RELIGHT MY FIRE

Dark Lady had a birthday the other week. So the brains were wracked as to what would be a suitable gift for someone so young and discerning.  With presents I have always found the easiest way to work our what is best and what would be most welcome as a gift is to listen to their conversation; many unconscious tips can found in everyday discussions (this is as opposed to dropping clonking great hints in the vain hope that these will bear fruit come Birthday or Christmas). 

Maybe this is why my whispered "Lamborghini Lamborghini Lamborghini" or "aeroplane aeroplane aeroplane" have so far proved fruitless. I say so far because, although my birthday came and went with this fabulous laptop (on which I am writing this blog), Christmas is but a few short months away (as you will discover in a couple of weeks when the fake snow appears in the Arndale Centre, as the Elves start to build the grotto ready for Santa to inhabit from the end of August until early March next year) so maybe there will be something parked in the street with a ribbon round it which pertains to something I have muttered into the DL's sleeping ear.

 

 

So...what to get her.  Whilst I was puzzling and thinking back to all those conversations we have had over the last few weeks (they usually began, as I recall, with her asking me something like: "Another drink, dear?" or "Another helping?" or even...actually, I am not going there in a public blog.)

 

The children beat me to it with the best gift of all.  Tickets.  DL loves music of all kinds and has broader taste than me.  So she had muttered something about wanting to see Take That on their current arena tour and - for some reason - I must have overlooked that.  I think she may have broached the topic and I had doubtless - in my usual charmless way - retorted, "What do you want to see some aging boy-band for?"

 

As her birthday happened to be on a Saturday, the night of the gig, it was family and friends BBQ time. Lovely people turned up in the back garden, including ex-husband - and the children's father - Barry.

 

People often ask if we "get on".  The answer very simply is, "yes," and I like him very much.  He is also a man of many talents notwithstanding his ability with a BBQ.

 

At my place I have a BBQ.  However, it is a cheaters' device as it is a gas powered one.  The one at the DL's house is good, solid, old-fashioned charcoal.  This separates the men from the boys.

 

 

I have tried over the years and have always ended up with under-done sausages with over-done chicken.  Although occasionally I have managed to create under-done chicken with over-done sausages.  If everything is going well though, I can cook up a feast of sausages, chicken, burgers and shrimp.  All either over or under-done.  Just stipulate which and it's coming up!

 

Barry has no such problems. On goes the charcoal; a fire-lighter or two later and the food is being shovelled onto plates and shovelled into mouths.

 

"Does this not make you feel less of a man?" people ask, the ex-husband taking surely your rightful place as man of the house at the BBQ?

 

In a word: No.  I would far rather watch people doing the work and eat the results than stand around in a comedy apron sweating whilst all around people talked among themselves and enjoyed the fruits of my labours.

 

 

I imagine the job of the lone BBQ-ist is akin to that of the cocktail pianist: You give your all for your arts and everyone talks all the way through and ignores you.

 

Wonder what the serial killer rate is among background musicians.

 

"CARNAGE AT THE SAVOY AS PIANIST GOES BERSERK WHEN NO ONE APPLAUDS HIS RENDITION OF 'BEGIN THE BEGUINE'"!

 

Burger-ed to the brim, it was time to cadge a lift off Barry down to Wembley Stadium.  I had to remember to be on my best behaviour and not act like a sullen adolescent.  For in truth - and the Dark Lady knew only too well - I am not a big Take Thatfan. I had to be positive, happy and smiling, although without that faintly creepy edge you get when you are stopped in the street by beaming religious zealots in dark suits asking if you are "happy".

 

Producer Dr Strangelove said he was going, although we thought the chances of meeting up with him in a stadium that seats 90,000 or so was going to be a bit of a tall order.  He suggested we went there and back on the London Underground.  However, as we are in North London and had a free lift it seemed more sensible to us to get a lift there and order a cab in advance to collect us at the end.

 

Many of the DL's mates had been and said that most of the action took place by the walkway between the main stage and the island stage way out in the arena.  So we elected to see if we could worm our way to the front as DL and I are not the tallest; I have mentioned in previous blogs how annoying it is at standing room-only venues to see anything with a lummox or two plonked in front of you blocking all available light and view.

 

 

We did a little worming but frankly it was obvious that this was a hiding to nothing and, whilst I said nothing and beamed so as not to spoil anything, DL noticed my bottom lip trembling so we grabbed some seats near the side of the main stage. 

 

In fact we had a great view and what shortcomings there were were made up for by the huge screens.

 

We also had free tap water courtesy of the security.  Result!

 

 

Pet Shop Boys were the support act and did a greatest hits set complete with dancers/backing singers dressed like hybrid Lego/Humans. They were spectacularly camp and given Strangeo's love of all things of this nature, I sent him a text asking him if he was enjoying the show and where was he...

 

HE WAS ONLY IN THE VIP ENCLOSURE!

