I'M THE SLIME

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nonsense. They ARE watching and they are sneering!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR

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

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

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


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

Having had breakfast on board…


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I waited.

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

I sidled up and uttered the words:

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

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


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

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

"No. The third most Romantic place on earth"

"Golders Green?"

"OK fourth.... Venice."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

"So, can you describe you attacker?"

"He was wearing a mask"

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

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


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

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


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


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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

"That was the best fib ever."!

"Fib??"

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

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

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

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

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

Then it happened.

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

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

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

"What ticket?"

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

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

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

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


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

I SAW A MOUSE....WHERE?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

"Derek"

"Yes Mum"

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

"You can't beat the meat"!

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

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

So I hatched a cunning plan.

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

"Ooh lovely,” she said.

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

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

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

"Coventry" Most romantic city in the world.

"Baltimore" Most romantic city in the world.

"Dusseldorf” Most romantic city in the world.


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

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



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

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

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


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

"On my way to Paris now"

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

"Traffic terrible so stopping at Dreux for the night"

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

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

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


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


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

LISTEN...DO YOU WANT TO KNOW A SECRET?

After the success that was my Aunt’s 80th birthday, life returned to normal and DL and I continued planning for The Big Day in December. We have now booked a photographer who's work we really like the look of. This is terribly important; the wrong lensman/woman can ruin the big day.

When the show came from Birmingham we would have publicity stills taken from time to time and fell foul of indifferent picture takers. Once I was despatched to a studio which was the lair of a man who specialised in baby pictures, and had my photograph taken surrounded by toy bricks, brightly-coloured balls and fluffy rugs. He succeeded in making me look like a chubby-faced ghost.

On another occasion someone had the bright idea of taking our picture and having Janice Long and I made into cardboard cut-outs to stand in the reception area. This time is was a seasoned press photographer who was summoned to do the job. Brilliant, getting in to the thick of the action, taking the pictures and getting out to meet the deadline. Not so hot on the portrait front. He insisted on standing on a chair to take the pics from above. The end result was we all looked like Toulouse Lautrec with tiny, short, stubby legs and big heads. I - for some inexplicable reason - had a power socket between my tiny feet!


Needless to say, the pics never made the final cut.

Whilst we were moving on to think of maybe a wedding car we were interrupted by a letter plopping on the mat; it turned out to be from my Uncle Maurice (who you may know from the previous blog managed to guess the gift we had given my Aunt by the shape: "Ooh look she's got a Metronome" before Daphne had a chance to get the wrapping paper off).

His letter was typed which means his fingers were still healing from the stamping he received along with all the other unimaginable comedy violence we wreaked on his "sorry ass" (Sorry, channelling Will Smith there) at the time.


It was a very funny letter of contrition (not that he needed to apologise) containing a variety of nose gags, as well as the very astute observation that the only person in the world who somehow never needs to apologise is the Duke of Edinburgh. He signed it, "The Blurter"!

Got me thinking that I cannot take the moral high ground on "blurting", as I have previously in that department. In fact, if you want to keep a secret don't under any circumstances tell me. My brain can't cope with deception and I am the most awful liar.

In a previous life I was in a pub in Sheffield and met a woman who I vaguely remembered a fact about. We chatted for a while and then it came to me and:

BLURT: "Oh I remember you. You were the woman that as a nurse had sex with (a now well-known pop star) on the operating table at the hospital, before he got famous and was working as the handy man"!

CUE: Agonising kick in the shins from my then partner who had given me this juicy slice of information a few minutes earlier.

In a previous, previous life, I recall a family meal with my then girlfriend, her mother and her sister. For some reason, the two of them had gone off for a weekend in the country and had not told the other sister.

Me making conversation during a lull:-

So....BLURT "how was your weekend in Yorkshire"?

Oof! (agonising kick in the shins under the table from a pointy and expensive designer shoe.)

Before you warn the Dark Lady, I have told her never to tell me anything she wants to keep a secret. As a friend of mine says.

"Secrets are like crisps. They are to be passed around in the pub."


The Nerd Season is upon us once again and it was to Norwich last Friday to meet up with other DJs and radio people for our bi-monthly bore in.

