HEARTBREAK HOTEL

Due to illness in the family, which has rather put plans on hold, things have been pretty quiet in the DL/DL household over the last few weeks. However, due to excellent nursing care and the best surgeons, the patient on the Dark Lady's side of the family is now making excellent progress, despite having a spectacular scar running the full length of his sternum so he is now eligible for membership of the "Zipper Club". This is open to people who have had heart surgery. He is a bit weak after his bypass and feels as if he has been run over by a train but is making excellent progress.

This enabled us to tiptoe out to a couple of gigs. Well, I made it to kd Lang at the BBC the other night while the poor DL was at home being nurse and cab driver. kd Lang was a revelation. I have liked her stuff without being an uber fan, but when Jo Whiley introduced her by saying that Michael Bublé considered her the best female vocalist ever, it smacked a little of showbiz hyperbole. However, he was right. She was amazing with the most incredible vocal control.

If she makes an appearance anywhere near you grab a ticket and go. You won't be disappointed. I was sitting with the fab Clare Teal - no slouch in the vocal stakes herself - who was enraptured.

Meant to ask her if singers are born singers or can be trained. Quite fancy bounding onto a stage somewhere where people are expecting "that DJ bloke" to make a short but cheerful speech and then draw the raffle.

"Laydeez and Gennleman, it’s really great to be here with you tonight. Can I just say I regard Cleckheaton as my second home. Before I do the Tombola I'd like to sing you a little song. Music Maestro please. (warbles) I left my heart iiiiiiiiinnnnn San Franciiiiiiiisssccoooooo"




With the initial medical emergency over and the patient reunited with family and home the DL managed to get an evening to herself, so we headed off to the Royal Academy of Music (which is behind the Albert Hall in London) to catch up with a singer we both love but have never seen live. This was going to be a special night as - leaving all his own instruments at home - Paul Carrack had hired a band to back him. What a band: The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Despite shaking off the last vestiges of the cold that everyone has had, he was in great voice and ran through a whole selection of songs that he liked such as “Moon River”, “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying”, “All the Way”, “I Think It’s Going to Rain Today”, plus a few of his own repertoire including “How Long” and “The Living Years”.

We and the rest of the audience were enraptured. In my minds eye I was with him on stage:-

"I'd like to pause here and invite one of my favourite singers to the stage, ladies and gentleman, your friend and mine…Alex Lester!!! "

(Cue massive applause whistling hooting and stamping).

"Why thank you, Paul, wonder if you'd care to duet with me on a little number I am probably best known for...Maestro....

"I left my haaaartt iiiinnnnn Saaan Fraanceeesssscoo" etc.



When the gig finished and we were filing out we bumped into producer Dr Strangelove who was equally enthusiastic. We hope the concert was recorded for an album, if so it would be a worthy addition to anyone’s collection.

Contrary to popular myth, Strangeo and I don't live together a la Morecombe and Wise, bedding down in stripey pyjamas with me smoking the pipe in case anyone thought I was gay.



We both had forgotten the other was going to the gig. Had we remembered we probably would have met up for a drink beforehand. As it was, DL and I skittered off home so I could get a couple of hours sleep before the show. Strangelove - who sleeps nearly all day and stays up all night - headed off to the bar!



You may remember from a previous blog that I had surprised the Dark Lady by booking her a long weekend in Venice for Valentine’s Day. We had an amazing time save for one thing: the hotel was not all it was cracked up to be. Upon our return I resolved to pop into the travel agent and make a mild complaint that the details were rather misleading.



The blurb we had been supplied with showed a grand hotel with the first two paragraphs extolling its virtues. Only upon reading the third paragraph did it mention the word "annex". In other words, we were in a separate building a few doors down.


As if that wasn't enough we were given the last room high in the eaves of the annex with non functioning air conditioning. Two beds pushed together in a rather uneven fashion. The only other rooms on this top floor being a staff changing room and a storeroom. The room had no number. We were informed it was 420 but the key fob said 400. We thought this was a last resort room that was only used in emergencies.


We asked about the air con and were told it was "finished for the winter".

We requested a different room and were told the hotel was "full for the carnival"

The travel agent was very helpful and concerned and we supplied photographs to back up our testimony. All we wanted was for the details in the brochure to be amended so they were not as misleading. After all, you would not advertise a Rolls Royce and then expect people to be happy when you supplied them with a Ford Ka!

The travel company offered us a 25% refund immediately as a goodwill gesture. In truth it was not about the money, it was about misleading innocent tourists like ourselves.

The hotel responded by saying that it was all perfectly straightforward. We should have looked at their website where there was more information, that we never asked for a change of room and the air conditioning did work...well, there was heating which was the same thing!

At this point the Dark Lady and I looked at each other and the red mist descended.



We explained to the travel agent that this meant war and supplied further photographs and details to back up our complaint.

Back came the Hotel. What did the bloke on reception we had complained to look like? Had we talked to them we would have had everything rectified no problem. Air conditioning and heating in their book was one and the same thing. The room was in regular use and not one used in emergencies when the rest of the hotel was full and what was wrong with using a picture of a nice grander hotel rather than the rather down at heel looking annex?