 

Interval time and all that free water had gone straight through me so I headed off to the khazi.  Everywhere I went the Gents had been turned over to the Ladies and long queues stretched around the block.  Eventually I found ours.  In I went and discovered one other bloke in there.  Then it struck me: we were dealing with a boy band here.  So 99% of the audience were women and of the remaining 1%, well, there may have been the odd bit  of uncertainty, hence the tone of the applause.  I wondered why it sounded like high-pitched shrieking!  Bit like a kids' party where Boko the Clown has just accidentally bitten the head off one of the doves he had hidden in his huge comedy trousers.

 

 

On came the band and the screaming started in earnest.  "This could be a long evening," I thought as I beamed at the happy DL's radiant face, hoping that I wasn't spoiling it for her with some half-understood passive aggressive body language.

 

 

Two tunes in and I was hooked.  They were great.  I am still not a fan of their music but the show was spectacular.  The lads came on without Robbie at first, did a few tunes, then on came Robbie Williams.  I am told he suffers from stage fright and this means he adopts a rather bizarre persona which involves a lot of hectoring and totally unnecessary swearing.  He came over as a bit of berk, frankly. 

 

Then they were all on and the shrieking reached an even greater pitch.  They did all the hits and for the doubters, such as myself, they were totally professional and well-drilled,  each number was choreographed with spectacular effects: explosions, great sheets of flame, fake snow effects and an enormous robot which stood up and moved into the centre of the arena.  Reminded us a bit of the robot Gort from The Day the Earth Stood Still.

 

 

Friend of mine recently saw Kylie Minogue and also commented on the high quality of the effects.  Cynics can argue that this takes away from the perhaps poor quality of the music, but frankly we went to see a show and that is what we got.  Certain things demand certain procedures.  Explosions flames, dancers and a 100ft robot certainly worked for Take That.

 

An evening of Lute classics with Julian Bream would probably not benefit from having the maestro lifted up and spun round on a gantry at the Festival Hall..

 

It was an exhilarating evening and I thoroughly enjoyed it.  Dark Lady could sense I was too as we filed out of the stadium in search of our cab.  We found it and then sat in traffic for 2 hours taking us the five miles home.

 

Dr Strangelove said he had no difficulty getting back to his place after, although it was considerably further than we had to travel.

 

He has been strangely silent about how he managed it.  Putting two and two together as he was in the VIP section he probably travelled back with the band or by helicopter.

 

This may have something to do with his new status as an "executive" which I will touch on in my next blog.

If you're not already following me on Facebook - yes, I am catching up with the rest of the world...slowly - then you can add me here.  

If you're not already following me on Twitter, add me @alexthedarklord or visit here . 

And if you want to hear a record on the shoe - maybe one you haven't heard in years, one that means something to you or just a darned good record you think would sound great, then I would love to hear from you. Submit your suggestions here.

And - last thing - make sure you download this week's Oddcast; the funniest bits from the week all mixed together in one bite-seized chunk. Click here.

 

IF YOU'RE GOING TO SAN FRANCISCO (Part 2)

After a night in Mesquite and another night in a Casino watching people struggling to enjoy themselves (and by the look on their miserable faces, failing), we set course back to San Francisco.  Having seen the new Simon Pegg and Nick Frost film, Paul, about two nerds who find an alien in the desert, we knew what to expect when we arrived here.  We were wrong; it was deserted. Totally geekless and try as we might - despite skirting the Van Ness airbase - we saw no sign of aliens, military activity or even the famed Area 51.  I am sure conspiracy theorists would have a field day.  My view is that - due to the invisibility ray that the US Government have obviously been given by the Venusians in exchange for halting the Space Shuttle programme - mere mortals, without the special implant, can't see the base!  (Wibble tweet!) 

The road went on forever as we crossed the basin, eyes peeled for even the slightest glimpse of anything out of the ordinary. 105F heat as we headed for "Warm Springs". A big mistake dawned on me as I checked the hotel booking reference when we stopped for lunch at a diner. The Warm Springs we were headed to was a ghost town.  The Warmn Springs where I had booked the hotel was, erm, actually in Georgia!

 DL is used to my ways and didn't even bat an eyelid when I told her that if we wanted to go to the hotel I had booked in Warm Springs, it was over 1,900 miles away so it would be a rather a long day. So we carried on until we hit Tonopah way up in the mountains which boasted "America's best sky-watching". Think they meant stars rather than anything alien. Although, judging by the looks we were getting from the locals in this half-horse town, struggling to survive now that the mining had long since ceased, we may as well have just parked our capsule outside the town's only bar. We headed for the Mexican restaurant which was the only other thing open. Swore we heared banjos playing as we tottered back to the motel full of beer and refried beans awhile later. Not too much of a while as everything shut at 9pm!

