'THREE HITS AND A MISS'

After the excitement of Blackpool it was back to the smoke and the everyday, although I am lucky in many ways as I have outlined here before. Despite the hours it is a great job to have. I get to fool around with you. (Metaphorically speaking ; we are not talking naked wrestling in front of the fireplace a la "Women in Love") as well as play and experience one of my passions - namely music - recorded and live.

So as I sit here in my pants typing this I can look back on seven days of terrific tunes.

Hmm, just checking that sentence I think I need to amend it in case the carefully contrived and honed image of a sophisticated national broadcaster at the top of his game is somehow tarnished. Try again.

As I lie here on my Faberge daybed, a Pekingese at my feet in my silk cosijamas dictating to one of my team of spectacularly beautiful nude secretaries whilst being fanned by eunuchs.

If you think this is extravagant - you should see how Chris Evans does his blog. His is written in Panda blood by specially trained Lipizzaner horses.

Still, back to the matter in hand. Tuesday evening was a bit of a rush to get everything in as I had been invited to celebrate the 30th anniversary of the band "Nine Below Zero". I remember interviewing them back in 1982 and had never ever had the chance to see them. Strangely unlike me they didn't look quite as I remembered them back then but they were great and I have already played a track from their new album as part of "Lester's Library". It was good to see that they sported a range of goatees, soul patches and Paul Carrack hats. This combination enables middle aged men to look cool and tough at the same time.

I had taken Pina the Filipina who had been suffering from a cold all week so needed a bit of a pick me up. So before we hit the basement bar where they were playing we went for fish and chips. Not sure if this is a far eastern cure all but it seemed to do the trick and she soon perked up. At the venue the record company had laid on...fish and chips! Well, not wishing to appear churlish I waded in.

The band wrapped up about 8pm so it was a 20 minute tube ride out to Hammersmith to see the London debut of Country superstar Toby Keith. He is massive in the U.S and I had first picked up on him when I drove cross-country for American Adventure 1 back in 2007.

He is perhaps best known over here for a fall out with the Dixie Chicks over their apology for having George Bush as president . He also had massive popular support for his post 9/11 song ‘Courtesy of the Red White and Blue (The Angry American)’, which the Dixie chicks described as ‘making country music sound ignorant’.

However he does have a sense of humour and one of my favourites is a song about reaching middle age: "I ain't as good as I once was, but I'm as good once as I ever was".

As with the visit from Martina McBride back in August there was a "meet and greet" beforehand. We were ushered into a side room, about 20 of us, and told what to do by a colossal roadie: "Do not ask him to sign autographs. You will each receive a signed picture as you leave. You will have your picture taken with him and they will be posted on his website within a few minutes". Some of the women in the queue and a couple of the men were giddy with excitement and I thought they were going to faint.

I know this is "added value" for the fans but the way it is done is so slick and soulless it is somehow slightly counterproductive.

Tension mounted in the small room when suddenly the door opened and the room suddenly got considerably smaller as all 6ft 4 of him stomped in, the trademark stetson in situ with a bandanna underneath. We duly lined up for small talk and a photo. I babbled my usual "country is becoming more popular in the UK these days" chat which given his size was more tiny than small talk. It’s all a question of scale. He put his arm round me and squeezed affectionately.

I looked like his lunch.
As Pina and me had managed to bag the last two tickets in the house she was beyond excitement "OMG OMG OMG I am on the front row. I'm on the front row." She was....on the balcony! I took my seat in row G of the stalls and Tobe (he put his arm round me - we are friends) hit the stage. He is a self confessed redneck and he was going to rock up a storm. The SRO audience went wild. They knew all the words. They were old they were young they were middle aged. They loved him and he loved them (and me) right back.

As I left to try and find the damp remains of Pina who had always dismissed this sort of music as "Country Muppets" preferring dance and rap but was now converted someone stopped me to say hello. They left a comment on last week’s blog. Sorry if I appeared distracted, I was trying to find my friend and had to get off back home to try and grab a couple of hours’ sleep before the show. This is the only way I can function. If I stay up all night then go to do the show I will fall asleep halfway through. Also I can't "hit the bar" as any booze after about 8pm is going to have an impact on the "shoe". Who wants to hear someone babbling nonsense and slurring first thing in the morning? I can do that sober!

