IT'S LATE!

If you have been listening to the show over the last couple of days, you will be aware that on Wednesday there very nearly wasn't a show. Well, the start of one any road up.

I overslept.

Having been doing early mornings for more than twenty years now in a "career" that is now in its thirty fifth year, this is only the third time that I have overslept or come close to it.

If I had a pound for every time I have been asked "Have you ever overslept?". Or thinking about it...

"When do you sleep?"

"What is Terry Wogan like?"

"When are you going to be on during the day?"

Or one of my favourites because of the wording as well as the assumption:

"When are you going to be promoted to television"?

I would be writing this blog on my diamond studded laptop on the rear deck of my yacht moored off my private island. One that Richard Branson hasn't even heard of, as envious Russian oligarchs cruise by on their smaller vessels.

The first time I overslept was back in the mid-eighties when I worked up in the North East on a commercial radio station. I was doing the weekday mid-morning show that started at ten.

I was roused from my slumbers by the programme director phoning me and asking "Lester...you OK?"

He called me Lester because he was American, and had wanted me to change my on air name to "Red". Luckily I confused him by confusing cheese with the guy who blew out oil well fires, Red Adair.

"I'm fine, what's the problem?"

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Err... no."

"It's ten to ten."

"Aeeeiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!"

"You owe the breakfast guy an extra hour of his show".

I hurried in and the next day made amends with furious apologies to the bloke who did the breakfast show, who'd had to stay on for an extra hour.

I hope he has forgiven me because he is now a very big cheese in the world of commercial radio, and you never know when you might be asking him for a job.

The second time came in the late 90s when the Shoe came from Pebble Mill in Birmingham. It was the year that Katrina was occupying the Janice Long time slot, and for some bizarre reason no one had my mobile phone number. I was living on the canal boat "The Blue Pig" at the time and was often about half an hour away from Birmingham as during the summer I would chug out into the countryside and moor near a friendly pub.

However, I recall this was winter so was at my mooring in Hockley Port not far from Winson Green and Handsworth.

I got a phone call.

"Alex. Where are you?"

"In bed, why?"

"Do you know what time it is?"

No idea why people ask this question when they phone you because you are late. Surely it matters little. What's really important is to get to the studios as quickly as possible.

It is a rather redundant question in some ways.

"Prime Minister, do you believe the coalition is under pressure?"

"Well if I can speak frankly here-"

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Eh?"

Or:

"What is it doc?"

"Bad news I'm afraid - the X-rays aren't looking good."

"Gulp... how long have I got?"

"Do you know what time it is?"

"With a performance like that, I really think you have star quality and can go all the way in this years X Factor."

*squeal*

"You really nailed it!"

*squeal*

"First though, do you know what time it is?"

*baffled*

On this occasion, as mobile phones were far less sophisticated than they are now (mine had no built-in alarm) I had a good old fashioned battery powered clock radio which boasted a "Humane Wake system".

It would start beeping very quietly, then got louder and louder and would also change its rhythm until the windows would shake. If it reached this point it meant that the owner had died as no one could sleep through that racket.

The side effect of permanent night working is that the body becomes attuned to the amount of sleep required and so wakes up just as or just before the alarm goes off. On this occasion I had woken at the first tiny beep, switched the alarm off and instead of lurching out of bed as normal just rolled over and gone back to sleep.

For some bizarre reason I obviously made so little impact on the people at Pebble Mill that no one noticed I hadn't turned up until about ten minutes before the show was due to start. Then they couldn't find my number, so had to call the newsreader in London and ask her.

With judicious throwing clothes on as I raced to the car, I made the show about five minutes after it started so was able to pick up after the first or second record.

Everyone had my number after that.

So why the trouble this time? As I have grown older like many I have discovered I need less sleep and also don't sleep as soundly as I used to.

Regularly sharing a bed with my beautiful wife also means that I am aware it is only polite to try and cause as little disturbance as possible when rising and leaving. Our relationship nearly hit the buffers early on when I had a new phone. The alarm went off, started to get louder and more insistent and I was unable to figure out how to switch it off. In the end I had to tear the battery out to silence it. There then ensued a loud whispered argument about waking the children as I pulled my socks on.

On this occasion, I had woken five minutes before the first of the three alarms I have set in my mobile and switched them all off, got up, abluted and tiptoed out of the house without the Dark Lady or the Dark Stepchildren being any the wiser.

