WHALE MEAT AGAIN

It was the Dark Lady's birthday and I had bought her a large and capacious bag. Large enough to swallow small planets whole in fact. However, I had one more trick up my sleeve - a weekend away. She had no idea where we were going, and constantly tried to trick me into revealing the destination with those feminine wiles.

"What shall I wear?"

"Will I need a thick coat?"

"What about a swimming costume?"

"Will it be hot?"

"Will it be cold?"

"Will it be windy?"

The answer to all those questions was naturally...

Yes. The reason being we were off to Iceland to spend a long weekend in Reykjavik.



When I first went there in 1984 it was a far less sophisticated place than it is now. However one thing certainly hasn't changed - the elements. There is a saying, apparently - "if you don't like the weather, wait a minute." Sure enough, rain gives way to sunshine gives way to a howling gale then snow and to top it off sleet and back to sun again.

We had cloud, sun, some rain strong winds and murk in the three days we were there, so the land of ice and fire still doesn't disappoint.

Our hotel was slap bang in the middle of the city. After checking in and sloshing down some very weak Viking beer (alcoholic Beer was illegal until 1989), we set out for something to eat. A stone's throw and we were into a fine all-you-could-eat sea food buffet.



It boasted pretty much all the things I remembered, although this time they seemed to have omitted the marinaded shark and whale blubber in whey. In '84 this tasted like tyre inner tubes in yogurt and was so disgusting it hopefully helped in the suspension of whaling. Sadly though, the meat is now back on the menu.

Ironic really as whale-watching is a big tourist attraction, and if they carry on like this there won't be any left to watch.



We sat and ate and ate, and had a glass of wine and lots of water. Iceland is eyewateringly expensive, particularly on the booze front so we got our money's worth and still outside the sun was shining. In fact we were beginning to flag and still the sun was shining. A saunter round the town and the kids on skateboards made all those youthful noises. The bars began to hot up. The sun shone. We began to flag a bit more.

People started to throng into town and the atmosphere began to electrify. The sun shone brightly in the sky. Reykjavik is a party town, and the weekends are when the populace likes to play. Some load up their four-wheel drives with buckets of booze and tents, head out camping and then drive slowly back red-eyed and hungover on Sunday afternoon. Others just hit the clubs and bars and stay out all night... in the sunshine.

Yes, so close to the Arctic Circle and the sun scarcely sets during the summer. I took this photo from our hotel room window at midnight.



In the winter it's a different story as it only manages a murky twilight by noon, and the rest of the time it's total darkness which doubtless fuels the desire to blot it all out with strong drink. Namely Brennivin, a schnapps made from potato mash and caraway seeds. I have an unopened bottle of 1989 vintage in a cupboard at home which will probably remain that way.



So what to do with the rest of our time? Well luckily, the blackout curtains solved the constant sunshine problem and the windows being shut deadened the clack of skateboard on concrete and thud of drunken body on floor. We slept until sunrise...

Five minutes later.

LITTLE DEUCE COUPE

When the show used to come from Birmingham (which it did from 1995 to early in 2008), I used to commute regularly from the south to the midlands and back again. This meant that every year I did around 35,000 miles, so over thirteen years I did er (fingers fingers...) a LOT of miles. As a result I used to get through cars quite regularly. That, and it got very tedious to be driving the same vehicle day in day out for years on end.



Since moving back south I hardly drive at all. Well (fingers fingers...) not nearly as many in fact - probably under 10,000 per annum. This is a lot cheaper, and less taxing on the vehicle, my pocket and the environment. Also my patience and boredom threshold. It also plays merry hell with my admittedly poor organisational skills.

My trusty steed is now five years old, which I bought as an ex-demonstrator just after my pride and joy (my Mazda RX7) decided it was going to catch fire at Oxford Services on the M40. I still miss that car.



I have always made sure that my current one is main dealer serviced at all the regular intervals, so that in theory when I come to trade it in it should be worth a little more or at the very least be a more attractive proposition for a purchaser.