Another sterner reply was sent and suddenly out of the blue the travel agent called and told us we had been offered a full refund.

Blimey! I don't think this has ever happened to me before.

Bearing in mind the Brit stiff upper lip and general dislike of fuss this was quite a result.

If Joseph and Mary had been British, Jesus would have been born on the pavement between their suitcases as they would have been too embarrassed to kick up a fuss about the lack of accommodation of any sort.

We genuinely had wanted them to explain to the travel company that the details were misleading and it sort of snowballed.

Now with this triumph under my belt, I wonder who or what I should turn my attention to next?

I could - with this new found confidence - muscle in anywhere and take over the show.

"Sorry, Simon, I think you are wrong on this one. Every single person on this show is terrible and should be voted off immediately. I'll show you real British Talent...maestro.

I layuft my haaaarttt iun Saaan Francciisscoooo"

"JUST THE TWO OF US"

Busy old time this week, I must say. What I laughingly describe as my "career" has been generally fairly low-key to invisible over the years with many false dawns.

My favourite was being told I was all set to take over a travel show and the next week switching on and hearing Bill Oddie presenting it! Still, I have not done badly so I can't complain; listening to some of my colleagues railing against being passed over for another big gig or being ignored by the management in favour of yet another TV face does strike me that that way madness lies.

Having said that, I can't take the moral high ground on this and over the years I have done a fair bit of feather-spitting, I will admit.
So it was with great delight that I snapped the arm off the people at BBC London when they asked if I would like to spend a week co-presenting the breakfast show with Gaby Roslin whilst Paul Ross was on holiday.

This was a show way out of my comfort zone and nothing that I had done in a few years, but it is these sorts of challenges that keep the mind fresh and the enthusiasm coursing through the veins. I have seen many old and embittered people going through the motions over the years and hope never to be like that.
So for a week when I finished the BTOTD show at 5am, it was a quick whiz round the corner to the big new BBC Broadcasting House which is home to the capital’s BBC radio station.

Security - as you would expect, particularly in this day and age - is very tight and you can't go anywhere easily. So having had a couple of days the previous week (where I went to "shadow" the show) and having been unable to gain access due to my security pass not being validated by the big central computer, I was assured all was going to be well for the big day.


Day 1 Gained access to main building but pass invalid for inner sanctum

Day 2 Gained access to main building but pass still invalid for inner sanctum

Day 3 Pass now invalid for Radio 2, main building and inner sanctum

Day 4 Pass now working for Radio 2, main building but not inner sanctum

Day 5 Gave up worrying, phoned the producer who came and collected me as he had done previously.



It used to be many years ago when I started at the BBC that you were given a pass that just had your picture on it and relevant information such as name and staff number.


I have long been freelance but back in those heady days of the late 70's I carried my name rank and serial number with pride.

Alex Lester 222227N.

On one occasion when the management were railing against the length of my hair, I said that I would have it cut providing they paid for it. They agreed upon production of a photograph. So once the deed was done I repaired to a "PhotoMe" booth and proceeded to have my picture taken, convict-style, from different angles whilst holding a piece of card with the number 222227N writ large upon it. It worked. They stumped up the petty cash.

Before the security became electronic and, as you read above, more or less impossible to crack even if you have a valid reason for entry, we used to rely on the pass being checked on entry.

They also had an expiry date. Unfortunately, I never bothered to check and so blithely kept going in and out of the building showing my pass and no one said a word. It was only when I realised that document was out of date that, upon next attempting to enter the building, the security staff - trained to spot a guilty face at a hundred yards - would pounce and I would be dragged away to explain myself. In order to get a new document you had to be inside the building where the security office was. You can see the good old Catch 22 coming here, can't you? So it was a bit of rigmarole if you forgot to get your accreditation renewed in time.


One guy I knew doctored his pass so that it showed him pulling a stupid face. No one batted an eyelid as he came and went each day. Not to be outdone, the next pass had him dressed as a woman with a gash of bright red lipstick and a red fright wig. He came and went each day without anyone batting an eyelid. He had planned to replace his photo on the next card with a picture of his cat.



However, for all concerned it was probably best that he left the Corporation’s employment at that moment.

Meanwhile, back at BBC London everyone was very welcoming and helpful as they coaxed me through a week of three hours of all-talk. What was also nice is that - due to the earliness of the hour (comparatively) - they listened to the BTOTD show on the way in to do theirs; they obviously have excellent taste.

It is a very different beast doing a news and current affairs show after three hours of tunes and fooling around.

It wasn't dull, though, as there were a fair amount of lighter items to mess around with. Those of you who made the switch from Radio 2 at that point commented on how grown-up I sounded.

Recovering from my real-deal man-flu, I was a little wheezy, so I reminded myself a little of the late great Sir Robin Day. Not in my interviewing skill nor gravitas. Purely in the chest area (he suffered in the bronchial department. Don't think the cigars helped!)

"So tell me Prime Minister...wheeeze"

"The World at One,40 minutes of news and comment this Wednesday NO Thursday lunchtime..wheeze bubble"

"Koff choke wheeze you are looking radiant if I may say so Anna Ford...koff bubble wheeze"



It was a fun week although pretty tiring being up at 1am and doing two very different shows. Hope to be invited back but it may be they would prefer someone who sounds like they will live to the end of the show. We shall see.

