I'VE BEEN A BAD, BAD BOY

Thought it would be a good idea to change my image slightly on the programme last week so, with that in mind, it was decided I should take Friday off.

My new alter ego is “Johnny Havoc”, although due a slight mishearing, “K..........” (she is still a little shy) thought I said “Hammock”. Things got worse when I mentioned this on the programme which made my bad boy persona even testier.

For the record it is “Havoc”! It is not “Hammock”, “Haddock”, “Ad-hoc”, “E-wok”, “Craddock”, nor is it “Dimmock”.

Being a rough, tough sort of “no-nonsense, don't mess with me, I say and do what I want, I am a maverick and a rebel, no-one tells Johnny Havoc what to do” type of guy, some weeks ago I emailed the management to ask if it was alright if I didn't show one Friday and didn't upset anyone too much.

So this “demand” was met and Richard Allinson kindly took over for the Friday. The plan was to rush off the moment the shoe finished on Thursday morning and high tail it to France with "K.........." for a romantic weekend a deux. (see, practically fluent!)

With the car parked outside the studio we were ready to run, leaving producer Ss, aka Dr. Strangelove, to tidy up the bad boy mess I had left: one waxed tea cup and four bits of paper (I had already tidied the CD's and my headphones away). "K........." and I legged it downstairs.

Last time we had headed for the Channel Tunnel we had arrived too late for the 6.50 train and had to wait half an hour for the next one. This time I had booked us on the 7.20 and, sure enough, we arrived at the terminal in plenty of time.

I don't know how these machines work, but no sooner had we pulled up than a voice read out said: “Welcome Mr. Lester you are booked on the 7.20 train”.

How did it do that? If you are a conspiracy theorist you will be loving the Big Brother element that enables a machine to recognise another machine.

I think obviously it is a subtle form of government mind control. The secret police can read our thoughts through CCTV and credit card details. Quick, get on the internet and post this as fact!

We had no time for anything to eat on this occasion.

Last time, we had time for a bacon and egg sandwich at a concession stand. This time, we were ushered straight down the ramp and onto the waiting train. It was only when it set off we realised we were on the 6.50 after all.

When I was growing up, we Brits were terribly dismissive of the state of European roads. However, the…erm, chaussure is on the other pied now. The French - perhaps stung by these criticisms – will now build a bypass round a parked car if it eases the passage through the countryside. There is less traffic, though, and more land to drive across so that probably helps.

This free flowing progress does come at a price, however, as many of the auto-routes are toll roads. Our 250 mile journey to Normandy probably cost us around £20 in fees. I left the paying to “K.........” as she was on that side of the car.

Before you accuse me of being a total cheapskate, I was the one who paid for the petrol. We are a democratic couple. So she allows me to tell you.


Thursday night, having been up since 1am and having driven over 300 miles we were pretty wiped out so it was a roaring fire a glass of wine half of Little Miss Sunshine on DVD, accompanied by a box of cheesy snacks and a Raclette.

If you have not tried this, it is fun and not quite as dangerous as a fondue. You cook your own meat and veg on a searing hot stone, whilst cheese is melting in little dishes underneath; I once did a holiday programme from a Club 18-30 trip to Austria (I was younger then and just in the target age range). Thirty marauding drunks yelling and having a fondue. That is the most danger I have ever been in, I think.: boiling hot oil, idiots and lager. Not a good combination.

Weather a bit dull on the Friday, but we decided to head towards Mont St Michel. However, not to visit the mount itself. Twice bitten twice shy.


First visited when I was about 12 and it was packed. Had another go in 1994 and it was even packeder!

It was like leaving a football match. You went with the crowd and your feet didn't touch the ground. Think it has deep historical significance but it is difficult to see above the throng, although you do notice the odd burger bar or Gaufrette stand as you are carried past in the crush.

Friday night: fish, wine, fire and half of Pink Cadillac on DVD.


When I was 19, I drove with two friends (yes, I was the gooseberry) to Spain and back in my Fiat 500. At one stage, we drove down the straight at Le Mans as used for the 24-hour race.