Friday night and Nell Bryden was playing a small club in London and as I had never managed to catch her act before it seemed a good time to make that aquaintance.

Libido boy was keen to catch her show too. He had been a film extra for the previous three days: A remake of "Brighton Rock" with Helen Mirren and John Hurt. His back view is going to feature heavily in an hotel scene he assures me. The downside he explained was his hair had to be cut in period style. He said for me to look out for a "60's bank manager". He looked fine to me. He could have benefited from one of the Nine Below Zero hats I mentioned earlier but he still looked pretty cool.

Nell was great and had the audience eating out of the palm of her hand. She not only looks and sounds fabulous she is very funny with it. Singer Jon Allen was in the audience as well - I think they are talking about working together which should be interesting. Nell had to finish at about 10.15 after a couple of encores due to the live music curfew, yet the club stayed open several more hours. Upshot of this was a lot of drinking and talking with various friends who were down. Jon Allen (or someone who looked remarkably like him) would reappear every so often, give me a big hug and disappear again.

Eventually it is was just Libido boy and me and the place was closing. So it was off to Soho and Chinatown for something to eat. 3am came and onto our second pot of tea and Libido boy trailed off in mid sentence as with an audible clang his eyes slammed shut and he fell asleep.

Outside it was raining and despite the hour there were still hundred of people milling about. Somehow we managed to grab a cab back to the flat and bed.

Saturday night it was time to catch up on some rock dinosaurs I had missed when I was 14. Deep Purple were in town. So I headed back to Hammersmith once more. As I have outlined in these blogs before short people and crowds don't get on. In this case my standing room ticket was slightly worse than useless due to the press of big leather clad blokes I was unable to even force my way into the auditorium. The doors to the stalls are narrow and aisles at the back of the theatre narrow to two pillars. I was unable to force myself past the pillars so was stuck at the back by the doors being jostled by fat blokes.

After two numbers from the support act my enthusiasm dissipated and I began to think "life is just too short for this". So I went to the pub instead!

THE MAGNERDFICENT SEVEN!

It is that time of the year again and the trusty Broadcastketeers set out on another ultimately futile attempt to meet and engage with Radio and TV types around the country.

If you are new to the concept; "Nerd Nights" involve travelling to parts of the UK and eating and drinking too much with like minded people in our industry.

What actually happens is overtures are made often through an intermediary. There is a clamour as lots of people express interest and pledge support. A restaurant and hotels are booked and then on the day no one turns up but the original seven.

You may notice from the following photograph there are six. From left to right you have :

Simon Hirst, a top mate and genius DJ from Galaxy in Yorkshire.

John Foster, Breakfast host on BBC Tees in Middlesbrough. He was the subject of the wedding blog a few weeks back. Fresh from his honeymoon with the luscious Anna. He looked slightly worn and she was nowhere to be seen. She had invented relatives to visit we think. Or more probably was at home playing with that saucy wheelbarrow I gave them.

Matthew Rudd, top radio talent heard on many stations throughout the north.

Martin Emery - Breakfast jock for Tower FM (how many times do I have to tell you Alex it is based in Bolton NOT Blackpool)

My Godson Michael Hurley of whom I am immensely proud as he left University last summer and already has a thriving business providing sound services to theatre as well as making his way in broadcasting.

Last but certainly by no means least the legendary Charles Nove. Broadcaster. Deputy "Voice of the Balls" and host of the original (and still the best) "Come Dancing" . He came dressed appropriately as he had spent 12 years here out of season with "Prancing" as they used to call it apparently. The one glaring omission was me. As you have already correctly guessed I was the one taking the picture.





The excuses for non arrival are manifold and - call me cynical - frankly suspect.
From now on, we play hardball. A death certificate is not a sufficient excuse. We want to see a corpse!

I know how Captain Cook and Dr Livingstone must have felt. Or maybe a trader or two trying the Silk Route. So far none of the Magnerdficent Seven have disappeared only for someone to find their head on a pole outside "108 The Plate. Tasty Tunes 24/7 Sydenham’s favourite local".

Still it could have been worse, one of our emissaries may have vanished altogether and then decades after whilst watching 75 year old Fiona Bruce (no ageism here) unwrapping mummified remains "its been in our family years....we would never part with it....HOW MUCH DID YOU SAY IT WAS WORTH???" On the Antiques Roadshow.