Hot footed it out of Tonopah and headed for familiar territory, Lee Vining (which was one of the first stops on my very first American Adventure back in 2007), the Gateway to the Yosemite National Park and situated on the shores of Mono Lake.  Last time I had stayed in a guest house which smelled of coffee and cinammon.  Nice, but I shared a bathroom.  Not something that I wanted the DL to endure.  She would have been fine with it but I wanted something special.  So via the internet I had booked us into the Tioga Lodge.  Overlooking the lake, each room was an individual cabin.  The website boasted a "Saloon" as well as a fine restaurant.  When we arrived we were informed that the Saloon and the restaurant were not open for the season yet and they had not bothered to mention this on the website; as it would opening in a few days it didn't seem worth it.  We checked out with dire mutterings from the manager about cancellation charges.  We pointed out that they were selling something that wasn't actually available to us so frankly this was mis-representation.  Popped in to the tourist information centre which also doubled as the Chamber of Commerce where a very nice lady directed us to a motel across the street which was opposite a fine bar, diner and restaurant.  She also sympathised when we explained about Toiga Lodge and revealed that ours had not been the first complaint they had had about the place.

Bright and early next morning we headed for Yosemite National Park. DL had wanted to see this so much. Rather than hire a Sat Nav we bought one in San Francisco before we hired the car. This actually worked out cheaper than hiring one with the car. Plus, we can use it again on future visits.

We swung right out of the car park headed down the hill past the Tioga Lodge. Thumbed our noses at it, skirted Mono Lake and starting climbing. Fairly soon we were seeing snow capped mountains and the 105F of the previous day was a more managable 66F.

"I'm sure we are going the wrong way" said the Dark Lady.

"Nah, GPS definitely said turn right"

"It just seems that where the sun is we are heading South rather than West."

"Nah, just the road takes the easiest route through the mountains"

"Perhaps we should ask someone"

"Well, if you insist," said I wearily stopping at a Ranger station.

A couple of minutes later I exited having spoken to a very nice and clued-up young man.

"Well?" asked the D.L

"Er, seems we should have turned left, not right, out of the motel parking lot. Erm, the GPS was obviously finding its bearings," I muttered sheepishly.

"So how far off-track are we?"

"Well, the entrance to Yosemite was 150 yds from, er, the motel, apparently"

"How far are we from our starting point now then"?

"Er, 25 miles"

"So we will have added 50 miles to the total journey as a result of you turning right instead of left out of the car park?!"

"Looks that way"

"Well the scenery has been spectacular so it will be amazing to see Yosemite when we get there"

Now you know why I love this woman so much.

We retraced out steps and carried on climbing, reaching around 10,000 feet above sea level. 55F the Sun was shining and the views took your admittedly-rather-thin-breath away. We were above the snow line at the end of June and the ice was still two-feet thick in the lakes.

Sonora was our next stop, and a wonderful creaky old hotel with verandas overlooking the street along the front of both storeys of the hotel. Each room had his and hers rocking chairs and a table outside.  The skies had darkened as we left Yosemite and, as we wandered hand-in-hand down the street of this historic old town, the heavens opened.  When it rains in the US, it really rains.  We hid in a doorway until it abated for a couple of seconds and rushed into a rather elegant French-themed restaurant.  DL had suggested we splash out a little and insisted she was paying.  We squelched into the place which was pretty popular so had to wait a couple of minutes before a table became vacant.  Like many small towns they roll up the streets at 9pm so we only had about 40 minutes to eat.  The food was good and I plumped for the meat loaf ("plumped" is a word favoured by restaurant critics).  It may not seem very French, but there were other more Gallic dishes on offer.  I fancied some vegetables so meat loaf it was.  Only slight hiccup in the plan was there was no potato left as it was near closing time, so I had to have the nearest thing: spaghetti.  Let's face it, starch is starch!  Oh, and the other downside...er, I set light to the menu.  It was an honest accident! I had it open and didn't notice that one corner was dipping in and out of the flame.  We doused it before we were flambee'd.  (Told you it was French themed)!

By mid-afternoon the following day, we were back in San Francisco. We wanted to have a full day to relax and do some more sight-seeing, as well as having a bit of a walk. The road trip had been great fun but you tend to forget your legs work after a few days despite us having a swim most evenings when we checked into a motel with a pool, which most had. Checked back into the original hotel from whence we had started ten days before and I went to return the car. Because we had upgraded from the Eclipse to the muscle car that was the Camaro, there was some more to pay.

"Er, Sir, your card appears to have been stopped"

Itchy fingers clutched at my heart. I knew I had enough money on the card as I had secretly booked some concert tickets earlier that morning online whilst the DL was abluting.

The lady behind the counter patiently went through a lengthy telephone conversation with my bank.

"Yes, he is here with me now. Yes, it is him, his passport and credit card signatures do match, yes. Yes, as you say his date of birth and other information is accurate."

She replaced the reciever looked at me and said: "I am sorry, Sir, your bank say they won't unblock your card!"

So, purpled faced with embarassment I called the Dark Lady and she came rushing down with alternative cards and cash and beads and gifts of furs, fire, water and anything else we thought was needed. Another card went through without problem.

I was furious. Needless to say the helpline for my bank never answered and their website was not functioning. I tried the card in the ATM in the hotel; it was refused. A few minutes later I tried it again. It worked!