In the real world of course we know this to be nonsense. The moment you buy a car its value collapses to next to nothing, and the garage doesn't want to know about it unless you want a new one. When the show came back to London it did occur to me that I may not need a car, and so phoned up the garage that sold me the vehicle to see what they would give me for it.

"We're not taking these vehicles at the moment" I was told.

"But they are really nice and it's nearly new and you sold it to me less than a year ago."

"I know, but it's company policy. We are overstocked."

Shortly after I took it for a service and a new model had come out.

"Would you like a salesman to give you a call about a possible trade in?"

"Only if I would be given a decent amount for my current car, otherwise you would be wasting your breath."

Riiiing riiing.

"Hello Mr Lester. I've done some sums and your car is in excellent condition and is currently a low mileage example, so we can offer you an excellent trade in of £112.47p against a very competitive price of a new model at £123,456.22p"

"Whhaaaattt?"

(fingers fingers)

"That is appalling. I'm actually surprised you sell any vehicles at all. My car is running very well so I doubt I'll be coming back to you in the very near future"

Click brrrrrrrr!

A few weeks back I took it for a service. It needed some recall work done on it and the key needed recoding. I forgot to take my spare and it's been in my bag ever since, so I can take it in next time I'm passing.



The other day as I was driving along it suddenly occurred to me.

"Hmmm, wonder when it was last serviced? Not done many miles since and must take the key in. Wonder when the next one is due... (fingers fingers) better check."

I checked the handbook.

"Ah. Late June 2011. Better book it in. Blimey, that was a quick year."

It then dawned on me.

MOT. Aaaeeeiiiii! That had run out too! When the tax is due the DVLA send me a reminder. If I decide to pay for the tax over the phone, the computer in Swansea whirs away, looks at the car's history and mine and won't re-tax it unless my insurance and MOT are current. So why can't they send a reminder when the MOT is due? It would greatly aid people like me who are not very good at counting on their fingers.

It is currently being serviced and MOT'd. I bet you one thing - when I go to collect it, they'll politely take my money with lots of displays of shiny white teeth and shortly after that the phone will ring.



"Hello Mr Lester, I wonder if you'd thought about trading in your vehicle. We can offer you an excellent price in part exchange."

Me:-

Fingers Fingers (rude gesture)

JEEPERS CREEPERS

Sorry, not much of a blog today. Have spent much of the day in hospital undergoing a "battery of tests" for an potentially nasty eye condition. I am delighted to report I am fine. Vision a bit blurred due to eye drops and my skin has taken on a slight yellowish tinge due to a dye injection. Also my wee is Lambourghini yellow... cool!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Today is the Dark Lady's Birthday. She claims X. However, it is patently obvious to anyone who sees her that she is lying through her teeth and she is ten years younger than that. I have detailed the dangers inherent in guessing a woman's age on this blog before, I am sure. Guess exactly and they will be disappointed. Guess over and you are dead, and guess under and they think you are being facetious.



After the fantastic job she did on my big day in May, the bar was set very high.

A little effort was all that was required and the thing that guys don't do very well - "The Listening". Luckily for me the DL is not wildly keen on shopping so it is possible to accompany her when she needs and wants to go, without feeling your life forces have been sucked out of you and that knocking nails into your knees would be an experience preferable to leafing through every frock in the shop. In fact I'm not allowed to go clothes shopping with her, which suits me just fine.

So for birthday ideas I have to pick up clues along the way. Bits of conversation. An admiring glance at an item that is deemed too "silly" or "trivial" or maybe even "expensive". We vowed not to get into a financial battle when we met and we have stuck to it pretty well, although I think she is leading me in the expenditure stakes to date.



For one birthday she bought me a driving course which I loved and wasn't a bit put out that it may have impugned my manly status.

After all, in the battle of the sexes blokes mustn't ever mention previous girlfriends or the size of their partner's bottom. Women on the other hand should never criticise their bloke's sexual technique nor his driving, as it is a given that they are both devastating.



So as well as getting the obligatory funny/rude/romantic card I set out to track down something we had remarked on in a shop a few weeks earlier. Would it still be there?