Not been to Norwich since the 80's and, like many cities, it has had quite a makeover in that time. I decided - as it was going to be a late night - to go by train as it is a direct route(ish).

Britain is great North to South, but try going side to side and that is where the problems begin.

Train from London to Norwich utilising ancient Inter City rolling stock. I expected to bump into Jimmy Saville any moment. On the return journey it was Norwich to Diss. Then a coach to Stowmarket then train to London. The coach driver wasn't exactly instilling confidence in his passengers by asking: "Do you know the way?"

Still marginally better than him asking:

"Are we there yet?"


Bit of a coup for the Nerds on this occasion as often times we stay in hotels away from the main drag. On this occasion, scouring the map as I stood outside the station wondering how far away it was, I noticed it was the other side of the road.

Top location and top people, including folks from the local radio stations. Nice to meet them and one of the women there was the daughter of the bass player from the Bonzo Dog Doo-dah Band. Now this is the type of company I like to keep!

We walked the city streets past the sad remains of Anglia TV.


In its heyday it was home to:

"From Norwich....it’s the quiz of the week" Sale of the Century with Nicholas Parsons who got all kinds of stick for his on air gaffes but as he told me once:

"Every time I made a mistake the ratings went up"

Example:

"Who has just won the Open golf championship"?

Buzzer: "Sam Snead....er, I mean Derek"

Contestant Derek: "Sam Snead"

Correct!

Wonder if he won the boat?

They also made Tales of the Unexpected and lots of wonderful wildlife programmes.

Now it is a shell as the regional TV franchises have all but been dismantled.

The previous occasion I visited it was to see someone I knew who had just got a job as a reporter there.

In a hotel room in the city that night, she made me shave off my moustache which had had since I was 21 in a feeble attempt to make me look older. In the bathroom we discovered my face had caught up and I had a receding upper lip.

She left Anglia shortly after that and had quite a career at the BBC, although despite being an excellent TV journalist she was sometimes referred to as "Helen Keller"


This may be a reference to the time when she visited a hospital which housed the last few surviving 1950's polio victims, encased in iron lungs to help them breathe.

Holding the camera tripod over her shoulder and chatting with the consultant about how they would conduct the interview and frame the shots, after he told her what he thought was the best course of action she agreed with the words.


"Good Wheeze"! realising she was surrounded by people struggling for breath in their machines, she fled the ward to regain composure…unfortunately braining one of the patients with her tripod in the process.

Oops BLURT!!


OOF!


While I have got you here, why not make a song request for the Listener's Library? A track you haven't heard in awhile, a track that is special you would like to share, or just try and catch us out with a song you don't think we will even have. Visit here, I look forward to hearing - your suggested records.

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OH PLAY THAT THING!

The big deal over the last week or so has been my Aunt's 80th birthday. My Auntie Daphne is my Dad's younger sister who has been a music teacher all her working life and still teaches to this day, despite having been officially retired for the best part of two decades.

She tells wonderful tales of early morning organ practice as a student in London, when each note would bring mouthwatering smells pouring from the pipes. (This was due to the bellows being placed in the basement next to the kitchen where they were cooking breakfast.)

This strikes me as being a great way to learn an instrument, although it could be argued it is a similar method that animal trainers use: when the dog has finished leaping through hoops of fire and running backwards through the trainers legs, or when the horse has finished a clear round at Hickstead and they are given a sugar lump or something similar.

In my Aunt's case this was a full English.

Not sure if the music reflected impending meals and treats, or even it it was possible to alter the make-up of the odour. If you look carefully at the stops on a pipe organ they are labelled exotically with names that roll off the tongue, for instance: "Diapason", "Gallery Reeds" or even "Bombard".

Does make you wonder what her Organ lessons sounded like though:

(Cue crazy-haired shabbily dressed be-corduroyed eccentric teacher possibly of Eastern European extraction):

"DAPHNE, I WENT TO SMEELLL THAT TOAST!"

"NO, NO, NO GIRL! I WANTED LIGHTLY POACHED...YOUR FINGERING IS SO HEAVY THEY ARE HARD BOILED!!!"

