Looking back, it turns out The Buggles were wrong. It wasn't video which killed the radio star, it was a complex series of global technological, social and economic events which destroyed commercial revenue streams and ate away at the audience base. Easy mistake to make.

Sure, the appearance of MTV might have had a slight impact on listening figures, but the radio had it coming from all sides. With MP3s, iPods, modern music being a bit, well, rubbish, and the internet offering an infinity of choice, the little old wireless, with its quaint, human presenter, jingly-jangly jingles and niche shows is being ushered into history, to be survived only by the homogenised, centralised remains of commercial radio and a gaggle of metro-centric trend-followers.

All a bit bleak really, for those of us who remember the days when Radio One ruled the airwaves, and men with beards were allowed to be famous. But never fear, nostalgia fans, there is a station where you can still catch the sounds of the 60s, big bands, classical favourites and 80s pop; where you can request a song and hear your name read out on air; and where there is still a spiritual connection between presenter and listener.

There's only one small drawback: you'll have to be in hospital to hear it. Torbay Hospital Radio, which has been on air for more than 30 years, is run and staffed completely by volunteers from a studio located just off a service alley in the bowels of the main building. There is no sign outside the door, other than one advising you not to smoke, no bright lights, not even the sound of music. Indeed, informing people of their existence is an issue acknowledged by the group of enthusiasts, volunteers and stalwarts who devote so much time to running the station. Which is a shame, because their efforts deserve recognition - and they certainly suffer for their art. If this studio was a factory, a man in a brown coat would have had us outside on the grass an hour ago. The combination of stacks of computers, no air conditioning and people makes for a stifling heat.

"It sometimes gets up to 80, 85 in here. But we can't have the windows open because of the noise when the vans rumble past," says Batman Dave from behind the console during his Wednesday morning breakfast show. "We were originally in the main building, right at the bottom, next to the mortuary. There were no lights, no air conditioning."

Batman Dave (I'll come on to that bit in a moment), is one of the original presenters on the station, which set up in the 70s when radio was in its pomp. "Don't forget that all-important telephone number - 5360," Dave reminds the listeners in a very slightly different voice to the one he uses to talk to me. "It's free and comes right through to the studio." No one does ring, but the size of audience is not what concerns Dave and his fellow presenters. "There are over 600 beds in here so you never know who's listening," he says, looking up and the ceiling and out the window. "But even if only one person is listening that makes it worthwhile. "There's not as much pressure here as there would be on a commercial radio station. I used to help out at Devon Air when it was going but I never really wanted to become a presenter like that. "Doing this is something I enjoy. I get up every morning and think, 'yes I'm going to the radio'. It's a bit like a second home for me here." And, freed from the shackles of dancing to a commercial tune allows the station to play what the people want, when they want it. If they want it.

"Some Sundays are a struggle," says Dave, who co-hosts a request show for two hours at the end of the weekend. "We get people who ask if we can play a tune for them after 8.05pm so they can watch Strictly Come Dancing. "But we have to be realistic about what we're competing with. The government decided that all hospitals must provide entertainment for their patients so they brought in the bedside system. Now they've all got TVs and radios with all the stations on them. They don't need us so much." At least they should know that long after ITV has turned into a baffling, neon-lit casino, and Sky is well into infomercial repeats, the hospital radio will be playing on.

It might be a robot DJ, but surprisingly for one who has seen the industry shift and change, Dave doesn't seem to mind that. "They can take a bit of our voice, add it to some jingles and put it in between the tracks. We don't even need to be here," he says, looking at the bank of screens and buttons surrounding him. "In the olden days of tape and so on, you had to cut it with a razor, splice it together. This is much easier. You log in to two computers, push a button and you're on air. "We've still got some old kit. That thing in the corner came out of Apple Studio." That thing in the corner is a huge green reel-to-reel recording machine which looks like something out of Lost in Space. A giant cuddly gorilla and similar Garfield sit on top of it. From recording the Beatles to being stuck in the corner of a room underneath a toy ape and talking orange cat. What a strange and powerful metaphor.

Anyway, the Batman thing... "Well, every year we do the carnival in Paignton, which basically acts as a really good fundraising opportunity. One year we were told at the last minute that we were doing the outside broadcast bit for the floats as they leave the green. "I was left behind with the microphone, dressed as Batman as we were doing a super heroes theme that year. "So as I'm standing there my float disappears down the road, but I couldn't leave. When the last of the floats finally left I took off after mine. "I was running as fast as I can through the streets of Paignton dressed as Batman, it was like something out of Only Fools and Horses. And so the Batman name kind of stuck." There is a plaque on the wall with Batman Dave written on it, next to a picture of the Wurzels, who dropped into the studio in the days of black and white photography. But Zummerzet's finest are not the only stars of yesteryear to have been in.