Since my return I have had a rather testy exchange with my bank who claim there was never a stop on the card and they had no communication from the car rental company whatsoever. So who to believe?

The following day we set out on a nice long walk round the city. It is a great place for walking (despite the hills). The heat is bearable and the views are magnificent. We went to the Castro district, which is a famous gay hangout. We had recently watched the film, Milk, with Sean Penn who plays Harvey Milk who became the first openly-gay Mayor and was promptly assassinated. We photographed the sight of his camera shop and had a late breakfast at "Harvey's", a streetcorner diner and by-night comedy club. As we were eating the waiter wafted up to us and aksed if we would like a drink as a man at the bar wanted to buy us one. We were puzzled but politely declined. I wondered if it was going to be a scene from Indecent Proposal and the guy wanted to sleep with the Dl for $1m. Either that or, as we were in the Castro district, some desperate bloke seeing me wanted to do something similar!

When the bill came the waiter told us that the fresh orange juice had been paid for by the "gentleman at the bar".

We went over and there was a bloke about my age. His name was Mohammed. His sister worked as a nurse in London and he had the softest hands I had ever touched. We thanked him and asked what had prompted his generosity?

"You look such a sweet couple"

We floated out of the place on gossamer wings. What a superb gesture. We had noticed how kind folks were in San Francisco. Further down the street I turned to the DL and asked, "Do you think he meant 'You looked such as sweet OLD couple'"?

The final night and the final surprise. I am a hog for surprises and I love watching the Dark Lady's face when I spring one on her. In Sonora, I had been having a sneaky peek at what was moving in the City on our final night. DL had met a guy in the laundry room of the hotel who had just moved from New York and was saying how, even compared to the Big Apple (see, I am practically a native!), San Francisco had more culture.

We had meant to go down to have a look at City Hall and UN Plaza before we set off on the road-trip part of the holiday, but didn't have time. I suggested we walked down there and, as we strolled gently past legions of bums (San Francisco does seem to have a terrible homeless problem, never seen it as bad anywhere else), I gently pointed out that we were on our way to a "cultural event".

I guided her gently up the steps of the opera house to the doors where the posters announced "The Ring by Richard Wagner".

You know only too well I can't abide Opera and DL is not a fan either.

"Here we are I said...culture"!

"Well if you have tickets for it I am sure it will be wonderful," she said, bottom lip trembling slightly.

"Actually I thought it would be better if we crossed the road to the Symphony Hall to see the San Francisco Symphony."

DL has as broader range of musical taste than myself; although not a Classical music fan I do like a good orchestra. This one was even better as they were backing Pink Martini who I have played many times on the show as part of "Lesters Library".

They were fantastic and had a whole host of music guests including Ari Shapiro, who is the Washington Correspondent for National public Radio, who came up with a wonderful gag which I shall steal next time I make an appearance anywhere and Joey Arias. To call him a drag act would be a disservice. He was dressed as a bloke and his forte is singing in the style of Billie Holiday. He did "You've Changed" and brought the house down. Mid-way through the song he stopped and said to the audience:

"I know what you're thinking....yes I AM!"

It was the perfect end to a perfect holiday. Although there was one more surprise to come....

We had most of the day to kill on the Friday as the flight didn't leave until 7pm. So we wandered around. Had breakfast at Mel's Drive-In on Van Ness. Good old fashioned diner although it wasn't a drive in. Food was excellent. Service was incredibly slow, mind. By the time we had finished there was time for a gentle stroll back to the hotel to collect our bags and wait for ther cab to arrive.

When it did we had lucked out! (Or is it lucked IN. Never sure about that) they had no ordinary taxis left so they had to send a stretched limo for us.

I told them I suddenly felt very famous.

It was an all too-short drive to airport and, as we handed over the fare (including a generous tip!), we thanked the driver and her companion for their hospitality and the Chauffeur said to us: "It is a pleasure driving such sweet people"

There we go again. "Sweet old couple"!!!

IF YOU'RE GOING TO SAN FRANCISCO

Here's a few snaps from my holidays...

First day in San Francisco and we bagged a couple of superb seats on the cable car from Powell St to Fishermans wharf.  We did big breakfast with the best Orange juice we have ever tasted.  Sea Lions, Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge on a boat trip round the bay. Then we did a long walk around the City in the sunshine.

Saturday night and to the Oakland Colisseum to watch the "A's" play the San Francisco Giants. Near capacity family crowd. Home and visiting fans all mixed up together.  Giants fan shouted "A's suck!" and was told to stop being rude by nearby spectators. Football fans note. This beats sending bombs to managers of opposing teams.

Collected the car. Managed to swap with another couple who thought that a Camaro was going a bit muscle too far! They had the Mitsubishi Eclipse and we had this beast.  Yaaay!

Headed down the Pacific Coast Highway towards Big Sur. Stayed in a coastal bar/motel/shack. Reminded us of the film The Fog and The Ghost and Mrs Muir. Bar/Restaurant crammed with bits of driftwood and dead whale. Chowder was ace.