"So how come you were nearly late?" I hear you cry.

That night as I lay in bed there was a buzzing. The ringer and the text tone is always turned off at night, in case I am phoned by cold callers, drunken friends or handbags. I have been called many times by handbags. This is what happens when the phone is at the bottom of a woman's capacious bag and your number is on speed dial!

I was sleeping very lightly so instantly woke up and crossing the room with the thought "who is bothering me in the middle of the night when I am trying to sleep"?

The voice was producer Dr Strangelove.

"Are you in a cab?", he asked. "I sent you a text."

"No, I was in bed before you called me. Why?"

Then came that question again

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Of course I do", I snapped looking at my watch. "It's twenty to twoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooshiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I flung on what was available (namely sandals and the previous nights soiled gym kit) and fled in the general direction of the studio without even cleaning my teeth.

Still, I was certainly wide awake by the time I arrived with ten minutes to spare.

It was only when I got home I realised that not only had I omitted pants, but also my shirt had been on inside out the whole time.

The above sartorial disorder may explain my lack of "promotion to television", where looks are far more important.

So what had happened or not happened to cause this mid-night mid-life crisis?

I had forgotten to reset the alarms from the night before, so although I did wake up roughly at the usual time I didn't believe it was time to go to the show as the alarm hadn't sounded.

So err... I didn't know what time it was!

EASTER PARADE!

As someone who "works" Monday to Friday all year round, I have never taken much notice of holidays, seasonal or school. Now with two stepchildren however, things have changed. First of all, this year's summer holiday will be taken during the school holidays, the most expensive time of year you tell me. Plus, when it comes to seasonal festivals there are holidays which children are at home for and enjoy, when normally I can keep my head down and ignore. So now with this extra responsibility comes the realisation that I will have to "engage".

To this end I hastened home to Hastings on Friday for a few pints with a friend before the big Easter weekend properly kicked off.

I say hastened. I got stuck in traffic... for hours!

First I visited my godparents and discovered that at the tender age of ninety-one my uncle Norman has decided to take up cooking. He makes a mean flapjack.

There came no reply from the phone of my mate. Later it transpired that his battery was flat. As he is fifty-six I believe him. Had he been fifteen I would have said he was lying.

Parents of teenagers am I right?

So grabbing the local paper I headed for the pub. Sadly these days there are far fewer boozers as the recession and changes in the law as well as profiteering by the big breweries means that it is hard times for the street corner pub that I loved so much in my youth.

At the current rate there will soon only be two of these pubs in the whole of the UK - the Queen Vic and the Rovers Return.

However those that remain are fighting back, but in doing so they are changing. At the pub round the corner from me, the moment I set foot in there and sit down with my paper they immediately turn the lights down so I can't read and start the accursed karaoke. So glugging down the pint, I headed for another pub that I know and like. Ah, I hadn't reckoned on Good Friday entertainment. They are a friendly crowd in there but it was rammed and the band were setting up. I stayed for five minutes to chat with some people I knew and then desperate to read the paper I headed on up the road to another boozer I know which is hanging on by the skin of its teeth.

It has shut a couple of times over the last year or so but phoenix like rises from the ashes. Trouble is it, it never seems able to make a fresh start before it closes again. It has the potential I am sure, although it is in a rather shabby part of town. There were three people in there. One of them a drunk dancing wildly to the jukebox. Judging by his music selection he was probably about my age. First time I have seen someone trying to pogo to "Dreamer" by Supertramp!

The pub smelled of farts and despair.

Still, apart from drunken pogo man it was quiet enough and I was able to read the paper until it was pie time.

Saturday, and back in the car to London for my stepson Jamie's birthday. He is now thirteen and is just entering the gruff grunting stage. Still, he was able to communicate with us sufficiently well to accept gifts and still be someone who is fun to be around. With there being the five of us (DL, the two children, their dad and me) the Dark Lady had gone into doting mother over-catering mode, which was as usual terrific. She had been cooking for ages, ensuring there was enough food of sufficient variety that we could, should we wanted to, have three completely different meals each.

Then there was cake for the birthday boy.

Everyone left, and so it was the DL and myself for a romantic evening "a deux". We were worn out from all the eating, collapsed into bed and each had a rotten night's sleep.