Saturday early the Dark Lady and I were in the car heading up the M40 from London to Shrewsbury in order to take part in the Shrewsbury International Cartoon Festival. I have the enormous honour to be a Patron. This year I had been asked to chair a discussion with Andy Davey who does brilliant caricatures for The Sun and Peter Schrank who - in an equally varied career - is a regular in many publications from The Economist to The Independent. Both men have different styles so it was going to be my job to introduce them and then field questions from the audience.

I could do my David Dimbleby Question Time impression:

"Lady on the fourth row in the purple hat"

We were nearing Oxford when the DL's phone rang. Her face took on a very concerned look.

A close relative had been taken ill with a heart attack. So it was divert time and we headed into Oxford where she hopped on to a train back to London and I continued up to Shrewsbury.

Sad to say as a result I was only able to be there for the talk in the Old Market Hall a quick word with the ever excellent Clive Goddard, who does the brilliant cartoons for the website, and then it was back to London to be there to do child care and anything else that was necessary. So many apologies to everyone at the Festival that I wasn't able to stay longer and enjoy your hospitality. The meal on a Saturday night with a host of tipsy cartoonists is a sight to behold. Not an inch of space is left undrawn on.

I thought I coped pretty well with the crisis and the travelling and the fatigue from the extra work.

It was only on Tuesday morning I realised I had sent a "romantic" goodnight message destined for the DL to a rather puzzled Libido Boy


Don't forget to make a song request for the Listener's Library,visit here, I look forward to hearing your suggestions. And don't forget to add me to Twitter @alexthedarklord (click here to do so) and also use the same login to hear the latest Audioboo (click here).

FEVER

Dark Lady and I went off to see hot ticket Rumer the other night.  Not the BBC Radio 2 special gig as that was a little late for me; being live on the Jo Whiley Show so it didn't start until 9pm, which was a bit of a shame really.

 

She has a gorgeous voice although some keep drawing a parallel with Karen Carpenter.  Still I have been told I sound like everyone from "Diddy" David Hamilton through to Ronnie Corbett to TV journalist Julian Warricker, so I suppose we all like to take refuge in comparisons.

The main trouble as that she only seems to have one speed and that is "floaty ballad". Norah Jones and Alison Krauss also having beautiful but light voices are rather hampered too, in this respect, as well.  The end result is that a little goes a long way.

She is an engaging personality without a lot to say and seemed a little shy and embarrassed at times but she does have a fabulous voice.  Trouble was we were just a teensy weensy

(this is a well know phrase used by music critics the world over incidentally e.g "The recitative was a teensy weensy bit rushed") bit, well, er, bored. Dr Strangelove my producer went to both gigs, the one at the Royal Festival Hall and the Radio 2 Abbey Road special. Rumer was far better with guests such as Rick Astley and Sandie Shaw so by all  reports it was a stormer of a gig.

Surprise hit of the night though was an act who blighted my Saturday nights as a teenager.

Many is the time we would as a family be sitting around the TV watching the big blockbuser variety show of the day, be it Morecombe and Wise or The Two Ronnies.  Suddenly it would be time for the musical interlude and, sure enough, a dark cloud would descend over the living room as a beaming man would ask us to "welcome...The Swingle Singers!".

  

There would then follow seemingly hours of beaming men and women ba-ba-doo-ing through their rictus grins as we concentrated on the food.

"Ba boo booo boo ba doo ba doo"

"Anyone want any more pork pie?"

!Oo oo oo oo oooo!" 

"Another slice here"

"Baa dooo baa dooo baaa dooo"

"Don't talk to your Mother like that. What do you say?"

"Uh...oh..please"

"Biddly doo biddly doo biddly doo"

"Thats better"

"Woo whah woo whah woo whah"

Later on as perhaps they realised they were becoming figures of fun or maybe just that they began to realise that they sounded faintly ludicrous to us in the 70's Midlands unused to such sophistication they discovered....words!

"Ladeez and gennleman please welcome "Swingle II"

They would then proceed to murder a classic song all the while smiling.

"When I gayt older losing my haaaar...."

"Anyone want another slice of pork pie?"

"Many years from naaaooooowww"!

Since those days they have certainly dropped off my radar so when they were introduced - I will admit - my heart sank. However, they started with a Nick Drake song and sailed effortlessly through a selection of classic songs with the most wonderful harmonies.

We were captivated. They still smile a lot.  However, this old curmudgeon didn't mind (although I did think I could taste pork pie at one point for some odd reason).

As you will know by now - if you have been following these blogs over the years and months  - my permanent mid-life crisis has hit and continues to hit in a variety of ways;  be it the replacement of a car with a more powerful one when the previous version decided to burn itself to death at Oxford Services on the M40 about four years ago, or my decision (after being given a trip in one) that I should learn to fly a microlight.

Having now incredibly passed the test and all but one of the exams, the only obstacle remaining was the Radio course.

You can of course fill in your own gags at this point: How embarrassing would it be for someone who makes his living talking on the radio to fail a course where you have to talk on the radio etc..