This time we headed for the old town. I never even realised it had one. Pretty impressive, although I kept wondering if they had missed a trick with the 24 hour race; I think they do motorcycles as well but why not other stuff?

After all, there are always charity races going on with people dressed as waiters and chickens. Why not run them over 24 hours and use the circuit? This would mean an increase in tourism. It is an iconic venue and also the roads everywhere else would not repeatedly have to be closed, meaning we could go about our daily business without being held up by straggling penguins or Daleks.


24 Heures du Zimmer

24 Heures du Tricycle

24 Heures du Pogo Stick

24 Heures du Hopping

See? The possibilities are endless


Saturday night: fire, wine, steak, and half of Anchorman on DVD.

Sunday it was a leisurely drive up through Falaise to Caen and ferry back to Blighty.

This is a good way of getting as much time away as possible, although it is a more expensive trip.

The journey takes 6 hours, so we arrived in Portsmouth at 9.30pm.

Through customs with the usual slightly guilty and haunted look that I reserve for authority figures, although they didn't stop us. I was comprehensively searched by the French some years ago who were taking the car apart until they found a bag of dirty washing and immediately stopped and waved me on my way.

Terrorists take note: we in the West are frightened of underpants!

Made it back to the rented flat in London for 23.30 so had about an hour in bed before the bad boy show started again: Grrrrrr, this is Johnny Havoc saying, “stay bad”.

I'VE BEEN ALL AROUND THE WORLD. BABY, I JUST GOT BACK

“So, you are having another Nerd Night and Charlie Jordan is going to be there.....is she still as tall?”

Thus quoth Mark Plant, who is Janice Longs' producer.

Short (sorry, cue Drums of Pun) of her suffering a terrible accident, Charlie is in fact a head taller than me. Also, she is younger so has not started the long inexorable slide back towards Tiny Town that people do after a certain age.

That is a thought to embrace; the height loss. Perhaps pensioners should affect short trousers and a water pistol to make themselves feel like it was the first time round.

Nerd Night, as I have blogged several times before, is a terrifying meeting of Geeks that occurs within our industry every couple of months; a selection of DJs, producers, journalists and others in the Radio and TV industry get together to try and out-bore one another over food and drink.

It is becoming one of those events in the calendar that could soon be up there with the Boat Race and Royal Ascot. “We see Mrs. Shilling in the Royal Enclosure wearing another ridiculous hat....yes, it appears to be in the shape of a 45rpm disc.....I think its Juicy Lucy's version of "Who do you love" that reached no.14 in the charts in 1970. On the Vertigo label no lesszzzzzzzzzz”.

Normally, what happens is that loads of people say “yes, I’ll be there”, then realise how awful it is going to be so back out at the last minute, leaving the rump of Ubergeeks: “The Magnificent Seven”.

However, on this occasion we had an amazing turnout. About 20 people showed up which was excellent and a lot of fun to see the new faces.

The hapless city chosen was Birmingham. Having been born and brought up in the area and been at college in the city, as well as broadcasting The Best Time of the Day Show from there for 13 years, I am familiar with it and how it has changed during my lifetime.

It is now a hopping town which has suffered from comparisons with Manchester, Liverpool, Newcastle and Bristol and other major British cities in the past. It is unpretentious and has never been favoured by "style" nor "music" journalists, despite having an atmosphere all of its own.

Booked into a small room in a quite big hotel.


Then after a couple of drinks in the bar we headed off to Broad Street to a restaurant that Charlie - who knows food - had chosen. Around the World in 80 Dishes is an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Those four words, "all you can eat" are, of course, a challenge so I resolved to see how far around the world I could eat. Before bursting. That would be a cheap and effective way for impecunious students to spend a gap year. Instead of piling on the carbon emissions flying off to Peru for "good works" they could just sit at home with a recipe book and pretend.

Now, without being picky, I noticed a glaring omission in the premise, “Around the World in 80 Dishes”. Admittedly, they never say the diner will travel the world sampling cuisine from every country. I think Phileas Fogg may have been a mite disappointed with the “map of meals”.

