gerard Murphy's voice was one which was impossible to ignore. It wasn't something that played in the background as you did something else. His voice was the voice of Marat. Or the voice of whomsoever he chose to be. And now we don't have him any more. Which makes me sad.

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