This, however, is a little different.  It is all about regulations, clarity and brevity.  This goes some way to explain the rather curious way that pilots speak when you are sitting on the plane as it heads to Tenerife.

There were two parts to the test.  The first being a written exam which I passed with a reasonable mark, for some odd reason only getting questions wrong that I had answered correctly in a mock exam a little earlier.

The big test was the oral.  Could I manage to work my way through the MATZ penetrations, the QDR, the PAN call and still remember the call letters of the aircraft and not mix my "Roger's" with my "Wilco's"?

I was surprisingly nervous as I sat in a tiny room with an uncomfortable seat and a view of a pile of rubbish on the grass outside.

The stress was obviously getting to me as my voice was growing hoarse and I was started to have trouble regulating my body temperature.      

It felt a tiny bit like being in the language lab at school. We had a rather rudimentary one at my school which, if I remember, had been bought in a box and installed one holiday period by the science master. He was a whirlwind of activity who one year built a science lab in the school gym during the summer holidays. They didn't exist side by side, I hasten to point out, as another better gym had been built elsewhere. Dances were held there and you can tell the period of history as there was a sign at the door which read: "No Stiletto heels allowed on this floor"!


Back to my Radio course and Andy, an impossibly young man who - when he is not flying for an air line and doing air traffic control - finds time to run this course as a certified instructor and examiner and also finds a little time to do aerobatics. I think he likes flying.


All went well and my responses seemed none too hesitant until this voice in my headphones said.

"Shouldn't you be lost by now?"

 Oops! One of the calls on my route was to ask the local air traffic here I was due to a "temporary loss of position". i.e. “You are in this tiny little aeroplane all by yourself flying around somewhere and you have not an earthly clue where you are in the world." This is when you are supposed to stay calm and check the ground features against your chart and then comes the awful realisation that none of them make any sense at all.

 A quick call to the relevant authority (Andy in the room next door) and he had triangulated my position and I was back on track.

 I passed although was "rather halting" at times. He should hear the show!
 By now the shivering and the croakiness was getting worse. It wasn't stress, it was…

 MAN FLU!!!!!

  

Actually to be frank I think it was proper flu as I have not felt as rotten in years, complete with comedy sneezing which - had I not been carefully knitted together - bits of me would have flown off. I used to work with a bloke years ago who sported a rug, false teeth and lifts in his shoes. He was known as "The Kit"!

 Being the trouper I am I soldiered on and merrily hockled, wheezed and coughed my way through the next few days shows.

 Luckily by Friday I had recovered enough for the Dark Lady, Jamie (her birthday boy son, who was 12 that day) and I to pop round for the first BBQ of the season with our friends, Fran and Greg, and their children, Theo and Hannah.

This was hardcore BBQ. There was shrimp and there were the best steaks I had ever eaten.

What was even more impressive than this was the team work. Big food and big drinks were seamlessly passed from indoors to out and empty plates and glasses were passed from outside to in.

Greg was IC BBQ. He has lived in the USA so has a good grounding in "big food". Watching his expertise was a delight.

I have never worried about being IC BBQ. The Dark Lady is a terrific cook and if she wants she can do as much cooking as she likes. I am a willing dustbin.

We sat outside in the garden in the gathering gloom under the Heathrow flight path and yarned.

As we talked I watched the planes coming in to land and wondered if any of the pilots were wondering if the radio call they were about to make was the correct one, or would it send Air Traffic Control into a blind panic.

There was cake too. Wonder if the crew could see us as they passed overhead.

"Speedbird 452 to Heathrow approach. Birthday cake, 6 o'clock low"

We sat out in the gathering darkness by the candlelight and talked until nearly midnight.

It was only on the way back I realised something.

Greg had managed to BBQ for seven whilst still maintaining the conversation and had done it all without the need to wear a comedy apron which made him look like he was wearing women's underwear or a French Maids outfit!

Don't forget to make a song request for the Listener's Library. Think of a track you haven't heard in awhile, a track that is special you would like to share, or a song for Feelgood Friday. Visit here, I look forward to hearing your suggestions. And don't forget to add me to Twitter @alexthedarklord (click here to do so) and also use the same login to hear the latest Audioboo (click here).

I'M THE SLIME

As usual, no sooner had I finished the previous blog I started thinking as to what the next (i.e.this) one should be about.

If you have followed my scribblings over the last few years, you will have noticed that - unlike some of my esteemed colleagues in this industry - I am not very "showbiz".

This is probably due to a horror of parties and dressing up. Also these events tend to be on in the evening, so it’s a little difficult to "Party like its 1999" when you realise that you are restricted to one glass of wine and two sausages on sticks and will have to leave before the event gets going.

Just the one glass of wine in case one staggers in to the studio a few hours later, switches on the microphone with some difficulty and slurs the words:-

"You're my pal I love you......what you looking at? Alright then, outside I can take you" before bursting in to tears.

Two sausages on sticks only, as three would bring on the whole world of roaring indigestion. Nothing like trying to get to sleep with what appears to be a blast furnace bubbling inside, not to mention the accompanying gusts that follow.