The food was very good but I didn't count many nations.

There were burgers and hot dogs. USA.

Pizza and Lasagne. Italy.

Curry. Indian and Thai.

Wraps. Mexico

A good selection of dishes from China

There were chips but they were labelled "French Fries" so that tagged them onto the North American continent.

Had they had three trays one labelled "Fries", one "Frites", and another "Chips", they could have ticked three or more countries. I say "or more" as you could include Belgium and their French-speaking colonies. Likewise Anglophone parts of the world.

Their website never makes the claim that it is representative of many countries, just that there is a large number of food items on its menu.

I suppose that good taste precludes them from putting certain things on offer. Plus, some would be rather difficult to source, I suppose.

"Got any Missionary?" 'Yup, you want South American rain forest cannibal style or Comedy 1970's Central African?" “Just past the shrunken heads next to the North Korean barbecued rats.” “Sorry, we are all out of Japanese Puffer fish but I think we've got some Monkey brains left.”

Rather tellingly I didn't notice any good old British plain fare.

"Sorry mate, Pot Noodles are off."

I stuffed in as much as I could, visiting each country in turn so went from burger to lasagne to curry to wraps, including on the way some very hot and very red chilli shrimps. The sauce made a good dye as well. So my fingers looked like I had just voted in a third world election.

We headed off for a canal side pub called the Tap and Spile. Friday night in Birmingham city centre gets pretty crowded but we did manage to get a couple of hours in the pub before the nightclubs shut, as this particular boozer closed at 4am apparently, but the last two are probably bedlam. Security is tight which means that the boozer was policed by door-staff in high viz jackets who seemingly, no matter where I stood, moved me out of the way as I was blocking a fire exit.

It may have been the fact that I had shovelled so much food down me that I was suffering from an outbreak of "Gulliver". Went and stood outside on the canal towpath for a while to get some air, although I was surrounded by smokers.

It brought back a host of bitterwseet memories of my youth, and also when I lived for ten years on my canal boat "The Blue Pig", I was offered a residential mooring just by this pub in Gas Street basin. Thank goodness I never took British Waterways up on their offer choosing to live at Hockley Port a couple of miles away as the noise would have meant I would never had got a wink of sleep.

With that in mind we grabbed three cabs back to the quite big hotel.

The turnout had been pretty impressive, I reckon more than 20 dweebs made it which was terrific and good to meet a lot of new people. So far it had been a cracking evening without any overt Nerdiness. However, once the remaining ten of us made it back to the hotel the restlessness was beginning to show. It’s like a disease with these people.

When we had the previous outing to Brighton, the hotel bar stayed open all night, which was fantastic. We were promised that this place would do "lounge service".

What they actually meant was they had some bottles of beer and some soft drinks that they would go and get for us if we really insisted.

I pointed out that one of the conditions of us booking in the first place was that we would be able to have a drink when we returned.

My Paddington Bear "hard stare" as usual made little difference. So we managed a bottle of overpriced beer each and, bizarrely, some biscuits.


Little did the night porter realise that he was faced with ten mild mannered polite people who were stuffed to the gills with food from other countries. We were fully loaded.

A little tickle of the uvula and they would never have got that place clean!

Revenge came in the form of fellow radio nerd, Simon Hirst, an all around top man and terrible nerd.

He whipped out his mobile phone and suddenly we were in the middle of a chart related pop quiz.

Matthew Rudd, a freelance DJ, is the man you need if you are ever doing a pub quiz. I think he got every question right. He also knows and writes about football and TV, so he would be good with the sports and showbiz rounds too.

John Foster, from BBC Tees, after a shaky beginning statred to get a lot of the answers until we realised he had the same "app" on his phone too. So he was cheating.

Needless to say bringing up the rear was.....me!

3 o'clock arrived and I repaired to my small room and for the rest of the weekend the song "Just One More Night" by Yellowdog roared around my brain. That song being my one correct answer.

Still, I gather that Hirsty had "A Little Peace" by Nicole going round his. So there is justice.