Across Death Valley in 118F heat. To Las Vegas.  Booked into a casino and were upgraded. The new room had a water leak above the jacuzzi. So upgraded again to a suite with a bigger Jacuzzi as well as a full kitchen and laundry facilities and a huge sitting room with L-shaped leather sofa and marble topped table with seating for 6.  The suite also boasted 5 TV sets including a pub style overhead projector.  Dark Lady lost $1 in a slot machine so our gambling spree started and ended there! 

Left Vegas behind and headed east.  Blew into Williams (this is what you do when you don't have a reservation).  Fabulous one horse town on Route 66. Now the interstate has opened it is a backwater.  Arrived just in time for a Wild West evening. Lot of shouting and shooting.  Fabulous BBQ then on to a bar the walls lined with shot stuff. When you live out in the sticks. Guns are obviously one of the only sources of entertainment.

Boggled at the Grand Canyon then drove through the heat to my favourite location, Monument Valley. "The View" is the only hotel in the National park.  Owned and operated by Navajo's, it boasts Native American cuisine and no alcohol.  So nothing to dull the senses.  Set the alarm so we could wake in time to watch the sunrise.  This is what we saw from the balcony of our room. Already a week had flown by.

I'M A STEADY ROLLIN' MAN

Been a mite busy just "doing" of late and not had much to write about. So I have heaved myself into the chair and fired up the all-new laptop to bring you the latest instalments of "Alex Lester: A Life Pretty Ordinary".

The all-new laptop was a result of a generous birthday gift from the Dark Lady; she had been eyeing up my battered and rather sad-looking 7 year-old machine for some months now.

"You need a new computer so you can get down to writing that book," she quoth.

I had been "in talks" with a major publisher last year who had commissioned a synopsis and three chapters of my, erm, "memoirs". I had slaved over the keyboard for days on this project. From my early life as a Doctor’s son in the Midlands through to my first job as a gorilla at the zoo. (True. I wore a green suit). My first tentative steps in local radio through to the heady delights of the nation’s favourite radio network.

Along the way, sorry tales of broken relationships, depression, betrayal, addiction, suicide attempts, criminal acts, failed TV pilots and the full unexpurgated story of my relationship with Sarah Kennedy.

(OK, some of the above have been added to make a better story…even if they are not exactly, erm, true.)

The publishers were delighted…and then recession hit and the project was "shelved".

"We have had to put Wayne Rooney's book back too," they said.

Well, it was easy to see why as he had just been pilloried for a less than successful World Cup and – what, with his private life - has not exactly regained his place as the nation’s second most-loved footballer. The first being David Beckham.

(Ryan Giggs was second but due to recent events in our unscientific poll has now tumbled to 459th just below Hastings United's goalkeeper, Seb Barton.)



So it is back to the drawing board and the book remains in limbo; unfinished and mostly inside my head. One day maybe it will be commissioned and I can watch it being made into several films, retire on the proceeds and devote my life to philanthropic pursuits (which I think means jet-setting around the world as a self-appointed expert, poking your nose in where it is not wanted, when all that was actually required of you was a good sturdy cheque-writing arm.)



Day follows day with dizzying speed at the moment and - I may have mentioned this in the past - but I think we have reached the moment where the "low level Devil" wakes up and starts being a mite tricky, making life a tad harder than it actually needs to be. In other words, we have reached the point where everything seems to be falling to bits under my touch.

At home the other day, and deciding that it would be nice to wake up to a good cool smoothie which - according to the bottle accounts for “2 of my 5 a day” - I reached into the fridge and retrieved a nice warm bottle of....!!! Warm?

Yup! Another fridge/freezer had died. You may recall those with long memories that approximately ten years ago I cruelly and heartlessly murdered the previous occupant of that space in my kitchen. I tried to help the defrosting process with a butcher’s knife rather than a blunt implement, as I later read was recommended.

Being a bloke and being heir to all those bloke things, I am unable to read instruction manuals. The way to get anything to work is by stabbing the buttons repeatedly with sausage fingers ‘til it either worked or broke and then taking it back to the shop in high dudgeon: "This doesn't work. You sold me a pup!"

The Dark Lady does the most brilliant impression of me in full-on Grump mode. It is witheringly accurate as well as hysterically funny when she does it. It is almost worth being a grouch on occasion just to witness it. It sounds simple but it is done with enormous finesse. She stands in front of me and says very quickly loudly and gruffly:

"RARARARARARAH!"

This apparently is what I sound like. No words. Just this ejaculation.

The other week I came back to her place after the show in a taxi. When I made it to the front door and reached in to my pocket I realised my house keys were back in the studio 4 miles away. So there was nothing for it but to drive back to work and retrieve them.

I hammered on the door in a ferocious bate. Beautiful and bleary she opened the door. Realising what had happened she said:

"Don't worry, I will give you a lift in later and you can collect them".

I wanted them NOW. Not LATER!!! I also wanted a big slice of pork pie and to go to bed!