"Jimmy Saville came in after opening the new MRI machine," says Bob, the station's treasurer, who has joined us in the furnace, along with wife Donna who is about to present her Spirit of the 60s and 70s show. "He was lovely. We couldn't believe it, we just asked him off the cuff." "In the old days all the people used to come in here," adds Dave, slightly wistfully I think. "We had Harold from Neighbours recently," says Bob. "I took him round the wards and all these little old ladies had absolutely no idea who he was. "You have to remember, the average age of our listeners is about 55. And their average stay in here is about three or four days, at least one of which sees them propped up on painkillers."

Bob came to Devon in 1986 and joined hospital radio in 87. Such long-term commitment is common at the station, but that does not mean to say new talent is not welcome. Far from it in fact. "If people want to use us as a stepping stone to a career in radio, that's fine," he says. "But we also want some commitment as well because it needs that. "I think perhaps people think we're all anoraks and nerds, but we're not." "We have a really good team of volunteers," adds Donna, in between reminding the listeners what they're listening to. "We get that every now and then and right now it's really good. We are always available for outside broadcasts. If we didn't do those we wouldn't get any money at all. "But we have to sell ourselves because a lot of our audience don't know we exist. And we do have to be a little conscious of what we play. "I put on My Way by Sinatra once and thought, 'oh no, what have I done!'. The lyrics are really quite unsuitable for a hospital." In spite of the portentous tone struck by Ol' Blue Eyes ('And now, the end is near; And so I face, the final curtain'), My Way has been moved from the banned list to the 'oh, go on then' list by popular demand. "We never used to play it," says Bob. "But we do now. And Stairway to Heaven." "One thing we wouldn't, which was a request, was the theme from MASH, Suicide is Painless," says Dave. "That's not really suitable."

Probably not. In fact, I think if I was recovering from something ghastly I would want to listen to Robert's Classical Chill Out show on a Thursday night. Robert is one of the station's older presenters, at 85, but this is not public service broadcasting. Age is seen as no barrier. "I live in a retirement home, all my neighbours are elderly, some even older than me," says Robert after introducing a track by the Three Tenors. "I haven't got a lot of competition, put it that way. "I've really enjoyed doing this. I'm getting very old, but they do put up with me. It's great to get young people involved in these things, but I don't think a lot of them stay the course." Robert's calming, quintessentially English accent coupled with this heat is entirely relaxing, sometimes even for him. "I'm almost asleep at the end," he says with a smile. "But I do look forward to a whiskey or two at the end of the night." Robert might be an unlikely DJ, having been stationed in India and Burma with the military before moving on to a successful career in industry at Imperial Tobacco, but he is something of a natural. "My wife died in 2002 and I had to look for something to do as I missed her terribly," he tells me. "So I went to the volunteer service and they sent me here, as I'd spent a lot of time on radios in the army. "People don't always want pop music, so I went round the wards to find out what they do want. You can't please everyone, but we're on air all the time if people can't sleep." And with that, he signs off. "Thank you all, and have a peaceful night," he says.

But not to me, I am in for a couple of hours of music hall and military brass bands with Alan, another of those long-term hospital radio presenters. Alan, a native of Worcester who has retained its oddly singular accent, joined the station after listening from his bed as a patient. We kick off with 'Never let your braces dangle' and go from there. "They were real entertainers in those days," he says. "There was no swearing, no racism. Not like the stuff nowadays. The listeners don't want pop music, I don't want pop music." And Alan, who drives in from Teignmouth where he and his wife used to own a hotel, should know what the patients want, he has been one of them often enough. "I've had my gall bladder, open heart surgery, a back problem, a bypass in 88," he says, reeling off a long list of operations he's had. "When I started doing the shows I used to do the breakfasts, come in here and get requests, go back and do the lunches. I just love doing it. And coming in here is the only time I get to listen to my music." I'm sure there are plenty of others, out there, enjoying it too, remembering the days when they weren't in a hospital bed. Alan ends his first hour with Max Miller's rendition of The Cheeky Chappie before moving on to the brass and military show.

It's the sort of indulgence few stations can afford their audience, and underlines the real strength of doing something for the love of it, rather than profit. Bob had told me earlier of their hopes to one day broadcast the station to a wider audience, with a restricted service licence. "We might want to get an RSL in three or four years' time," he said. "We've got some excellent presenters, who could certainly do it. But that's the future." If it is the future of radio, then there might just be life in the old dog yet.