One of us in the "Alan Freeman" wing of the DJ's retirement community staring rheumily at the flickering screen will remark: "You know that looks a bit like the Ruddster. Didn't he vanish trying to make contact with that community station in Arbroath back on 2010?"


We arranged to meet in Blackpool. I have never been. So was wanting to experience this jewel of the English North West.





We had decided to stay at the Travelodge by the North Pier which boasted Freddie Starr. Wonder if he is still doing that hilarious Hitler in wellingtons routine?

The first obstacle was car parking. I had spent three hours on the motorway in pouring rain and traffic jams so frankly was looking forward to some beer.

The car park like many town and city centre parks demanded a massive amount of cash for a 24 hour stay. 24 hours, horology fans, is actually any time over 12 hours. For this the machine demanded £13. A tidy sum. Also it demanded it in an untidy metal form: £1 coins, 50p or 20p.

Not sure about you but I don't usually carry that amount in coinage in case my trousers fall down with the weight. However for that money the facilities were pretty good. It boasted a lift, CCTV and a "Welcome office". (closed. Not sure if it meant we were unwelcome out of office hours.) Best of all and a note here to other municipalities. It didn't reek of piss! How do they do that? Well done Blackpool.

The Travelodge boasted in place of a mat a welcome puddle outside its front door which I gingerly stepped around and went to the reception which was on the first floor.

The other guys had already hit the bar and were discussing some rather disturbing noises emanating from one of their adjacent rooms. It apparently sounded like a woman gasping and a buzzing sound! My guess was it was probably one of Victor Kayams associates trying out a new razor. "I liked it so much I bought the company".

Although other more experienced (married) members of the group thought it may have been some "Dame Barbara Cartland" activity. To whit: "She gave a little cry...but not of fear".

A quick drink in the pub opposite (plastic glasses, I do so hate that) and then it was to the restaurant recommended by someone who didn't show. It was excellent and with the food followed the endless stories which make these events such fun. I had the steak with a "Jenga" of chips.





There is a huge amount of satisfaction to be gained when as described by Matthew "A grizzled veteran" such as myself. (Is it just me or does that term conjure up a picture of Walter Brennan to you?) can tell a tale and people laugh so hard that food comes down their nose.

It went so well that the waiting staff moved closer and closer and didn't want us to leave. However in the end we bade them goodnight and headed for a pub that had been recommended.

"Just next to the knocking shop", it was a curious place with no draught beer and had been done out inside to look like a village. In fact it was so shabby it more accurately resembled a plague village. As you would imagine if everyone is dead, not a lot gets painted.

It shut horribly early at about 1am so it was back to the hotel via a deafening club with sticky floors and the bar.

This is where I wonder if it is just me or them?

As we sat chatting one by one my compadres decided they had enough and it was bed time. "I was up at 4.30am. I was up at 6.00am" What is the matter with these people? I was up at 01.30 so had been up apart from a 2hr snooze for about 24 hours.

I defer to no one in my admiration for the British armed forces. However if my mates had been required to defend the nation we would be in a different place now I can assure you.

"I have been assured by the German Chancellor Herr Hitler that he won't invade after midnight on a Friday into Saturday as he knows we will be too tired after a hard week playing gramophone records on the wireless" Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, 1939.





I was first up at 8.30 and sprang out of bed ready for the full English. I never understand why I do that full English thing as an hour or so later it feels like I have eaten a boulder.

Michael and I went for a walk to the pier and revelled in the attractions and the "hook a duck" stalls. The prizes are always fabulous. "Dahling as a token of my wuv for you I have got you a four foot stuffed dragon". Blackpool boasts many fortune tellers and palmists. They all seem to be part of the same family and there is a theme that runs through all of them :

Photos of the Clairvoyant with "celebs"- and they had to be very old pictures. One person boasted a spectacular collection of stars of yesteryear which must be very disturbing for Sir Cliff Richard as he was the only one featured who was actually still alive.





Michael also pointed out the illuminations. This year they appear to be sponsored by a camera company with for some odd reason a picture of Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen above a road junction.