So I gently and kindly and with enormous love explained that I would grab my car keys and drive back to the BBC, then collect my keys and would be back in the house within the hour.

Apparently according to the DL what I actually said was:

"RARARARARARARARARARARARARAAHH!!"

as I stomped off down the path.



So my fridge freezer had bitten the dust along with a lifetime’s supply of ready meals. Even the ice had gone mouldy. Well, it was now more like pond water in truth.

RARARARARARARARAAHH!

(Trans: Rats! Nothing to keep the beer cold. I will have to keep it in the toilet)

The laptop I am using to type this blog is far and away an improvement on the previous model and it is in modish silver. Thing was, when I first switched it on and started to use it, for some reason it decided that every time I typed @ it would substitute ". Luckily, with my mind akin to a steel trap, I soon discovered after typing every other letter on the keyboard that if I simply typed " out would pop @!

However, this is not what is meant to happen.

"RARARARARARARARARAAAHHH!"

The above translated means: I would ask you. You have been so helpful in the past with problems various that have occurred in my life. Be they which presents to buy for weddings and anniversaries, places to go and how to lose sufficient weight to get into those target leather trousers, how we can shame Producer Dr Strangelove into spending as much time at the gym working on his legs as he does on his upper body and the like.




We have warned him, you and I, that the above could be the result if he doesn't heed our warning!

You immediately pointed out that if the " is where the @ should be it was because the computer was functioning on US settings. What no-one has explained is why any American would want to transpose those symbols. However, I suppose if you are a nation that is unable to spell English words correctly putting " for @ and vice versa makes perfect sense.

@RARARARARARARARARAAAAHH@

(This is me in a grump Stateside!)

A few swift key strokes by the Dark Lady and the computer was restored to its rightful British settings. We of course celebrated with a cup of tea!

The next day I was due to take my car to be MOT'd and serviced. The vehicle, you may recall, was the replacement four years ago for the "Ford Mid-life crisis": my Mazda RX-7 which was my pride and joy until it caught fire at Oxford Services on the M40. This was replaced by a more modern vehicle a Nissan 350Z which has served me admirably ever since. (Although, not using a car much these days now that the show comes from London, it tends to spend a lot of time just sitting. So I had to charge the battery the night before so that I would be able to take it to the garage the next day.)

After the show I hopped in, started the engine and drove north. By the time got to Newport Pagnell services on the M1 the sun was shining and I was beginning to feel a little sleepy.

So I pulled over into the car park, switched everything off and dozed off for half-an-hour. When I came to, I had a quick wash and brush-up and turned the key in the ignition.

BIG FAT NOTHING!

Battery was dead.

"RARARARARARARARAAAHH"

(Trans: "It's broken")

I phoned the breakdown people with the yellow vans.

Trevor turned up within half an hour. Tested the battery not once but twice, pronounced it dead and fitted a brand new one and departed, as did I shortly after for the Main Dealer.

"It will all be sorted, Mr Lester, and we have a couple of recall notifications so we will be replacing the Clutch Master cylinder and the Engine Management System free of charge. Ready for you Friday.”

Friday arrived and I arrived at the garage.



"Nearly finished, Mr Lester. Slight problem though; we have replaced the parts but now don't seem to be able to start the engine."!

"RARARARARARARARARAHHH"!

(This was a translation of: "oh well, not to worry, I am not in a hurry)

"All done. What is your radio code incidentally as we need it to make it work as it is currently locked out?"

"Er, no idea"

"We will have to take the radio out and cross reference it with the serial number on our computer"

"RARARARARARARARARAAAHHH!"

(Trans: “Will this take long?”)

True to their word, another fifteen minutes and I was on my way.

Time for a hobby I hate: gardening. My Sister and Brother-in-law are avid gardeners and seem to spend much of their waking hours dibbing, weeding, pruning, mulching and all those rather back-breaking and grimy things which stop a person watching high quality Teevee like Escape to the Country or, in my case, Chuck and The Cleveland Show.

My house has been disappearing under some creepers for some time now and with the recent rains the green nemesis had been redoubling its efforts to turn my humble abode into something resembling one of those Mayan temples that are occasionally discovered in the jungle.



This involved secateurs, a ladder and me leaning against some guttering.

It also involved a torrential downpour and the down pipe from the first floor (where it met the guttering along the side of the ground floor single storey extension) discharging its contents of several gallons of water and dead leaves into the pocket of my jeans.

"RARARARARARARARAAAHH!"

(Trans: “Brrr, not to worry I will soon dry out!”)

This chore being accomplished, it was to the Dark Lady and one of her spectacular culinary creations.



Her house being neat but also tiny, whenever the heat from the oven hits the ceiling upon the door being opened it sets off the smoke alarm.

"RARARARARARARARARAAHH!"

(Trans: "Don't worry, dear, I will fan it with this newspaper until it stops for a few seconds")

I removed the battery. Unfortunately when I went to replace it I accidentally broke the cover.

DL was unconcerned. I vowed to replace it with a special "Toast Proof" one designed for kitchens.