Dressing up is another horror. I have always hated the phrase "Suited and booted" and the idea of having to squeeze yourself into a suit in order to have one glass of wine and things on sticks strikes me as hell in spats. I am built more for comfort.

Another reason also for not attending many of these events is the ever-present threat of "dancing".

Some people are born to twist. Others just have no shame.

Any attempt to dance (whilst sober anyway) just causes a severe hotness in the head and face area and the desire to hide. There is that glib and twee phrase "dance like no-one’s watching".

Nonsense. They ARE watching and they are sneering!

It may have been the result of attempting waltz lessons when I was 8. My partner was called Prudence and she was 9 and, to my untutored eyes, "statuesque" and fully a foot taller than me. When you weighed in at about 4 stone and three foot tall, this was a big difference. She also insisted on leading and wouldn't let me put my arm around her waist (which admittedly was a bit of a stretch). Every time I attempted this feat she would slap me!

Another down side of the crazy showbiz merry-go-round is status.

Not being a recognisable TV face also means you start off at these events at a bit of a disadvantage. For some reason the Spitting Image puppet of David Steele comes to mind. In my minds eye I am smaller than everyone else and poking out of David Owen's pocket.

I am still smarting at recalling an event a few years back when I was chatting to Ken Bruce; I had just got to the punchline of some very witty anecdote when a well-known Scottish TV and radio personality interposed herself neatly between Ken and myself, and so the punchline was spat into the general area of her shoulder blades.

Ken, gallantly realising, attempted to introduce me but I was ignored.

Another occasion a few years back was when another well-known TV and Radio personality had complained that there were no "eligible men at the BBC". We were at the same function and heading for the door. I beamed hopefully and opened it for her and she swept past without even glancing in my direction.

So you can see why I do tend to stay away from such events. My fragile ego can't stand it.

Sometimes though you have to make the effort and the time to go to stuff otherwise life would be very dull indeed.

The other night Radio 2 hosted a gig by Taylor Swift, the 21-year old US country sensation.

I was a little suspicious how someone so young would cope. She is a trouper, explaining throughout the performance the reasons behind and why she wrote the songs and what they were about.

The Dark Lady was working so I took Susan the Finance (she’s not a banker so don't hate her).

Susan occupies a very special place in our hearts as she introduced us in December 2009 and for that I will be forever grateful.

She had never been to the legendary Abbey Road studios before and was also keen to see Taylor.

She was excellent and the audience was made up of an interesting variety of people. If you listened to the gig on the red button or were even there you may have noticed at the end of every number the screams were very high-pitched. There were a lot of teenage girls and gay men in the audience. Taylor writes and sings songs of teen angst very well. I also loved the constant use of "heart hands" by the audience and her just to show "the love". It was an ideal gig for me. Not a big monster event. Nicely low key, and it finished at 9pm so I was in bed within 20 minutes after seeing Susan to the tube station.

Then it was off to another non-showbiz - but also vitally important - event; to the Midlands to see my Dad and also my sister. As you know if you have been tuned in regularly, I ask your advice on so many things including what to buy Nell (that is her name. Short for Petronella, a name my parents gave her and laughed at! They also called me Norman after my Dad's Dad so that was a little bit better I suppose, but a name I resented for years but now would not part with.)

She has just taken early retirement after years in administrative and secretarial work; she has seen the world of work change from the typewriter to the word processor to the computer. It used to be traditional for retirees to be given a clock.

So off I went and found and bought a nice clock. So nice I thought that I would keep it myself, which was not really the intention and I was roundly slapped by you for my selfishness.

The other weekend, the DL and myself hot-footed it off to visit the establishment where we are having our wedding "do" at the tail end of this year. We wanted to keep is simple and – again - unshowbizzy. So we effectively wanted a pub. We have found a place that fits the bill with lots of Oak beams and open fires and so we went to try out the food.

It was lovely but something was missing. We agreed it was too "posh"; we wanted chips!

So we had a look at the bar menu and asked if we could make a change to the wedding menu which was readily agreed, and now the guests are going to get to shovel fish and chips down them and also have cheese and biscuits. Now that is more like it and unpretentious too.

Whilst we were wandering back to the car park, we spotted a shop selling all sorts of stuff including rather interesting clocks. Result! Nell loved it and already has a place in mind for it and it suits their house and decor.

The only downside to this excellent day was that we spent so much time having a good look round that I got a parking ticket.

Wonder if I should phone them up to try and get off the fine using that well worn phrase:

"Don't you know who I am??"

Don't forget to make a song request for the Listener's Library. Think of a track you haven't heard in awhile, a track that is special you would like to share, or a song for Feelgood Friday. Visit here, I look forward to hearing your suggestions. And don't forget to add me to Twitter @alexthedarklord (click here to do so) and also use the same login to hear the latest Audioboo (click here).

MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR

We left the blog last week on a cliff hanger: The Dark Lady was hurrying to Gatwick airport to catch a plane to Paris (Most romantic city in the world, you will remember).

I had told her I was on my way to the French capital to meet her, having spent the previous few days in Normandy with friends. The idea being we would meet up at Orly airport and have a night in a hotel in Paris, then drive out to the countryside to link up with our friends.