"If you speed this is what can happen. Your wrists grow frills and your face sets in a permanent oily grin. Slow down or stay smug! "

Mike had experienced some confusion when he arrived the previous evening as the fake cameras kept flashing and there were so many brightly lit bulbs that the poor bloke wasn't sure where the illuminations ended and the traffic lights began.

He also got increasingly paranoid as he drove up the seafront well within the speed limit, yet seemed to be being flashed every couple of yards.

Perhaps Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen was there as a road sign. Which would make things simpler perhaps.

"Turn left at Linda Barker, carry on until you see..........NO YOU IDIOT, I SAID TURN RIGHT AT RUSSELL GRANT NOT RUSSELL BRAND!!"

By the time Michael had headed off, Charles and Hirsty had finished breakfast and so we had another saunter along the front and visited a novelty rock shop where we all bought a few items.

It was closing for the winter and I asked the woman who ran it if the products had a sell by date. The answer apparently is no.

When I related this on the show this week you told me that the way to tell if it was out of date was by looking at the little picture label. If it showed Ted Ray or the Crazy Gang, it was probably past its best.

Blackpool was tawdry, wet, windblown and fab. I am already thinking of excuses to return.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

I have been shamelessly using you. I am sorry but you have made a rod for your own back. This is the second time and expect it to happen again. If you are feeling slightly dirty and used take a small crumb of comfort from this: If you weren't so good at it you would not be exploited in this way. However I give my word that I will respect you in the morning.

After the success of your suggestion of a wheelbarrow for Anna and John's wedding a few weeks back, the prospect of my Dad's 83rd birthday came up for discussion on the show and with it what do you give a man who has for the last few years been decluttering his house. "Ornaments? Pah- more to dust". We were beginning to wonder if eventually he would be sitting on an orange box in the lounge eating off a wooden platter with a spoon made from horn.

To begin with you suggested the typical things that you would associate with a person of mature years. A stairlift. A new hip. Teeth. Slippers. However bearing in mind this man walks at least ten miles at the weekends with usually a country walk of a similar duration during the week, luckily you were a bit premature with those gifts.

I remember when I was 40 I received a lot of those "from now on never pass a toilet, never waste an erection and never trust a fart" type cards. When I hit 50 the onslaught redoubled. "From now on it’s impotence and early onset Alzheimers" which frankly don't tend to lift the mood. Although in truth none of the milestone birthdays have bothered me unduly as like my Father I don't feel anything remotely like my age.

So it seemed at first glance according to you the obvious gift for his 83rd was a casket.

As we were meeting in a restaurant in Birmingham City centre on a busy lunchtime and it was upstairs, it seemed it would be a bit of a stretch to get the box off the train and across the street into the building. It would also probably upset some of the other elderly diners.

We chose the place as it specialised in good old fashioned solidly British food. So it was steak and kidney or chicken and mushroom pie with 3 veg and treacle tart and custard for afters. Then frothy coffee. Just that coffee. Not a mocha not a latte not a cappuccino. Frothy coffee served by a waitress, not a "Barrista".

Then after further gift suggestions in a similar vein we hit paydirt when I mentioned that as the clocks had gone back he struggles with resetting the clock in his car because often the press of a wrong button and the readout reverts to Turkish, making it a little hard to get it back to GMT.

You suggested a Turkish/English dictionary. This seemed a genius idea until it was trumped due to its extreme silliness by a mask and snorkel.

Whilst he reckoned he has not been swimming since about 1985, my Father thanks you.


A correction has to be made here as I have in the past referred to one of my friends Jacqui who is half Fillipino as "Pino" in previous blogs when we have been out. Eugene who regularly listens to the show and divides his time between the South seas and New Zealand pointed out with the world weary air of someone who knows that she should be "Pina" as that a Fillipino is a bloke and a Fillipina is a girl.

Anyways Pina and I linked up to go to see hair metal gods Bon Jovi in a special Radio 2 gig at the Radio Theatre in Broadcasting house in London. Earlier in the day I had been out with Liz Kershaw for lunch and a combination of her having a dental appointment and the train being late meant that we didn't start to try out her newly improved teeth until nearly 2pm. Like a fool I had pasta which spawned a "dangerfood" thread later in the week as for some reason I am unable to eat many types of food without seemingly bathing in it. My shirt had telltale spots of sauce on by the time I had finished. Liz on the other hand - and it may be a women thing - was pristine. I once saw Delia do an entire cookery programme in a white pullover and she never got a mark on her. I think she must be a witch.