The Dark Lady has had her fair share of mishaps over the last few months. She had the living room decorated shortly before the khazi sprang a leak and so had to have the decorating done all over again.

Just before I began this blog I had to phone her to explain that in removing the broken smoke alarm and attempting to replace it with the new improved "Toast Proof" one, unfortunately a considerable quantity of paint had adhered to the alarm casing and had torn off from the ceiling. The new alarm being a more compact beast there was now an exposed area of severely damaged paint.

She said:

"Don't worry. When we get some money I will get the decorator back and he can fix it and fit the new alarm properly. Probably best if you don't put those shelves up in Jamie's bedroom, I'll get a professional in to do that too.”

I think this was a translation of:

"RARARARARARARARARARARAAAHHHH!!!"

TRAIN I RIDE 16 COACHES LONG

Normally one day drifts gently into another. However, over the last few weeks things have been far busier for some reason. Not sure why this is and it does make me understand how the elderly can find that one activity per day is more than enough.

A typical day for me would be up at 1am, scratch myself. Clean teeth. Pull on clothes. Amble in to do the show. Play tunes. Fool about. Back to bed. More scratching.

 

Up about 10.30. Scratch (ooh that's good). Few phone calls. Listen to some CDs for Lester's Library (this can be done whilst scratching. Who says guys can't multi-task?)

Go for a walk. Maybe drift around some record shops.

Catch up on some TV that I have recorded including the excellent music documentaries on BBC4, as well as my current US favourites, Chuck and V; they are glossy escapism. For some reason, with British drama I am aware of the acting far more as the actors only seem to have two speeds:-

1) To show anger: High pitched shrieking

2) To demonstrate emotion, threats, passion, urgency and in fact anything other than anger: whispery husking. This is particularly noticeable when I play promotional trailers on the show for BBC TV shows:-

"Uh-oh, there they go acting again!"

With hindsight, point 1 above - to show anger - can also be demonstrated via point 2 - whispery husking - as well. So actors with only the one speed rather than the two can get work in soaps quite easily.

This is not an exact science, I will admit, but it is just a feeling I get from five minutes of Doctors.

(Yes I know I am still smarting from them cutting out my cameo in that show as "Mad Patient" about ten years ago. I mean really I was brilliant. I twitched. I foamed. My eyes bulged. I sweated. It was an Oscar-winning performance which never made the screen. Grrrr!)

So upon consulting the "Lifetime at a glance" diary which, until recently, just had "my funeral" as the only entry (although not on any particular date but a tad closer than it was last year) I not only realised that three months had passed, but thirty years had passed also in the blink of any eye.

I had been invited to a staff reunion; it is 40 years since BBC Radio Humberside opened. This party was for those who had worked there during the first ten years. One of my first jobs with the BBC was as a "Station Assistant" which was a terrific job to have; you did everything from operating the rather antique equipment that was in use back then to doing interviews researching and producing material, as well as presenting stuff. Janice Long started out the same way and at the same time at Radio Merseyside. I had a locum job so was based in Birmingham but sent to stations that needed extra help due to staff absence, special events etc..

One of my first postings was to Hull. I had to look it up on the map. Back then the only reason to go there was to get the ferry to Holland. Within a couple of days of my arriving I was presenting the farming programme snappily entitled, Farm. I had the most terrific time careering round the fleshpots of the city and seeking out wonderful pubs like The Polar Bear and The Zoological, as well as taking a leak under King Billy's statue and marvelling at the glass cisterns in the legendary public convenience.

Thirty years later I was on the train wondering what had happened to my old stamping ground. I have been there a couple of times since for flying visits but not really had a chance to wander around.

On my first visit the Humber Bridge was still under construction and so the only quick way across was by the ferry from Barton. This was also the railway station so you had to drive along the platform to get on the boat. In those days the boozers all shut during the afternoon. However, due to some local legal loophole there was a bar on the ferry. So at chucking out time the local drunks bought a ticket and gravitated to the ferry where they sat all afternoon going back and forth until the pubs in town reopened about 5pm.

I remember once travelling across the water with a friend who tottered up to a bunch of very tough looking blokes surrounded by empties and asked:

"Is this the Captain’s table?"

Like so many of our cities, Hull has changed immeasurably (probably for the better) as industry has declined or changed. Time was you could smell the fish being landed at the docks. Now they are no more and the warehouses have been turned into swanky apartments and there are yachts moored in the basin.

Hotels have sprung up all over the place and ring roads cut swathes through the city. If you live there I expect you welcomed this urban regeneration. As I walked up Jameson Street past the old abandoned BBC studios above the now closed Post Office, I shed a silent tear for those wonderful days thirty years ago when you could pop across the road to the tiniest pub long-gone called The Bass House, and have a drink with the workers from the Hull Daily Mail and watch the documentary, Strangeways, on the TV high-up on a shelf in the corner. One night a burly bloke put his pint down pointed at the box and exclaimed…

"Look, it’s Chalky. He's still in!"