After qualifying, my Aunt moved to the lake district and took up a teaching post at Kendal High School for

Girls which - sadly - was nothing like St. Trinians, she tells me, and probably never had a Head mistress who was a man in drag called Miss Fritten.

She taught piano, flute and also choir. Her whole life has been steeped in music. She regularly tunes in to the Best Time of the Day show but does admit that not all the music I play is to her taste.

Having said that I am - without doubt - her nephew.

Whenever I play the current playlist song by The Pierces, Dr. Strangelove the producer says: "They sound like Fleetwood Mac" This repetition is becoming similar to the mantra chanted by tourists eating frogs legs, or maybe even marinaded shark, for the first time:

"Hmmm, tastes like chicken!"

So we have now ascertained that Bach's "Toccata and Fugue" tastes like a full English and The Pierces' "You'll Be Mine" tastes like Chicken.

Having just re-read those paragraphs it may at first appear baffling, but there is a tortured logic in the music = food argument, however baffling it may at first appear.

So it was to the Lakes we went on the Saturday morning to meet my family in a pub for a birthday lunch for Auntie.

Dark Lady and I drove up her wondering what the rest of my family would be like and if it would be wise to flee now, before I put the ring on her finger. Wedding planners note: this is the second ring. She already has the engagement ring. It is odd that once that arrived everyone seemed more interested in her ring finger than the rest of her. Lovely as it is, the ring seems to have taken centre stage lately with friends and family.

I don't know the history of weddings and wedding jewellery but I can tell you one thing; if things had been different they wouldn't be flashed around in public I can tell you...

Take Buttock adornment, for example:

"Hitch up yer skirt and show us yer ring"

(That looks worse written down than I expected. Apologies.)

When we arrived the whole family were there:

My Aunt and her best friend, Norma. My Dad and his hot squeeze, June. Nell and John - my sister and brother-in-law - and also my Aunt Pat and Uncle Maurice.

The DL has expertly wrapped the present from Nell, John her and myself: a Metronome. Her previous one is nearly a century old and has expired as the weight had taken to slipping down the stick (technical term, Metronome fans) so that as you played the rhythm became faster. End result? Some of her pupils could perform the "Minute Waltz" in under 40 seconds!

Unless you place it in a large box the shape of a Metronome, it is always is going to be a bit of a give away.

As we handed the gift to Daphne. Maurice piped up:

"Looks like a metronome"

There then followed several minutes of punching, pulling of ears and tweaking of nose and digging in the ribs ands stamping on feet, as well as a little light shin kicking. A bit like a Laurel and Hardy or a Three Stooges routine.

Just before we carried the bloodied and bruised body of Maurice to the table there was one final gift. Yours!

You have been very helpful in the past what with your advice on wheelbarrows for wedding gifts and Snorkels for my Dad.

As my Aunt is a musician, it needed to be a musical-type offering. The suggestions came rolling in. Sousaphone was a mite heavy. A Ukulele was a possibility. No idea where I could lay my hands on a musical saw, so a finely tuned and economical Triangle was decided upon; a welcome addition to any household. If you can't play it, you can always stand at the door and rattle it to herald meal times like Granny did in The Beverly Hillbillies.

"Come and get it!"

The DL was pounced on in turn by family members and given the third degree. Luckily I am blessed with a terrific family so no worries anywhere on that score (unless they were trying to talk her out of marrying me!)

At the end of the last blog I told you I had purchased a special turntable that transfers vinyl to CD.

When I started as a boy broadcaster, technology was very different and I would play vinyl and the occasional 78. Then came the new fangled CD which took a while to get used to. Now, of course, it is all downloads and hard drives. Since the programme moved from Birmingham to London in 2008, I have not had access to a turntable in the studio so a lot of wonderful music is lying in my spare room, unplayed outside of my home.

I had seen similar machines advertised but they only connected to a computer so you could load them that way. I need CDs. Saw just the thing in a shop and, as it was a mite expensive; a few minutes on the internet and one swift phone call later and I had ordered an ex-demonstration one from a "Good as new!" type site.