The upshot of the late start for lunch meant that by the time Pina arrived for the gig. "Are we going to eat? Eating is a hobby of mine" I had not really digested much of the lunch. So we crossed southern Europe from Italy to Spain for some tapas. Not substantial but frankly enough and rich enough to ensure the roar of the crowd at the gig was matched by the internal roaring. Scientists....cold fusion is possible - check out my lower intestine.

The Radio Theatre is a small intimate venue if you have ever visited or watched any of the concerts via the red button or on the Radio 2 website. So it was fascinating to see a group of stadium rockers life size. The audience featured a large percentage of women and it would appear at 47 Jon Bon Jovi has lost none of his appeal judging by the screams. I did wonder how successful the band would have been if he had been ugly.

They started strongly and did an acoustic version of "You Give Love a Bad Name" and there was as you would expect with a showcase like this a fair number of songs from the new album ‘The Circle’, which I didn't really recognise. However one thing was obvious- they were having a good time so played way over time and rewarded us with three encores.

Out into the night air and we realised that the Christmas lights had been switched on in Regent and Oxford Street and the new Japanese style crossing had been unveiled to help ease pedestrian congestion at Oxford Circus.

It was a chilly evening but I was sweating. I went home and didn't have any more to eat. Had I tried to bridge the gap between Italy and Spain with something from the French culinary lexicon, I fear I may have spontaneously combusted.

'SING AS WE GO'

Been a bit quiet on the live music front so it was with some delight that a pair of tickets came up for Michael Buble at the Radio Theatre in Broadcasting House, London, last week.

I pride myself on being open minded and, although not a huge fan, I thought it might be a good wheeze to pop along and have a look. It’s ideal for me as the venue is only a ten minute cab ride back and I can walk there from the rented flat. It started at 8pm and was all done an hour later which meant I was in bed by 9.15, giving me about 4 hours sleep before it was time to head to the studio for the ‘Best time of the day Show’.

Susan the finance, (don't hate her she's not a banker), came with me. She has broad tastes and recently has seen Gilbert O'Sullivan, ZZ Top, Fleetwood Mac and Bob Dylan, as well as some classical stuff. I still think Libido Boy and I can claim the most eclectic turnaround, one night seeing blues guitar hero Walter Trout and the next rap/dance artist Roots Manuva. However we did feel a little ancient sitting in the concert hall with our earplugs in, as the rest of the audience hopped up and down on the spot, with the crutch of their very baggy trousers dragging along the floor and their designer underpants on show above the waistband.

We had time for a bite to eat beforehand and found a small Italian restaurant not far from the BBC. Susan being assertive rejected the proffered table and pointed to one which was in a corner where we were less likely to get knocked by passers by. There is something comforting about sitting with your back to a wall. However the only downside of this was that we were next to a huge oil filled electric radiator. I switched it off at the mains but it didn't cool down much whilst we ate.

Michael Buble had his big band with him and was a consummate showman who was very entertaining and he engaged with the audience. I like a bit of banter between the floor and the artist. I’ve been to many gigs where the performer often appears to be doing you a favour by playing for you. Or in the case of Lucinda Williams (See earlier blogs), actually stopped and berated us.

He has a terrific voice which lends itself to standards. This is where the problem lies. I have railed against musical snobbery in the past on this blog and on my programme. "Purists" who only reference the acknowledged greats such as Sinatra, Bennett, Torme et al. tend to be rather dismissive of Michael Buble as a third rate copyist.

This was evidenced by the fact I received a roasting from a listener via email when I played his version of ‘Cry Me A River’on the show later that week as it was on the Radio 2 playlist.

Oddly though, the dissident voice pointed me in the direction of the Mari Wilson version. So I politely pointed out in my reply that this view was ‘cobblers’. Michael has won a Grammy and sold 20 million records so someone must like him. Also if I was going to get all sneery about his version of ‘Cry Me A River’ I would not hold up the Mari Wilson version as being the benchmark. That should go to Julie London. I know, I know it is the short man syndrome in me again.

On the way back something unusual happened. This has never ever happened to me before and probably never will again. I hailed a black cab. There are a lot of gags about London cab drivers never going south of the river, taking you the long way round, being spectacularly right wing and droning about immigration and paedophiles. However the 21st century is in evidence, so it is time to rethink that stereotype.