I never learn that stuffing yourself with rich food doesn't aid restful sleep!

Sunday and we were all back together for more food, then we went off to the cinema as the birthday boy fancied seeing "The Hunger Games", the big film of the moment. He loved it, as did his sister. We weren't so sure. Perhaps it was the premise: twenty five children having to fight to the death. Or just that it took forever to get started. Seemed a bit of a plot mish mash, and I felt that the film was made up of a kit of parts of other films from "Lord of the Flies" to "Sleeper". It may just have been the fact that as we were rather overstuffed from lunch, although rather thirsty I had purchased three bottles of mineral water and had been plunged into a sour mood.

Just three. Not litre bottles. Just ordinary sized bottles. Dark Lady asked the assistant to get some from the back of the fridge as the ones she gave us were warm.

Three bottles of ordinary still mineral water.

£8.90!

OUTRAGEOUS!

Oh, and as of course it was Easter with it's deep religious significance, there were a large number of chocolate eggs too. How could I have forgotten?

AS GOOD AS I ONCE WAS!

Bit of a short blog at the tail end of last week due to lunch going on rather longer than expected, having met up with the two Daves - school friends I'd not set eyes on for thirty eight years or so.

Had they changed out of all recognition? Not just physically, but also how would their lives and experiences have informed the way they think now as opposed to back then?

Would they be the two blokes I recall being a lot of fun, getting up to teenage pranks as well as the usually unsuccessful attempts to impress girls have changed, worn down by years of hard work and drudgery?

Would they remember me with fondness or upon re-meeting, instantly remember what a dork I was?

We arranged to meet in a restaurant not far from the BBC, so if they put a frog down my shirt or set fire to my trousers I could run to the safety of Auntie a few hundred yards away.

I needn't have worried. Apart from a couple of physical changes (poundage, hair and better clothes) they were exactly the same as I remember. Still tremendous fun.

They were both now "David", "Dave" having been left behind sometime in the very early eighties.

I had brought along a couple of photos of the period, and we discussed our lives and careers since that moment and wondered how we had lost touch.

Very simple really. The whole world beckoned and we had all three of us seized it, along with the physical distances and the new friends we had acquired along the way.

We shared funny and at times harrowing stories of romances good and bad. A sign of maturity I suppose was the realisation that we were certainly to blame for part of the chaos that had appeared in our life from time to time.

We tried to recall other old friends with partial success. Some had had remarkable successful lives, others sadly less so.

We talked about one of our common bonds which was music. I was delighted to note that after all this time, both Davids were avid gig-goers and are frequently out experiencing live music.
Now in middle age and contemplating semi or complete retirement, their zest for life was still undimmed. We laughed a lot and remembered events slightly differently, which filled in a few blanks along the way - probably caused by too much cider or cooking sherry. These were about the only drugs available to us at the time. Just say no kids!

We talked for hours until the evening began to draw in. The time flew and we are now pencilling in a few dates to go to see some music together.

It was genuinely really terrific to see them and reminded me why we had been such good friends all those years ago.

In answer to your burning question that was outlined at the head of this blog, yes I was a dork and had been a horrible music snob. Something I hope that has been corrected after thirty eight years.

SCHOOLS OUT!

Sorry this is so short. After 38 years these two guys turned up for lunch. As of this moment lunch is still going on!

CALLING ALL THE HEROES!

It was "Date Night" last night which was very welcome.

This is where either the Dark Lady or myself organises a little something just for the two of us. An evening for ourselves. No distractions. No children. No family. No friends. Just us.

The reason for this is very simple - we don't get a lot of time together. She is a high powered tycoon. (She actually thinks she's a "low powered office worker". I know which I prefer.)

I of course am a broadcasting demigod (for this read "bloke who plays records in the middle of the night and rarely troubles the daytime schedule and certainly very very rarely the TV schedule"). Well, we are busy people.

There are not enough of the right hours in the day to ensure we get to spend some time alone together, so we arrange these "dates". It keeps things fresh and the DL doesn't have enough time to get fed up and irritated with me before it's time to leave once again.

This is another good reason for marrying relatively late in life, as your spouse won't have enough time to grow to loathe you before you drop off the perch naturally before he or she resorts to greasing the stairs.