That’ll learn him. However, I doubt it will.

Next one is slated for June in Liverpool. I bet there is a Beatles-related quiz.

THE TWEETS

Friday evening I went to meet some lovely Jewish friends for Friday Dinner. This involved prayers and me wearing a yarmulke, the skullcap which Orthodox Jewish men wear to cover their heads.

A superb time was had. Although I had to have the custom of not mixing meat and dairy explained to me. I love Jewish humour and my Dad's favourite joke is the one which ends with the punchline: "He had a hat!!”

This is far cry from the time back in the early 1980's when I went to a Synagogue for an "Open day". Judging by the rather frosty reception I received I don't think they meant for it to be open to me. Also, I was disappointed because the "Automatic Rabbi" machine was out of order so I never found out what it did or what it sounded like.

Went back to "K..........."'s and tried to watch What’s up, Tiger Lily? but fell asleep halfway through. We are good at that.

Hastings on Saturday. Met friends in the pub, then back home for pie and Best in Show DVD. Managed half that before we fell asleep.


Sunday morning, Mr Tibbs the carpenter arrived with a mate of his to install more CD shelves in the spare bedroom for Lester’s Library. They should keep things in order providing I can get round to filing them all; they may even outlast the format. Back to London and a spectacular traffic jam. I tried to navigate us out of trouble but just succeeded in taking us on a tortuous route right to the very back of the queue.

"K.............." was very patient. Think I am going to get a road atlas for Christmas. Back at the rental flat we started to watch Harold and Maude. Fell asleep halfway through.

Monday dawned and with it the Radio 2 "Get Connected" campaign. This is designed to make us all interactive. I still prefer to pay utility bills by cheque so I have a way to go.

It did mean the start of my new Twitter account. You are helping with it. Although I am finding there seem to be a selection of bits of "Netiquette" which seem rather baffling and a bit pointless.

We are slowly building followers and I think I will find it useful for the show as there will be another way to interact with us. Although I don't know that I am that interesting to want to tell you what I am up to most of the time when I am not on the air.

Tweet: In the lavvy.

Tweet: Now having breakfast

Tweet: Going shopping

What do you reckon? Let me know what I am supposed to do with it. Not leading a glittery showbiz lifestyle. Things can get a tad mundane.

I could always lie:

Tweet: In Groucho Club having champagne with Brangelina

Tweet: My private jet is taking me to LA to take drugs with the some other A-listers

Tweet: Just playfully pulled one of Cheryl Cole’s hair extensions off. She punched me.


The Blog keeps you pretty much up to date with that stuff.

So with your help we can make Twitter a useful and hopefully interesting addition. You can add me @alexthedarklord.

Monday it was down to the BBC for a showcase. John Butler Trio from Australia did a short set for us. I have played them on the programme before so it was good to see them live.

It must have been a little odd for them as Platinum-selling artists in their homeland, to play in front of 35 people. 25 of which were scarfing up the free food. I always like to arrive early to get the food in before the turn starts so I can give them my best attention. They were excellent....burp!


Rest of the week has been a bit of a blur of not very much. Been doing a lot of typing and listening to music.

Although I really needed to get out to buy essential things for the kitchen. It is only since "K.............." has come on the scene that I realise how Spartan my weekday existence is:

In the flat, I have neither bottle opener nor corkscrew. I had to get the guy in the off-licence to open the wine for me the other evening and wandered like a wild eyed derelict back home waving it.

I have one sharp knife unfortunately it is not sharp. So will cut nothing.

I have a pan but no utensils other than forks in order to cook with.

I have two tumblers but not wine glasses

I have four mugs one of which is cracked so it leaks.

My Name is Alex Lester. I am 53 and a student.

WOMAN IS THE GLORY OF A MAN

Bit of a quiet week all in all. So was a bit taken aback when I received a phone call after the programme from “.............”.

Although she is now slightly less shy and so has allowed me to reveal that her name is in fact, “K............”.

Just got back to the rental flat when she called and said, “I have one word to say to you”. My mind raced. Was it going to be “love”? “sex”, “wedding”, “hat”, “food”
“sex" (look, I am a bloke we think like this. Sorry!)