The DL, like many women, likes handbags. She is not nuts about shoes like some. However, you can't beat a good bag. We had been wandering around Hastings Old Town which over the years has changed. The junk shops and the ones that sold useful stuff like hardware and food have been replaced by ones that sell clothes, bags and junk which once would have attracted junk prices but now is classed as "antique" or "classic" so is a lot lot more expensive. Although to all intents and purposes, it is still junk.

First of all, could I find the shop? Many of these retailers, having misjudged the market for driftwood and dreamcatchers, only stay open for a few months before they collapse. Others are run by "hobbysits". These are people who like the idea of having a shop but not the hard work that goes into running a viable business, so they have erratic opening hours and a hearty dislike of people actually purchasing their stock. This is particularly prevalent among the antiques fraternity, I gather.

Eventually I found the shop. Yup, it was closed on Mondays. I would have to wait for the following weekend and hopefully pounce. Pounce I did, and hid it in the wardrobe for the next three months.



I am very pleased to report that it went down a treat, although with hindsight I know I have made a rod for my own back. It is larger than her usual one which means it can contain more. Bearing in mind she can never find anything, particularly her phone when I call her so I get her voicemail then a returned call shortly afterwards:

"Sorry I heard the phone but couldn't find it. It was at the bottom of my bag."

Doubt I'll ever get a communication from her again. However, the important thing is it was what she wanted and I hope helped to wish her a happy birthday.

WALK A MILE IN MY SHOES

Wednesday found me at a bit of a loose end. I had listened to a load of CDs for Lester's Library. I had tweeted a bit. Woke up and the weather was vile so what does an Englishman do when the weather is bad?



He goes outside!

Got the Underground as far as it went, and as the rain lashed down I started walking. London suburbs are wonderfully diverse places. People of all nationalities rub shoulders.

Shops sell a wide variety of goods to a variety of ethnicities. I saw Afghan shops, Polish shops, Romanian stores, Afro-Caribbean takeaways, and an Irish club which boasted a variety of entertainers as well as authentic food. The chef and her county of origin were emblazoned on the outside of the building.

About lunchtime as I trudged past a mosque in the drizzle.



A devout Muslim (prayer mat out, shoes off) was doing his devotions in the relatively sheltered safety of a pedestrian underpass. In this part of North London, I wonder how many people having praised their Lord have found that he has moved in a mysterious way and parted them from their footwear?

There was one retailer which I discovered was universal, namely the shop that sells phone cards and plastic buckets.



Years ago on the show we talked about "Friendship Fries". This came about as a result of a blinding revelation in my local takeaway - the realisation that all savoury dishes work well with chips. If global dishes have them in common, it is a short step from this to world peace I argued.



Maybe the same could be said for cheap plastic buckets. I have seen the future, and it's pail shaped. From world leaders symbolically handing each other buckets, to warlords handing their bullets over in them, to international footballers exchanging them at the beginning of a match instead of pennants. What's not to like?

On and on I walked. There is a summer going on, although it is a little intermittent. One moment it was raining. The next I was steaming gently in the sunshine.

A hike through busy and grimy suburbs may not be to everyone's taste but a lot can be learned and some fascinating albeit run down architecture can be viewed.

Wide open spaces are all very nice in this beautiful country of ours. Tourists flocking to the UK with visions of Stratford on Avon, Edinburgh and the Cotswolds could maybe be persuaded to part with a bit more cash if upon arrival they were asked to purchase a "welcome bucket".

ATTACK OF THE KILLER TOMATOES

I have never had green fingers and have always regarded gardening as a form of tyranny. After all you spend all that time, energy and probably money making your garden gorgeous and weed free - then turn your back for a second and the whole thing is overrun again.



Tell me where the pleasure is in that?

My family love gardening. My sister and brother-in-law practically live in theirs. My aunt is constantly pruning and weeding. My dad dug up the lawn to practice The Good Life long before Tom and Barbara.