Since I’ve been back in London I have taken a lot of cabs back from gigs as it is the quickest way to get to bed before the show and often the Underground has stopped, so it is pretty much the only way without waiting ages for a Nightbus. On occasion I’ve hailed a cab and it has been driven by members of ethnic minorities, and on a couple of trips I’ve been driven home by women. So taxis are not the sole preserve of the reactionary white geezer.

We pulled up outside the block and the driver realised he’d forgotten to start the meter. "Aye aye" I thought, "what's this scam?" "Call it a fiver", he said, which frankly was cheaper than it would have been normally. I handed him a tenner. He looked at it for a moment and then said...."Nah forget it. Have it on me!" He drove away leaving me open mouthed. Doesn’t he know there’s a recession on?

'DARKNESS'

After all the excitement of the last weekend, I suppose I should have expected it all to come crashing down…..can’t maintain that level of fun all the time! I suppose we need the dull bits to show us how good the good bits are. Why else would God have invented hangovers or diets? We have to take the rough with the smooth I suppose.

Although it was a fairly featureless week, as usual the show was fun with lots of input from you, including the tale of the man who had his leg stolen on the London Underground as he dozed. It did set us wondering, (In the best possible taste natch). It would appear that the limb was false so there isn’t a gang of crazed transplant terrorists, haunting public transport, ripping organs from dozing travellers.

However, it does sound the sort of thing that could be made into a Hollywood blockbuster. Set in the grim future when the world has run out of oil. Population growth is out of control and there is not enough food to go around. Hang on, I think that was on the news this week, so life could be imitating art. We just need a big action hero movie star to be in politics and we......Aaeeiiiiii run for the hills: we are doomed!


However the week was not entirely without event in that if you have been following the show you will know, that along with a couple of friends, I have been trying to work my way through every whiskey on sale in a certain pub in central London. I’m not really a big fan however, one per visit, and I could get used to it, and maybe even find one I really liked. The original plan was to sample one per week and be all done by Christmas. Erm about nine weeks to go and we have managed three. This place boasts 74!

I think we may be looking at next Christmas for possible completion. We have asked the landlady not to mix the bottles up. My fear is that we will lose our place and have to go back to the beginning.

Weekend was a bit of a wasteland with not a lot happening, but it did mean I was able to do a little CD filing, and catch up on some of the TV I had recorded. Maybe it’s a boy thing or just men of a certain age, but I love documentaries that involve old black and white footage, particularly those wonderful Ministry of Information films. So I am watching a series of those at the moment. That and a new US show called ‘Eastbound and Down’, about a former baseball star down on his luck. His best years behind him but his ego is still horribly intact. I know a few people like that.

RING DEM BELLS

So it was the time they had been waiting for, with much trepidation, anxiety, organisation and doubtless expenditure. I was going to see the deed done have a good time and hopefully catch the bouquet.


Decided to split the journey so train from London and then from Birmingham to Darlington by car. As I’ve noted in a previous blog, there is the danger of falling asleep on the train and leaving stuff behind. This time I was extra vigilant for my little bag contained my washing kit, sundry underclothes, the wedding shirt and the invite. Plus a pair of sunglasses and an emergency smoothie!

Arrived at Birmingham Snow Hill station, collected my belongings and....er hang on no, I didn't collect my belongings. By the time I realised, the train had chuffed off back down in the general direction of London. A quick consultation with a staff member, a speedy phone call and SAVED-ISH! They would keep my bag at Lost Property in London for me to claim during the week.

Plan B; I had odds and ends lying around in the Midlands so with my belongings in a stylish carrier bag, I lit out for the North East. On the show I’d been asking for ideas as to what to give the happy couple. I wanted to go "off list". It had to be romantic: You suggested a wheelbarrow. Ever the fixer, a phone call had been made to YARM DIY the previous week, and “yes” they did wheelbarrows and could deliver. I had to go to the shop to pay however.

Result! A choice of two fine builders barrows in a shed outside. They even let me use their loo as it had been a 160 mile journey with no stops and a traffic jam near Derby.
Then I checked into the hotel where the reception was being held.

This is where the crazy rock 'n' roll part kicked in:

"There'll be a wheelbarrow arriving shortly, send it up to my room please"

Receptionist:- "?"

