For some people, August means sitting in the sun, relaxing with a cool beverage while letting the cares of the world fall from their shoulders. But for a few benighted souls like myself it means sitting alone in a darkened room, frantically shuffling pieces of paper, with one eye permanently fixed on a ticking clock while trying to conduct a telephone conversation with three people I've never met, writes Hugh Linehan

August sees the annual migration of bewildered print journalists across the great media divide to radio, where they discover that, actually, this broadcasting lark isn't as easy as it's cracked up to be. Firstly, there's the technology of live radio - headphones and microphones and cue buttons and cough buttons and producers talking into your ear when you're trying to hear the answer to the question you've just asked and my God what's happened to my throat, my eyes are starting to water, I have 17 pieces of paper in front of me and one of them has the name of the person I'm interviewing in three seconds' time.

Then there's the interviewees, who refuse to recognise the fact that the function of the modern Irish radio show is to fill the space between ads for property abroad, and who finally hit their oratorical stride just when the producer on the other side of the glass wall is making throat-cutting gestures with increasing desperation.

Worst of all is the infernal text machine. In the genteel world of print, we get our fair share of abusive letters and e-mails, but they usually arrive a couple of days after we've penned the offending article. The text machine is, of course, instantaneous. And frequently incomprehensible: "I c dat yr slaggin sf, y dont u f*** off, ya west brit:"

It's an article of faith among the radio-presenting fraternity that the text machine has changed talk radio irrevocably for the better, turning it into a marvellously interactive experience for the listener. At times this is almost true, with haiku-like pearls of wisdom popping up on the screen and adding appreciably to whatever debate is going on. Frequently, though, it's like being stuck onstage in a club where the audience's mood has turned irrevocably sour. There are usually a few variations on a simple theme: "Get that idiot off the air". Sneakier and more dangerous are the ones which suggest you're "better than that idiot who's usually on". You don't want to read those out, if you hope to be invited back.

If you work for this particular newspaper, you'll inevitably find yourself being accused of pinko wishy-washiness and liberal posturing. But to balance things out there's always someone who believes you're a crypto-fascist neo-con. Worryingly, a sizeable minority think you're the same guy who's always on, and address you as such. This minority can include your regular contributors, especially the soccer pundits, who are inevitably on dodgy mobile phones at airports. And there's always someone who misses the point entirely and texts in with a request for Mariah Carey's latest for Sharon who's on the late shift in Tesco.

The radio stand-in season lasts from mid-June to early September in RTÉ, and for three weeks in August in the normal world. Go figure, licence-payers. As this writer appears courtesy of the good graces of The Irish Times, it would be pushing my luck a bit to take on a two-month gig, if such a thing were to be offered. Far better to dip one's toe into the radio waters for a few brief days, and retreat to the sanctuary of print before the summer stand-in radio critics get their teeth into you.

The only real problem is the time of year. There is no news. Now, this is not strictly true. There is always news. But, barring natural or unnatural catastrophes, it's fair to say that the news can be a bit thin and unexciting. There are three possible ways of dealing with this: one is to grasp the opportunity of covering those vital yet tedious issues for which the regular incumbent just hasn't found time in the preceding 11 months. The plight of the Inuit. That sort of thing.

Alternatively, you can ditch the hard news agenda in favour of fluffier stuff: the latest gimcrack diet craze or celebrity pratfall. This is just too depressing to contemplate and, fortunately, usually causes howls of outrage from the texters.

Finally, and most probably, you can just flail around in a panic and end up falling back on the old reliables, which are, in ascending order: "Has reality TV gone too far?", "Aren't Americans weird?" and "Get Sinn Féin and the DUP on the line".

The fact is that any radio presenter is only as good as his or her production team, who actually come up with the goods all year and have to watch in horror as this incompetent who's been foisted upon them turns their carefully-constructed programme to mush. They're the ones who have to pick up the pieces; they are the true professionals.

Me? I'm just on holidays.

Hugh Linehan presents The Last Word from 5pm - 7pm on Today FM this week