Last time we went out I had arranged tickets to see Randy Newman with a bite to eat beforehand. This time it was the DL's turn to sort things out.

She had been listening to what I had been saying (guys, apparently listening to your partner is good and should be encouraged), and had stored away in her head the fact that I wanted to see the new film "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel". The film stars a brace of Dames in Judi and Maggie, and a generally fabulous cast including Ronald Pickup, Bill Nighy and Celia Imrie.

Everyone I know who had seen it including Janice Long and my dad had raved about it. My father is scarcely a regular film goer - he has seen a couple of films this year and prior to that the last one he saw was Ghandi in 1982!

So, we arranged to meet in the pub at 4:30PM for a pint and packet of crisps. I had the pint and most of the crisps as her mother phoned just as they were opened, so I choffed my way through them whilst she was talking.

This was going to be a surprise, so she wouldn't tell me where we were going. I usually like to make a few stabs at what it might be, usually starting with "is it a duffle coat"?

I always start here, as that is the only time she has surprised me and I have guessed correctly beforehand.

Into the car and we eventually drew up outside one of those tiny cosy cinemas that boast comfy seats and nice snacks.

We even had a sofa so we could sit next to each other. There were two types of pizza and ice cream. Yes, before you start I did spill the ice cream down my front. An evening out is not complete without something being spilled down me, either by others or more usually yours truly.

The cinema was so swanky, even the adverts seemed upmarket. So no ads for curry houses and local garages. No. There were lush commercials for exotic places, including the Azores. First time I have ever seen them advertised.

Luckily I had had a Diet Coke before we came in as the caffeine kept me awake. Not that I was bored, it was just that the seats were so comfortable.

It was a great evening but now the bar has been raised rather high.

My turn in a couple of weeks. How can I top that?

HERE COMES SUMMER!

Weather was spectacular over the weekend. Well, it was where I was and so it was fun to visit friends on Sunday for lunch. Windows down in the car with the wind in my hair.

I still have hair so I am going to enjoy it while it and I last!

We went to visit some friends, Martin and Julie.

They have a sweetheart of a son called Jack, who I am not sure of his age as he is a growing machine and seems to be four or five inches taller every time I see him, although apparently he is not the tallest in his class.

His parents are tall so I suppose it was a genetic possibility that any offspring may be in the Harlem Globetrotter end of the spectrum.

I have often wondered with basketball if it would be possible to be a major league player if you were only about five foot tall.

When we were in the US in 2010, Dark Lady and I went to Madison Square Garden in order to watch the New York Knicks play. They, as did their opponents, seemed awfully tall. We watched one chap regularly on TV during the trip who rushed around and received a terrible battering over the course of the season - a severely blackened and closed eye here and a broken nose there. So intrigued were we with this tiny chap and his dogged determination that we looked him up on the Internet. He was about six foot four! Compared to his seven foot colleagues he seemed tiny.

Meanwhile back at Martin and Julie's, their son Jack (by now probably half an inch taller) was hopping up and down with excitement about lunch, sunshine, bugs and creepy crawlies - in fact pretty much everything. He is possibly the most enthusiastic child I have ever met.

I started pondering about the hopping thing.

Why do children leap up and down with excitement? I get excited about stuff but rarely feel the urge to leap up and down on the spot. Luckily for everyone I didn't, or had we not been in the basement we probably would have ended up there.

Is it that they feel by making themselves appear taller, they will be noticed more easily?

Is it the movement? Do they think adult's eyes only detect movement?

Or is it an inverse thing? Think back to the classroom. The kid who knew the answer and put his hand up as far as he could whilst half out of his seat. Squealing "Miss... miss... please miss".

The teacher would always ignore him and point at the kid with a) no idea or b) who was staring out of the window.

c) This was invariably me.

I would like to see more of this sort of enthusiasm of the hopping up and down sort from our leaders and supposedly betters.

Instead of treating us all like idiots and thinking that if they rushed around forcing down cheap pasties whilst trying to maintain that they ate like this all the time, when in fact nanny had sprinkled beluga caviar and hundreds and thousands (of pounds that is) on their bokoflakes each morning. We would think that they were "just like us" and really really want to vote for them as we trust every utterence of theirs.