After and before we weaved our way home we would drop by the best takeaway in the entire world which delighted in the name, Mmmmm Yankeeburger. It had relishes like I had never seen.

I was living in a grim bedsit in the Avenues area the day the news of John Lennon's murder came on the radio. Everyone on the station did their tribute and played Beatles songs as well as his solo work. One guy (not me, honest!) was a mite confused and played a song by Wings.

So back to the present. Having been dropped off at a rather impressive budget hotel in the eastern part of the city and having to let a group of blokes dressed as Vikings get in the lift first, I found my room. The do was being held in a hotel out by the bridge. As I got in the cab, the driver asked me if it was my first time in the city and admonished, "Be careful when you come back tonight. This is a dodgy area, lot of drug addicts and drunks around here." So despite the gentrification the same old social problems remain.

Arrived a few minutes early and went and looked at the bridge which is rather fine, although I still think it lags behind the Golden Gate for a “Wow” factor. Sent a pic to the Dark Lady; at this point she is busy packing for our trip to San Francisco next month and got a text back; "Golden Gate?"

I hope she didn't think I had fled to the US on the pretext of a trip to Hull.

Now you must understand that it is thirty years since I had seen most of the people at this do.

I of course, as you can imagine, had not changed one iota in that period. I am the same fresh-faced trim youth, although now without the dodgy moustache but a dodgy beard instead.

Once inside I checked over the assembled company: Most were recognisable, a few weren't and, alas, a few were not there due to the grim reaper exacting his terrible price.

There were displays of old publicity photographs and lots of press cuttings and also some archive recordings of those early days. On a couple of them was an absurdly young buck with a dodgy moustache. Blimey! I had changed slightly after all. Perhaps the most worrying thing was I recognised the shirt I was wearing: "Ah yes, I bought that at the Oxford Street branch of Mr Byrite whilst on my BBC training course in 1978!”

We had a fantastic evening and we were asked to tell tales of our time there. So I was able to trot out the oft told story of the “Listeners Trip” to Amsterdam. Judging by the nodding heads everyone knew it, but I soldiered on anyway.

The radio station decided to do a trip to Holland for the weekend and duly hired coaches and hotels and reserved cabins and reclining seats on the ferry. It was a big success and sold out very quickly.

Due to the nature of its programming the station was a huge hit with the elderly. So we duly assembled at the docks to find that one of the passengers hadn't thought to get a passport. She turned up with her only means of identification: a Hull Corporation Transport bus pass!

What was to be done? Well back then we lived in a more innocent age so it was deemed OK and off we went.

On the way back tragedy struck. Whilst straining at the stool one of the passengers carked it with a massive coronary.

What was to be done? Well fortunately the ferry company was geared up for such an eventuality and a cardboard coffin was produced and the unfortunate bloke’s family were informed by radio telephone so they would be waiting dockside upon our return.

As the bearers slowly and with great dignity walked down the gangplank with their precious cargo, they espied a gaggle of hard-faced folk waiting.

"Are you relatives of the deceased"?

"Yes. NOW WHERE'S HIS DUTY FREES??"

After telling the tale to the assembled company, a former colleague approached me and added a postscript to that story. He had just been ordained and after all the stress and strain of becoming a man of the cloth was hoping to have a quiet enjoyable time on the trip and perhaps a chance to save a few souls who were heading speedily to the red light district.

He was roped in to give the last rites so had to leave his beer in the bar and breathe a few boozy prayers over the deceased. Along with a nurse also on the trip they laid out the body but found themselves on the horns of a dilemma. Were they going to put the guy’s false teeth back in? Or leave him, er, au naturel? They opted for the latter.

An hour or so later by now back in the bar he was accosted by the nurse who had had second thoughts. Apparently there has to be two persons present if anything is going to be done to a corpse. So it was back down to the cabin and, some wrestling later, and the guy was resting in peace with his choppers in their rightful place.

It was a fun evening and carried on until the early hours so age hasn't withered us too much, I am delighted to say.

On the train back to London the following morning, we got as far as Selby and stopped due to points failure. After a while we headed backwards and were diverted. A while later we stopped again and once again headed backwards. I never thought it was possible to get lost on a train but obviously it is. I have been on a bus where the driver asked the passengers which direction he should take. Never on a train though. Seemingly hours later I peered out of the window and spotted Ely Cathedral!

Perhaps the driver was a young version of me who, thirty years ago, had to look Hull up on the map. He hadn't looked London up on his map.

Reminds me about the guy who has to deliver a load of wood to London. He sets off from his rural town and after about an hour stops and asks: "Is this London?”

"No mate, that away"

He carries on for another hour and tries again

"Nah mate, keep going south," comes the reply to his question.

This happens a few more times until he realises he is entering a built-up area so stops and asks a passer by:

"Is this London?"

"Yes," says the stranger.

"I've brought yer wood"!

Thang you laydeez and gennlemen I'm here all week!

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). 

AND you can now read all about Nocturnia, our magical and mystical country, created by you and animated by Clive Goddard, see it here

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"