“Featureless”

“?”

“You said on the radio this morning that yesterday had been "featureless". Have you forgotten something?”

“?????”

“Who did you see yesterday?”

“I went for lunch with my friend, Janine, and we had onion soup.”

“I know this”

“How?”

“You told me when I came round to the flat!”

“Ulp..whimper!”

“So you forgot about me coming to see you?”

“Whimper...Ulp!”

“You are a very naughty boy. How could you forget? Hmm, this may require a severe talking to”.

“Whimper Ulp. Ulp Whimper”


Gentle reader, we are not heading in a Max Moseley direction here.

“I was protecting you as you are shy and so I thought you would not want everyone to know what we were doing”

“Watching Anvil on DVD!"

“What I mean is, compared to going to see a gig or going on a holiday, it was a fairly featureless day. I was lucky to grab you for a few minutes on your way home as you had to pack your kitchen up before it was ripped out by the fitters, who are going to install a new one starting this weekend. As much as I loved seeing you compared with a weekend in a hot air balloon or swimming with dolphins it was a pretty ordinary day”.

“Hmmmmm”

Oh no, were we heading for our first argument? Would this end with tearful recrimination. Crockery thrown. Phones being slammed down?


Then she started to laugh and laugh and laugh. This woman may be fabulous but I think she has a big teasing streak.

I have had a week of teasing, although it is nice to know that the Best Time of the Day Show punches above its weight in terms of the world at large.

We may be tucked away at 2 in the morning, but we know that we are listened to by a lot of other DJ's. Many sitting note pads at the ready to write down the ideas and use them on their own shows.

So Ss aka Dr Strangelove, my producer, tipped me off that we had turned up on the Scott Mills show on Radio One in his Oh!Whats Occurring? feature.


From what I gather, he and a woman sidekick get some baffled youth on the programme (it’s Radio One, remember) and ask them a question about someone else and how many times they will say something.

So, the baffled youth was faced with the BTOTD show and the fact that it now has the term “shoe” as part of its lexicon, due to the self-satisfied nature of many radio programmes where the DJ delights in reading out messages of undying love from the audience to whit “love the show”.

Due to you, and your finely tuned pomposity antenna, you will have no truck with any of that, hence you decided the way to burst that particular bubble was to take the mickey by referring to it as “shoe”.

So, Scott Mills, his giggly woman sidekick (I think there is a factory that manufactures these people) and baffled youth on phone listened to a tightly edited selection of links from the programme. All of which contained the word “shoe” or similar. The baffled youth guessed 27 but was out by 12, the answer being 39.

Giggly woman and Scott seemed to think that I was a madman.


As we know there are still a few non-believers out there.

They just don't understand. They will, given time. Keep spreading the word.

Remember: “No one else. Nowhere else!”

Hmmm, I feel this blog needs another picture. I have nothing else to give.

I know, it's been awhile...enjoy!

MADCAP LAUGHS

After the show on Friday, we hot-footed it to France for the weekend. Made it to Folkstone and the channel tunnel just in time…to miss the train. Technology is so wonderful these days; all that was necessary was the insertion of a credit card and the machine flashed up: "Mr Lester you have missed the 6.50. You are now booked on the 7.20"

I think machines are taking over the world. The only ones that are there to ease your passage and make things worse (hmm, possible show thread here, I think) are the self-service check-outs at the supermarket. Whatever I try to buy, the machine invariably calls for a supervisor. Once the machine would not let me buy a copy of the Daily Mail as it flagged it up as an "adult purchase". For a publication that constantly rails against declining standards and declares how this country is going to "Hell in a handcart” ( - Richard Littlejohn), I was surprised that it was deemed to be so.

We headed for Normandy which, we soon discovered, was a long, long way away. 288 miles from Calais to be exact. Mainly motorway so it didn't take too long, and the journey was punctuated by some fine views and the spectacular bridge over the river Seine.