In order to earn our respect they should entertain us and demonstrate their enthusiasm for their well paid jobs by hopping up and down, hoping to be chosen to speak by the Speaker of the House of Commons John Bercow who like me is err... "a little chap".

If everyone hopped, not just children but adults of all sizes, the whole concept of "heightism" would be addressed and solved. Another prejudice sorted.

It would be healthy too, so just think of the calories burned. Wouldn't you prefer to be represented in Parliament by an MP at the very peak of his or her powers physically and intellectually, rather than some overstuffed bloke with Port and Venison all down his tie?

I think enthusiastic hopping is the way forward on this one.

Thank you Jack for crystallizing these thoughts. Future generations will thank you.

I worked out this tortuous theory whilst having a walk in the continuing sunshine. As it was now April they were out of the wardrobe and on!

"The weather is going to get so much colder shortly, and it may snow" said the Dark Lady when I told her that the sandals were now on "April to Autumn" as was the norm with my premarital footwear regime.

"No socks till September!"

"Don't be silly" she said.

I haven't told her about the hopping theory yet!

THE BOYS ARE BACK IN TOWN!

Friday and it was the weekend. Yaaaay!
My mate Libido Boy (who was one of the best men at my wedding last December) hit town, as we were due to go to a gig. Not seen him this year so far so was really looking forward to it.
We headed off for the Union Chapel, a beautiful venue in London's Islington to see the fabulous Roseanne Cash.
The way these evenings usually go is he arrives, then we have to um and ah about what shoes he is going to wear. He is in the leather trade, so footwear is very important to him. The rest of him may look a mess at times but his shoes are always immaculate.

Then we have to decide if we are hungry or not, as we won't be eating anything apart from salty snacks until the post-pub burger at around 2AM.

This time hunger was decided upon, so we went to an Italian place and as usual I got olive oil down the front of my shirt.

The Union Chapel is a gorgeous venue for this type of concert. It was going to be a quiet acoustic night with Roseanne and her husband John Leventhal on guitar.

First on were two young lads called "Winter Mountain", who came across as nice young chaps but seemed to me to be a wannabe Simon and Garfunkel without either the songs or the beauty of the harmonies. LBoy liked then and they got a warm round of applause, so it may have just been my cynical jaded ears.

Then during the interval we had a rock n' roll ice cream each. (It is that sort of venue). I had chocolate. Lboy went mad with a vanilla tub.

He also is unable to see a woman without chatting to her. Turns out she was the wife of Simon Nicol from Fairport Convention, who was sitting next to her. We talked and found out we had friends in common. Then the main event.

From the moment they walked on stage we were rapt. I had forgotten how good a singer she was and at 57 years of age has not withered at all.

She ran through a lot of songs from her album "Black Cadillac" and the more recent "The List", including "Sea of Heartbreak" which I played on the show Monday morning.

She even did a killer version of "Ode To Billie Joe", the Bobbie Gentry song of which I am not a particular fan, although I certainly warmed to it after her version particularly as she mentioned at the end that she had no idea what they had thrown of the Tallahatchee Bridge either. Which was gratifying as it has baffled me for years too.

We wondered if there would be any Johnny Cash songs in the set, and when the audience called out for some she neatly sidestepped it politely and rather cleverly with the words:

"I don't go to my Dad's office to do his work for him!"

All in all a perfect evening. Beautiful music performed with enthusiasm and humour. What more could two middle aged men full of pasta and ice cream ask for?

BEEEERRRRRR!!!!

We hopped into a cab and headed for Camden, and a pub we always go to called "The Elephant's Head", although for some bizarre reason that always comes out of the Dark Lady's mouth as "The Blue Elephant".

At this stage in the evening Libido Boy starts to worry about his salt intake and I get concerned about my liver.

The reason is that LBoy likes a packet of crisps with every drink. I just like a few pints.

Bearing in mind that scarcely if not a drop passes my lips during the week these days, I felt that we should push the boat out on this a special occasion.

DL, who naturally worries about her idiot husband, did text and ask how the "hevvvy drinking" was going. So I had to send her a picture to show that we weren't getting into any trouble. Unlikely, as apart from the guy on the wheels of steel we are probably the oldest people in this pub by 30 years.

After the obligatory burger from a street vendor and the boozy walk home that was it for a perfect evening. Got into bed about 3.00 am and woke up on the dot of 7!