I, however, was really on the ferry back to the UK to give her a big surprise!


You may have noticed the increased use of photographs in the blog. This we think makes it a more entertaining experience than just plain text and it also give Producer Dr Strangelove an extra fun task other than sorting out the grammar and punctuation. So it is always a good wheeze to add something to have him surfing the web for hours looking for exactly the right shot.

Having had breakfast on board…


…I then retired to my cabin and had fitful dreams, including one of Bernard Manning in his underpants.


I didn't really have that dream but we have not featured him for a while and it is always good to stick that stock shot up there so we don't forget him!

Drove home to Hastings and went to the pub. As I sat with the newspaper I sent a series of messages to the Dark Lady:

"On my way to Paris now. Can't wait to see you at the airport early tomorrow x x x x"

"Traffic terrible so stopping at Dreux for the night. Soon be tomorrow x x x x x"

First thing the following morning I set off for Gatwick. I had pre-booked the car park so sailed in, hopped on the bus to the terminal, found out where our check-in was, sent a text:-

"Not long now...area B is where the Paris flight checks in. x x x x x "

Then I waited.

Not long after, I noticed a little anxious face scanning the departure board trying to locate the non-existent Paris flight.

I sidled up and uttered the words:

"Where do you think you are off to then?"

"Wha?!? You!???!!! You are in Paris” (the most romantic city on earth).


"I am standing right here and we are not going to Paris after all." I beamed.

"Where are we going....Hastings?" (Second most romantic place on earth)

"No. The third most Romantic place on earth"

"Golders Green?"

"OK fourth.... Venice."

I had squirreled a couple of tickets a few weeks earlier and so the flight times were the ones I had given the DL. Just the destination was different.

There then followed several minutes of excited squealing. Hopping up and down. Hugging, Kissing and cries of...

"You fibber. I thought we were going to France" and "How can I ever trust you again you beast!" (Well, language of a similar nature. I wouldn't want you to think that she was a member of the Famous Five or a refugee from Billy Bunter).

"Yarooh some bounder's snaffled my tuck" etc.

However, as a basically honest person I knew that it would only be a matter of time until something terrible would happen.

Her face is always a picture when I spring a surprise...although I know that it can backfire.

Like waking up and finding all my clothes had vanished so I was unable to leave for work unless I borrowed one of her dresses. Actually, this has never happened that is just a recurring stress dream. Although at the BBC, I doubt anyone would bat an eyelid if a bearded middle-aged bloke turned up at 1am in a frock.

Not been to this fascinating city for over 20 years and can hardly remember a thing about it.

The DL had never been. So we were going to spend nearly four days discovering it together.

It is only a couple of hours by air and another hour by water bus to the city centre.

When we arrived it was pouring with rain and had recently snowed. Not an auspicious start.

The hotel brochure had given the hotel a glowing review and there was a picture of a grand palace. When we arrived we were told that we weren't in fact staying in this hotel but one with a slightly similar name and in a tiny pokey room in the roof with non-functioning air-conditioning

"Finished for winter" we were told by receptionist. So it was either too hot until we opened a window and then it was too cold. We had the only room on this floor (unless you count a staff locker room and roof storage). Not an auspicious start.

Am currently waiting for an explanation; a grovelling apology and compensation from the travel company for the misleading information. If you are going any time soon check your details very carefully.

Undeterred we set off for St Marks Square in the drizzle. The place was packed and then we realised why: it was Carnival time. Everywhere we went people were dressed in dazzling costumes and masks.


It did set us thinking: Do the number of bank robberies and other crimes increase at this time of the year?

"So, can you describe you attacker?"

"He was wearing a mask"

"Oh, brilliant! That really narrows it down. Just look around. You are the only person not wearing one. I am a policeman and I am wearing the special Carnival issue copper mask."

You may have noticed that I have not gone down the path of "Funny foreigner" and added and I an A or an O to the ends of words to make it sound Italian. It wasa temptinga though…er…i!


It was so cold and damp that my bonce was feeling it, so we bought a typically Italian raffish hat and then we realised neither of us had brought our reading glasses so we had to buy a pair and share them. It may have been a better bet to have bought them before we purchased the hat!

The following morning the sun shone and revealed the city in all its glory, and it really is beautiful. We strolled around and the DL - with her superior sense of direction and grasp of language - soon had us criss-crossing the city on foot and by river bus. River buses are brilliant; arriving every few minutes and whisking you to all parts of the city via the main canals and the lagoon. It is also a fantastic way to see the city. Being so ancient there are a fair few cranes about and constant renovation work to stop it vanishing beneath the waves, or just collapsing with a rumble and a crash.


We only managed one wrong turn and that took us to "Cimitere", which even-non Italian speakers like us realised was the graveyard. Situated on its own island it was serviced by water hearses.


We did wonder what life would be like for the average Venetian if they were to suffer from sea sickness. There was quite a swell on the lagoon some days and the buses did hit the pontoons with quite a clang.