Who is “we”? you may ask. Why none other than the lovely ".........." who is still a bit shy. Although, here she is in the following picture as we enjoyed a Vin Chaud in a bar in a small market town.

Hmmm, I think she may be turning into "Harvey the Invisible Rabbit". She must have ducked out for a second.

Bit of snow on the Friday and a wonderful clear night sky, so we were able to stand outside in the freezing cold and identify the constellation: "that must be the plough". Does anyone know any others than that?

Ferry back Sunday afternoon which got us into Portsmouth at about 9.15pm in the pouring rain, and then a dash for London and an hour in bed before I staggered in for the shoe.

Monday night and it was off to see Beth Nielson Chapman. I am a big fan and have played her many times on the programme. She recently featured with her new album, Back to Love, as the Radio 2 Record of the Week.

A lovely intimate venue of London's Sloane Square called the Cadogan Hall. However, rather like the train man in a previous blog (who insisted that the Birmingham to London train that had Manchester written on it as "Destination" meant that was where it had come from, and "destination" meant starting point, and got quite shirty when a train load of potential passenger questioned his grasp of the English language), the tickets and the website said the doors opened at 7.30pm, as we wanted to see the support act, Marcus Hummon. I saw him a while back supporting Alison Krauss and really liked his work. He is best known as a writer these days although he does perform and was in Beth’s band as well.

We arrived at 7.45pm, made for the bar and noticed on the TV screens that he was already on stage. By the time we had glugged it down, as drinks weren't allowed in the auditorium, and made our way to the door to the venue proper the usher said, "he is finishing after this number so no point in going in".

"Why does it say Doors Open 7.30pm on the ticket if it means the support act is already on by the time they are supposed to open?". Came the answer: "That means the time doors open for the main act"!

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT IS SUPPOSED TO MEAN??? I CERTAINLY DON'T!!

Nice lady recognised me and came and said hello. This is a rarity as 2 episodes of Call My Bluff and 1 of Eggheads does not place me in the Chris Evans or Terry Wogan category of instant recognition.


We filed in and took our seats. As expected, Beth Nielson Chapman was wonderful and "........" and I found many of the songs extremely emotional. I was very touched when Beth thanked me from the stage for playing her songs on my programme.

About three tunes before the end though something terrible happened. I developed a tickle in my throat due to the dry atmosphere.

The music was subtle and not too loud, so to clear my throat or cough would have made too much noise and would have disturbed other people’s enjoyment. I’m never sure why people store up coughs and colds before concerts: "Honey, I have a massive cold coming on, let’s book for Swan Lake".

So my feeble attempts at clearing the tickle just caused "......." extreme mirth. She being a person who would be horrified if she thought she was inconveniencing anyone or spoiling their enjoyment therefore had to laugh silently. This, ofcourse, was the catalyst for me to start as well.

The last three tunes had us shaking with silent mirth. I was sweating and tears coursed down my by now purple face. She was glowing and pretty tears trickled down her lovely face.

We were willing the concert to end even though the music was spectacular. Every so often once of us would manage to get the laughter under control. The other would follow suit. Then, just as we thought we were in the clear, another giggle would well up and we would be off again.

By the time the concert finished we were husks.

Needless to say, this turned into a very successful thread on the programme this week and it would seem that we are not alone. So many of you have suffered from "Inappropriate Laughter". Funerals and weddings being a favourite location for a good giggle.

I wonder if it is possible to make it a certifiable disease or a chronic illness. "I am signing you off for a fortnight so you can miss that wedding as you seem to be suffering from a bad case of 'IL' "


"Thanks Doc bwwooo hhaa ha hahha haahhhaaa hh haaa!"

HIT THE ROAD JACK

Things are now starting to move again now that we are half way through February.

Is it just my imagination, or does it take longer each year to get past Christmas and New Year?