"It’s nothing kinky" I said, by way of unhelpful explanation.

As it happened the shop had forgotten their van was somewhere else so it had to be sorted the following morning.

A nice evening in the bar with some of the other wedding guests and the nonchalant, and quietly terrified, groom. The parents and the blushing bride turned up as well.
A wheelbarrow was mentioned but I don't think they believed I would go through with it. Also looking at their faces they had something up their sleeve.

The morning dawned misty, but it soon cleared, and I wedged myself and the reserve shirt a sort of nasty nylon sub-Simon Cowell V neck into the "Sunday go to meeting" suit.


To the tiny church which was jam packed with well-wishers and a jolly female vicar. When it got to that bit where she asks: “Does anyone know of any reason why these two people should not be joined in holy matrimony?" someone in the audience had a prolonged coughing fit. I swear the colour drained from the grooms face.

When the bride’s father was asked who was giving her away, he sprang to his feet like a man being fired from a cannon and barked very enthusiastically: "I WILL"
We exited the church to the bells being rung by one guy who was obviously a one man band during the week, as he managed to negotiate 3 different ropes using his hands and one foot.

Back to the hotel for a slap up feed and the speeches. That is when the happy couple exacted their terrible revenge....


Pride of place under a very intricate table setting was the above, which was taken in 1983 when I worked at a radio station nearby. This is when, as a child, the groom got interested in the radio and met me at the age of 14 in a Middlesbrough department store, having badgered his long suffering parents to take him.

To me the flowers make it look like a picture of some Eastern European dictator whose picture has to be displayed everywhere on pain of torture, and possibly death by, a fiercely loyal and loving populous. Another guest; an impossibly attractive woman in a tiny dress who appeared far too young for me told me that the bride said I looked like Bob Carolgees! Hmm if she remembered Bob Carolgees perhaps she wasn't too young for me after all! I tiptoed to the top table and spat at the bride. (It was a puppet mime hygiene fans).


Then it was bar, nerd talk with other DJ's and the odd outburst of ‘Dad Dancing. Also, as with these events, it’s the law that there has to be a child dancing with his or her mother. The child has to have its feet on top of the mothers who is walking them both round the dance floor. It was a terrific day and everyone had an excellent time. It’s also the first time I have been to a wedding that boasted two best men one of whom was a woman. Also by the time the vows had been taken the bride had the same name as the bestman/woman. Confused? I will explain at the end with a handy equation.


I will treasure the memory and particularly the expression on the hotel staffs' faces, as I requested a damp cloth to wipe my wheelbarrow down. Also, one of the guests who passed me on the stairs as I was wheeling my barrow, who just said, "I won't ask".

The gift was a huge success as it also managed to fit all the other gifts in, making it easier to transport them after the reception. So thank you for your suggestion. I think hotels have been missing a trick all these years.

We now take heated trouser presses. TV's, tea and coffee making facilities, minibars, irons and hairdryers for granted. To steal a march on their competitors hotels they should boast:

"Wheelbarrow in every room"
.
So how did the groom end up with the bride and the best man/woman without being arrested for bigamy?

John Foster of BBC Tees marries Anna Lee of BBC Five Live

Best man/woman is Anna Foster of Metro FM

Anna Lee becomes Anna Foster and Anna Foster remains Anna Foster

Simple!

Sadly though, I never even saw the bouquet.

SOME ENCHANTED EEEOOOOOWWWW!!

Suddenly it was the weekend again and it was time for some more music.

Not seen him for a few weeks so Libido boy blew into town for the Eleanor McEvoy gig at the Irish Cultural Centre in Hammersmith, London.

We were both very excited because we are big fans of her work. Also I got a hug last time and Libido Boy only managed a peck on the cheek!

Autumn is now upon us which is a shame in many ways as another very brief year draws to a close and the evenings get darker. Which for us night workers is not too jolly a prospect, waking and working in the gloom.

There is another slight problem which I had not addressed. More on that later.

He made it several hours before the concert so as usual we went for a walk, passing as we did a restaurant with possibly a name they will come to regret given the association with death and destruction.

"I'd like to start with the carnage. For the main course, massive destruction and disease and for pudding I think I will go for the mud slide" - thank you.