The only problem about digging up the lawn in the West Midlands in the late sixties was that the soil was polluted with the residue from a hundred years of the Industrial Revolution. The end result of this was that the only things that grew in any abundance were cale, which was vile and gritty, and carrot tops. Not carrots, the tops. A foot of green above the ground and two inches of carrot holding the thing up under the soil.

Dad also attempted to grow tomatoes. I'm not sure of the best way to grow them. Outside seemed a little on the bracing side, and unless you had a tropical summer they just ended up being small and green. They were then harvested and left to ripen on a piece of paper at the top of the stairs.

My grandmother grew then in a greenhouse. This seemed to be a better bet, and as a kid you could hide in there inhaling the fumes from the paraffin heater.



Last weekend Dark Lady and I went to visit uncle Norman and auntie Stephanie, my godparents and all round excellent folk. Norman is a sprightly ninety-one and spends a lot of time lovingly tending his garden. However, in all his years as gardener he had never witnessed what had occurred in his greenhouse a couple of weeks before.

To one side of the greenhouse he had some growbags with tomato plants in them. One day whilst doing a little bit of watering and some light pottering, he stumbled on the rough concrete floor, crashed through one of the plants and smashed a pane of glass in the process. Luckily he only escaped with a couple of small cuts and some bruises. However, he terrified the life out of one of the plants. It shot up and grew some six or eight inches taller than its mates. Eventually spurred on by this, the other plants caught up.

Is this a trick that Alan Titchmarsh has missed? If you want top tomatoes, rough 'em up a bit!

BAGGAGE CLAIM

Weekend started rather inauspiciously as I detailed on the show Monday morning.

Dark Lady was coming to mine for the weekend.

"Why don't I take your suitcase down in the car with me? Save you lugging it on the train when you finish work."

"Good idea. No idea why we haven't thought of this before" she said.



I like this element of our relationship. Me being manly and problem solving, making life better and easier for "the little woman"!

So after the programme I drove to her house and went to bed whilst she got up and went to work, leaving the suitcase at the top of the stairs.

About ten I got up and loaded up the car with all those things you need for a weekend. DVDs, my bag, CDs to be taken home and re-filed on the shelves in the spare bedroom. I also took out the recycling and fixed a couple of busted light bulbs. I was on a roll.

About an hour and a half later, and some eighty miles on my way, I suddenly started to have a nagging feeling. No. Impossible. I ignored it. The feeling became stronger. I struggled to supress it.

I stopped off at the supermarket to get a few salady bits and some bread, as we were going to attempt another crab like we did the other week. Again, this is me being manly and competent, looking after my lovely wife by preparing one of her favourite foods.

I opened the boot of the car.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"



I had left her bag behind.

I called her immediately to confess.

"Err... slight problem. I forgot your bag."

"You're joking?"

"No, this is no joking matter" I said somewhat crisply. "Shall I go buy you a few bits?"

"No, I'll just have to go home to collect it."

"I'll drive all the way back get the bag, and then collect you from work if you like?"

"No, that would be ridiculous. You know, I had a premonition about this. I should have just taken the bag to work as I always do."

Many years ago I worked at a radio station where a terminally bored bloke did the mid-morning show. He would sit there reading the paper whilst the records played and he had various "features" including the "Under Three Foot High Spot".



This apparently was a winning item where people could ring in and have their children's names read out then, a suitably "kiddie" type record would be played. This bloke was not amused when I asked him if dwarves were actrively encouraged to take part.

Why reference this tired old radio feature in a tale about forgotten luggage?

DL was perfectly OK about the bag amnesia, despite it adding two hours to her day as she had to catch the bus up to her house then back into central London for the train to Hastings.

She was so kind and reasonable about my faux pas that this mighty hunter-gatherer felt somewhat diminished as a home maker as his conscience kicked in. I had remembered my bag. Not hers. Although she did later find it in the living room. So in mitigation I had actually brought it downstairs, THEN forgotten it.

I felt very small and entered my house without needing to open the door - just slunk underneath.

"Weeellll here on FAB FM its time for the Under Three Foot High Spot. Let's send out a big hello to little Alex Lester. Especially for you, Pinky and Perky and "(How Much Is) That Doggie In The Window?"