We didn't do the gondola thing as it was eye-wateringly expensive and, as a result, nearly every one we saw was packed to the gunwales with tourists (apart from the occasional Oligarch who had hired one). So from time to time we saw a Gondolier punting a perma-tanned, middle-aged man and a tiny much younger blonde woman down the Grand Canal.

This may mirror a topic much in the news in Italy at the moment. Premier Silvio Berlusconi's alleged sexual shenanigans with much younger women and his "Bunga Bunga" parties.

We did see T-shirts on sale with the slogan: "I (heart) Bunga Bunga"


We walked, we rode the buses, we had ice cream, we had chocolate, we were fascinated and horrified in equal measure to visit the "Ghetto" and to discover Jewish persecution was rife here hundreds of years ago, and the word “Ghetto” derived from the Venetian language. It reminded me of Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice, which I did for O-Level English literature. The fact that there is a police lookout hut in the square shows that, alas, things have not advanced a whole lot over the years.

One thing we found curious was that Venice was not an all-night hopping city. In fact they are rolling up the canals by 11 and even earlier. This apparently is because the last water bus to the mainland leaves about then, so all the waiters have to be on it as few blue collar workers can afford to live there. DL sprung for a fabulous sea food dinner. They dragged a groaning platter of fresh fruits of the sea out for us to have a look out. A few minutes later they were back with all of it....cooked. A momentary pang for the lobster, who was very much alive a few minutes earlier, and we tucked in.


Just as well they brought the bill afterwards. It took our breath away and any appetite we had left vanished.

We visited most of the sights and vowed to come back in the winter when it is less crowded to do the bits that had the huge queues, such as the Campanile and the Doges Palace. It may be raining and cold but it will put a different complexion on the city.

On the plane back the Dark Lady turned to me and said

"That was the best fib ever."!

"Fib??"

"You told me you were meeting me in Paris. I believed you. Does this mean you have bent the truth about other things???"

We both know that I can never lie because I have a guilty face. Sometimes I think it would be a good idea to pop down the Police station and turn myself in just in case they have anything outstanding.

"If you do bad things, bad things happen!" she smiled.

"Apart from the hiccup with the hotel I think we got away scot free", I beamed.

We took the shuttle bus out to the car park at Gatwick.

Then it happened.

The driver zoomed past our stop. As a good Brit I sat there waiting patiently for our stop thinking he would be going round again. DL was wise to this and rushed up to the driver and asked him to go round again or we would end up back at the terminal.

We found the car. At the barrier we were unable to exit. There was nowhere to punch in the code I had been given.

"Use the ticket" said the disembodied voice on the helpline.

"What ticket?"

"Ah, I remember" hopping out of the car to get it from my wallet trying to ignore the queue of impoatient drivers behind me.

The ticket failed to function and hot with embarassment I had to pull out of the way of the honking and hooting drivers behind me and the DL went into the kiosk to find out what had gone wrong.

Somehow I had managed to park in totally the wrong car park!

As we drove away I saw her smile in the darkness. She knew. She also knew that I knew that she knew!


Don't forget to make a song request for the Listener's Library. Think of a track you haven't heard in awhile, a track that is special you would like to share, or a song for Feelgood Friday. Visit here, I look forward to hearing your suggestions. And don't forget to add me to Twitter @alexthedarklord (click here to do so) and also use the same login to hear the latest Audioboo (click here).

I SAW A MOUSE....WHERE?

The other week after the show I returned to the rental flat and as I opened the door in the dim light of the hallway…(Now for lengthy digression so hold on!)

The flat is tiny. Not even big enough to swing a very small cat. In fact I would not be at all surprised if at Acme labs, boffins aren't working on a special tiny breed of dwarf feline with extra resilience so that it would not come to any harm should anyone decide to give it a whirl at any point.

(N.B. Before you march to the BBC with lighted torches, I am not advocating whirling any creature around to check how tiny your accommodation is. Although I expect estate agents would benefit from a superior measure of dimensions when it comes to describing the size of places on their For Sale or rental books.)

For "Deceptively spacious" read: "Small cat. Occupant has short arms."

For "Kitchenette" read: "No room for a litter tray."

For "Within a level walk of the shops" read: "We hadn't seen him for a few days and when we broke down the door there wasn't much of him left. His cat seemed OK, although it was bigger than I remember."

As I flicked on the light there was the sound of frenzied scuttling and I saw a mouse hurrying out of the bathroom in the direction of the bedroom.


How had it got there? I don't worry about mice as, frankly, I am considerably larger and with a whole raft of poisons and traps at my disposal so frankly I have the upper hand. Also as a kid I had a pet grey mouse of my own. It was called Henry. We were inseparable. We went everywhere together. Although I did most of the leg work with Henry in my blazer pocket, peering out every now and then to take a look at the surroundings and hoping for a small piece of Caramac.

It was a blissful scene; a cross between E.T. and Puff the Magic Dragon. Not realising that mice are weak bladdered, I just thought other kids were jealous so that was why they were keeping a wide berth. I had no idea that I reeked of piss!

My ex-friends took to calling me "Mouse-wet". I didn't care. I loved Henry and Henry loved me. Of that I was sure, although he was a little short-sighted so any sudden moves were liable to result in an agonising bite to the finger. He had strong jaws did old Hen.