Time was when by about 5th January (this is my sisters birthday, incidentally, if you would like to remember to send her a card), everything would be totally back to normal. It is creeping further and further into the year. Now it seems to be just before Valentines Day that Britain wakes up to the fact that everyone with a job is back and functioning. Not sure why this is. It may be a product of global warming as the newspapers always tell us that winter and spring seem to be moving. This may be because they are trying to keep up with that other moveable feast - Easter.
I say this because, as you may have noticed, there has not been a lot of live music in my life over the last few weeks. Something which was nagging at me. Then a deluge. The BBC Club (Note to tabloid editors here - which is funded entirely by voluntary subscription and not from the licence fee) was the venue for a showcase. These happen fairly regularly and they give producers and DJ's (the ones that like music, that is) a chance to see some new and emerging acts perform in an intimate venue.

I was treated to a total feast with not one but four different acts. A duo who, unfortunately, I found rather bland and forgettable; expect them to be one of the year’s biggest sellers when their first album comes out shortly (I was never good at picking "hits"; my track record over 33 years has been "Da DaDa" by Trio and "Boxerbeat" by the JoBoxers).

They were followed by a short set from the wonderful Jon Allen. "..........." (she is still shy) was very keen to see him as she had been on his website to try and download his new single, "When the Morning Comes", which wasn't released until last Monday. She had received a personal reply which had tickled her and he sought us out at the gig for a quick chat which was nice of him.


He was followed by Davy Knowles and Back Door Slam, a guitar-shredding 22 year-old bluesman from the Isle of Man who played a blistering set. Mama's Gun followed and did a whole soul thing which was a total delight.

Not unsurprising with music of this quality they have all made it onto the Radio 2 playlist. Having said that some things do end up on the playlist that I can't abide, however, we would all be very dull if we liked exactly the same things. This is why I find it rather sad sometimes that people write off music, musicians, radio, TV shows as "rubbish", and they "demand" changes via message boards and letters to the newspapers just because they don't personally like it.

It always amuses me when I receive an email in the electronic equivalent of green crayon which claims "I and all my friends think........" Since when did you and your "friends" speak for the whole nation, green crayon emailer?


The music was coming fast now. "............." and I went off to see an unplugged set by Lyle Lovett and John Hiatt; a masterclass in veteran singer-songwriters who had honed their craft over many years, at ease and enjoying each others company. Two guys, two guitars, two chairs and two tables, with bottles of water and plectra on.

They would chat between numbers about the songs and their lives until, after the second song, someone yelled "get on with it". They duly launched into another tune. After it was done, John Hiatt introduced the next one and, as he played the opening chords, he asked, "that brief enough for ya, the guy up the back? Perhaps he has a train to catch". This produced a roar or laughter and applause from the audience.

Is it me? Maybe I am getting old but heckling has its place in places like comedy clubs or at politicians. Not when it is just plain rude and pointless. ".........." thought I was being a little extreme when I pointed out that if I was a benign (or perhaps not so benign) Dictator I would institute the death penalty for rotten hecklers. I think perhaps as a child the guy didn't have many toys. Either that or he had a tiny penis, so he was desperate for some attention. It was a totally unnecessary interruption to a great concert.

They played for two and half hours to a near capacity crowd and for the last 30 minutes were joined by fellow songsmith, Joe Ely.

I am given to understand that BBC 4 recorded a similar gig the night before so check the listings. It will be worth it.


We are settling into the new routine with the change of hours. I know it is not ideal. Many of you have pointed out that you are not enjoying the early finish. Hopefully, though, this is not for ever.

Ss AKA Dr Strangelove, my producer, is finding the hours tough. He is a health nut who watches everything he eats and drinks. Is a constant presence in the gym and changes his hair like others change their underpants. However, over the last fortnight he has had a terrible cold which has now retreated, leaving the legacy of a comedy huge red spot where his nose used to be. We instigated a "Ss spot remedy" section on the shoe and all that you did was laugh at him!
Sympathy came there none. I thought it was hilarious. Dr Strangelove wasn't so sure so tried to camouflage it by dabbing fake tan on it.
End result: he looked like a bloke with a training WAG on his face.

As someone who does try (and often fails) to find the silver lining there has been an unexpected bonus to starting and finishing later. TRAYNS!!