We headed off for Greenwich where the smouldering remains of the Cutty Sark lie surrounded by boarding. Hopefully it will be restored to its former glory soon. We used the foot tunnel under the Thames and enjoyed the spectacle of some skaters whizzing past us.

There was also a flea market. It had little to interest me plus I find it very tricky to buy stuff and lug it around all day in case I forget it. Once I walked about 8 miles in an afternoon with a boiled crab in a carrier bag, terrified in case I left it anywhere and it was quite heavy too!

Libido Boy homed in on a stall which was selling knives as he wanted a new pen knife, the last one having been confiscated as he tried to board the London Eye a couple of years back.

He then turned his attention to a toy gun!

"Erm, you are going to find that a little bit of a handicap if we are stopped and searched by the cops".

"Just going into the Irish Centre with a knife and gun officer, nay bother!"

It took a while but reason prevailed in the end.

We wandered around so more then in the gathering gloom headed for the Docklands Light Railway and the Underground to the venue.

Unbeknown to me in the dark I had picked up an unwelcome passenger.......

I thought something was distinctly odd when we were sitting on the tube. People were looking around and seemed troubled.

LB was unconcerned. Well he was slightly. "What if she thinks we are gay?"

"What does it matter? You have a hot new squeeze. Eleanor has a long time partner and I am 'between relationships' (God, I hope so!)

When we arrived we checked with the promoter and had a quick chat with Eleanor before the gig.

Then it hit me. Aaaarrrggghh - dog turd on the banana shoe.

So try and imagine the scene. The three (or four) of us. Deep in conversation:


For shorthand purposes the protagonists will from now on be described thusly:-

EM : Eleanor McEvoy

LB : Libido Boy

ME : Me

DT : Dog Turd.


As far as I recall the conversation went along these lines:

ME : So you have been travelling a lot since we last met.

EM : I went to Uganda as part of an initiative with Oxfam Unwrapped. Then I was in Poland for a while, and fairly shortly I’m off to Spain.

LB : I have two children you know.

DT : Niff

EM : I am touring the UK in the early part of next year.

ME : Excellent we will have to come and see you. You bringing the band this time?

EM : Maybe for some gigs, not decided yet.

LB: They live in the US though as my EX-WIFE was an American.

DT : pong

EM : Did you listen to any of the late night radio when you were in the US?

ME : I listened to a lot of country and drove along weeping.

DT : HORRIBLE SMELL

LB : One lives in LA and the other in Boston

EM : Difficult to get further apart!

LB : I take it in turns to visit them

DT : RANK RANK RANK HUM

ME : Think we had better be letting you get ready. See you later.

EM : Thanks for coming along tonight. I really appreciate it.

LB/ME/DT : We are fans!

The three of us headed out to find a pub and I made a feeble attempt to divest ourselves of the unwanted third wheel. (obvious gag "turd wheel" - thank you and goodnight)


This involved finding a patch of grass and scraping and scraping and scraping, to little effect in truth as the ground was bone dry and there were no puddles. The banana shoes also have a very complicated tread pattern so everything was horribly wedged.

You may be wondering why Libido Boy was unconcerned about my discomfiture and in fact found it hilarious. Not sure I have seen him laugh so much in ages. Still, having me as a friend is probably no laughing matter. I will tell you at the end. No peeking.

When we got back to the gig Eleanor was just about to go on.

The three of us bought a drink although it may only have been 2 and half of us by then. I resolved to keep my foot firmly on the ground to try and keep the smell squashed between the banana shoe and the floorboards.

Eleanor started with a sublime version of "You've Heard Better Songs Than This" which I had played on the show that morning, marred by some idiot who, realising he hadn't switched his phone off was trying to silence the text tone so that a loud "peep" echoed round the rear of the room.

After an all-too short set and only a couple of encores we sidled up to her as she was selling CD's and talking to other fans in the foyer.

ME : (Shamefaced) "Sorry about my text tone going off during the first song".

EM : "You were fine, I didn't hear it"

LB : "My girlfriend......

DT : (Interrupting) STENCH!


When we got off at the tube station near the rented flat, Libido Boy pointed out a shop sign which said it all as far as my life/predicament was concerned.




"So Mr Holmes how did you deduce that the butler did it????"


Libido Boy has no sense of smell.