Then one day I went to check on him and someone had released him from his cage.

Whoever you are I hope you burn in the fires of hell for that. Now, nearly half a century later as you lie in bed, I hope a small grey mouse appears in your troubled dreams, points a gnarled and furry finger at you and squeaks: "You cut me off from a lifetime of Caramac, you bastard!"


Meanwhile back at the small rental flat, a mouse has just fled into my bedroom from the bathroom. I hope he washed his paws. How did it get there? The apartment is on the fourth floor?

Mice may be nimble but it’s an awfully large number of stairs. He would also be too small and probably too puny to press the button in the lift.

What to do now? He was under the bed. I am referring to the mouse as a "he", I would guess that would be the case as the "she" was probably at home looking after innumerable babies and wondering as mice do: "Shall I pop down the shops as the cupboards are nearly bare. Hardly anything left, no chocolate or crisps to see me through the Eastenders omnibus. Not sure I can be bothered to go out in this weather. Hmmmm, what to do. I know, I'll eat one of my young”.

"Derek"

"Yes Mum"

"Stop playing with the X Box and come here a minute will you...."


I thought I would play the long game so retired to the bathroom and there "enthroned" with the door open waiting. Shortly after - to the sound of pizzicato violins of the type all the best cartoons use - out tiptoed the mouse. Looked up, saw me beaming at it with my trousers round my ankles, and with an audible squeak it fled into the kitchen behind the washing machine never to be seen again.

I checked with the people who run the block and they said that there had been various mouse sightings lately. They put this down to the maintenance work that is going on. As I have mentioned on the show and in blogs before; the flats are about sixty years old so things are beginning to drop off. The roof is being replaced at the moment and yet another person’s bathroom has succumbed to "pipe rot", whereby the water and drainage system has corroded so needs replacement. Sadly, as the plumbing is buried in the concrete floor of the bathroom, they can only be accessed with a pneumatic drill. These drills are a lot more sophisticated than the ones that road menders use. These have a "sleep timer" on them; the moment I am asleep in the morning the drilling starts!


Since that one sighting all has been quiet on the vermin front. Although there are some little green boxes marked "poison" by the skirting boards in the corridor which may also have a bearing on the lack of wildlife.

Just over a week ago I had some time off; thanks to Lynn Parsons and Tim Smith for sharing the week between them.

As usual the Dark Lady was really busy with her advertising business.

"Fabulous stocks, great range. Fandango on down to....buy one get one free etc"

She loves it when I do "Voice over man"; I love the way she smiles grimly at me. I used to do ads a long time ago, mainly for the radio. I still remember the 100 takes it took to do the commercial for the butchers in Liverpool which had the slogan:-

"You can't beat the meat"!

As you know by listening to the show and reading my various ramblings what keeps me young is my mental development halted at the age of fourteen. Dr Strangelove, the producer, is still actually fourteen or thereabouts so it is a dangerously sniggery combination at 2am each weekday morning, I can tell you.

As DL was working very hard she was only able to take the Thursday and the Friday off.

So I hatched a cunning plan.

"I'm off to France for a few days, dahling. I've got you an air ticket to Paris so I'll meet you at Orly airport first thing Thursday morning. We'll have a night in a nice hotel and then head off out to our friends in Normandy”.

"Ooh lovely,” she said.

Let’s face it, a night in one of the most romantic cities in the world with, er, me. OK, so let’s just stop at "most romantic cities in the world” shall we? Not sure how it got that reputation when there are so many other cities around.

Try it. Say the name of a city and add the words

"Most romantic city in the world" and see if you smile at the thought. It could be a game for the show:

"Coventry" Most romantic city in the world.

"Baltimore" Most romantic city in the world.

"Dusseldorf” Most romantic city in the world.


There is a distinction that has to be made here. She is as trusting as she is adorable, not gullible. She wants this made clear!

Off to France I went clutching - nay - dragging her suitcase. Boy was she in for a surprise!



Reminds me in my mind’s eye of This is your Life with Eamonn Andrews

"You haven't seen him for 43 years. We've flown him 5,000 miles to here, tonight, your old friend....

(Man bounds onto set, subject doesn't recognise him at all then it dawns on him it was someone he loathed and hoped never to see again as long as he lived.)


The days went by as she toiled in London and I didn't toil in France. On the Wednesday the plot swung into action with a selection of misleading texts.

"On my way to Paris now"

"See you at the airport in a few short hours"

"Traffic terrible so stopping at Dreux for the night"

"Don't forget to pick up your ticket from the check in desk in area "B" at Gatwick.”

Whilst I was sending these texts I was actually on the Ferry to Portsmouth.

Heh heh heh. *Strokes imaginary pedigree cat* (N.B Estate agents note: large duplex size Siamese)


What happened next? Find out in next week’s exciting blog. Unless I get sidetracked again…


Don't forget to make a song request for the Listener's Library. Think of a track you haven't heard in awhile, a track that is special you would like to share, or a song for Feelgood Friday. Visit here, I look forward to hearing your suggestions. And don't forget to add me to Twitter @alexthedarklord (click here to do so) and also use the same login to hear the latest Audioboo (click here).