I head up to the Midlands every week to see my Dad and, when they are available, my sister and brother in law. When the programme finished at 6, the earliest affordable train was at 6.50 and took more than two hours. Now I can scuttle off to the station and catch the 6.03 which takes under an hour-and-a-half. Then I can get the two hour version back in the afternoon. Total cost of return journey booked in advance on the internet - £17.50

The other week I had to make a last minute peak-time trip and for a "standard" return I had to fork out £140!! I cried all the way there, whilst I was there and all the way back again.

THE CRUSTACEAN STRIKES BACK

After the shoe finished on Friday, it was off home to prepare for a romantic weekend a deux: "………" (for she is shy) was coming to stay. Well, that qualifies as a deux in my book; a trois may be a bit of a stretch. Anymore and you are probably a Premiership footballer. I have spent too long having romantic weekends a un. Romance in this case meant The Guns of Navarone on DVD and eating too many sandwiches; I was looking forward to her visit immensely.

So what to cook?

Everyone has a signature dish and mine, apart from comfort/student food like chilli, is dressed crab. I learned how to do prepare this many years ago when I lived in a small fishing village in the North-East, not far from Whitby, in Staithes. I bought the house, "Venus Cottage" (Goddess of Love, classics fans), from a newly-divorced couple. Well, there was an irony in that. One of the pubs in the village was called "The Cod and Lobster ", which was perched on the sea-wall and had metal shutters to stop the windows caving in from the heavy seas. When there was a storm lashing, the chandelier would shudder as the waves hit the four foot thick walls. The sea would crash over the roof, down into the street on the other side and soaking any passers by. It would also occasionally come down the chimney and put the fire out.

The pub was run with a mailed fist by a woman called Edna, who referred to everyone as 'unny. She would don a long gown and sit by the fire each evening with a brandy balloon full of some murky substance (which looked to me like oil). With a quarter of a century of alcoholic experience under my belt, my liver and kidneys, I would hazard a guess that it was Tia Maria, the coffee based liqueur. This is one of those drinks, like Advocaat and Drambuie, that are only usually given as presents and, along with copies of SpyCatcher and A Brief History of Time, are placed in view to give the owner a veneer of sophistication in the eyes of their peers.

With a name like the "Cod and Lobster", as you would expect crab, was often on the menu.


One drunken night I fell into conversation with some of the fishermen who long-lined for cod for one part of the year, and fished for lobster with their specially made "pots" the rest of the time. I must have been babbling some nonsense, because at about 5am the following morning, as I lay in bed snoring, there was a hammering on my front door. Before I knew it, I was aboard a fishing "coble", as the small boats were called, out about half a mile off-shore in an oily swell as the guys - sandwich in one hand - baited up the pots with rotting fish. "Crab and lobster prefer rotten smelly stuff…..sandwich?"

We were out that morning for about an hour. The seagulls were wheeling overhead. The early morning sun was shining in a clear sky. I could see down to Whitby in one direction and up to Hartlepool in the other. A porpoise cruised past. I felt like death cooled down. The combination of a late night, oily swell and the smell of rotting fish conspired against my internal economy.

We made it back to dry land with seconds to spare. Once I had both feet on dry land I felt so much better. The Fisherman were effusive in their praise. "We thought you would be honking your guts up in no time. Most people do. Well done, although you did go very green".

I felt very proud as I drove across the moors early that morning to work. I startled a deer in the middle of the road, which stared at me for a moment then casually sauntered back into the undergrowth. I felt at one with nature as I rounded the next corner and ran over a squirrel!

Dressing crab is actually very simple. Just remove the "Dead Men's fingers" which are the gills and there you are!

However, you have to get the shell open first. This is where I experienced "Crab…The Revenge" as, using what feeble attempts at strength I possess, I hauled at the shell until it suddenly gave way, lacerating my index finger in the process. It is difficult to be romantic with blood gushing from a wound. Unless, ofcourse, it is a protracted death scene in a Western: "The gold is is is hidden in the…….rattle expire!"

This in turn gave us the idea for…Valentines Day, The Alex Lester Way, which is on the iPlayer for a week.