It arrived and I plugged it into my vintage 1978 rack system in place of the existing turntable so I could hear what I was playing. All I heard was a very distorted low-level version. I had no headphones with the correct-sized plug socket, until I remembered somewhere I had a small speaker that I used to plug into my cassette Walkman during the 80s (this was so that I could listen to music whilst in the bath!)

It worked well enough for me to hear what was going on. So it was with some trepidation I loaded B.B King's 1972 album, Guess Who? into the flash memory. Loaded a blank CD-R and pressed the button marked "burn".

Did it work?

Judge for yourself by checking out last Monday's Lester's Library tracks on the BBC iPlayer (click here to get it)

Next time there may be some St. Valentine's tomfoolery and - yes - another "Nerd Night" is occurring, a night where DJs and broadcasting types converge on a city and try and out-bore each other. This time as the train drew into Norwich I thought I could see long lines of refugees with their belongings on carts and prams lining the road, fleeing in the city before our arrival.

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).

Also, still keep your Listener's Library suggestions coming in. Think of a track you haven't heard in ages, or a track that is special you would like to share, or just a darn tootin' good song that you think I should play. Visit here, I look forward to hearing - your suggested records.

LET THE MUSIC PLAY ON

With the new year well and truly underway, we are emerging and the world is getting back to normal.

The first-few-weeks-back-at-work frenzy is levelling out and thoughts turn to fun!

Fun for me means - among other things - music. This always makes me thankful that my hobby and my work are more or less the same thing. There can't be that many jobs that combine both if you think of it.

Accountant: "I love sitting counting stuff. When I get home of an evening I count bathroom tiles to keep the buzz going".

Supermarket check-out queen: "When I finish work, I hurry home and stack stuff in the kitchen cupboards. It always gives me a big thrill. Value beans at the front...always!”

Undertaker: “Time with the deceased is never wasted. When I get back from a top interment I sit there with my family wishing they were in the ground....or that I was just dead!”

Truck driving is a less cut-and-dried occupation. Through the show over the years I have learned that many drivers enjoy driving and when the day is over they hurtle around in ludicrously overpowered cars or attempt to become undertaker fodder via warp-speed motorcycles.


Over Xmas and New Year there wasn't a lot going on and, apart from the Glenn Miller Orchestra, the live music itch wasn't being scratched.

Step forward Country legend, Marty Stuart.


Bob Harris Country producer and mate, Al Booth, had a spare ticket. I had first heard about the gig having been tipped off in a roundabout way by a listener: Mary from New York.

She is an Anglophile (there are still a few left) and live music fan.

The concert was so low-profile I had seen no advertising for it at all. This may explain why the gig was only two thirds full.

Being an enthusiast and not an expert, I hadn't had much time for Marty over the years as every time I had seen him it had usually been at an award ceremony, so had not really witnessed him play.
My vision was coloured by his image; that of a perma-tanned vision in rhinestones with a faintly ludicrous hairstyle (let’s call it "Downhome Bouffant" or maybe "Country Mullet").

Boy was I ever wrong. He has been around for a while now being roughly the same age as me and spent some years as guitarist in Johnny Cash's band, as well as marrying one of his daughters, although he is now hitched to Country legend, Connie Smith.

He ran through a very polished set of originals and covers and instrumentals with a cracking band, including the tallest and thinnest guitar player I have ever seen. The show climaxed with some Gospel featuring gorgeous harmonies.

Image is such an important part of music that we tend not to realise how much it affects us.

When I think of the number of CDs featuring photos of perky teens or oily geezers in tuxedos that I have discarded without listening to, due to my innate prejudice, I wonder how much great music I have missed out on over the years.

Talent show contestants immediately get flushed down the khazi as they will turn up everywhere, so no need to spend time on them. However, some artists start off badly for me but improve.

Joss Stone as a perky teen with big voice didn't resonate with me particularly; for her first album she had coaching from a middle-aged Betty Wright. Why not just get Betty to record the stuff in the first place? Latterly she has been working with a variety of people including Jeff Beck so her credibility rose. Likewise Katy Melua who started out as a Mike Batt protege singing twee tunes about bicycles. Then along came William Orbit and she became suddenly a more interesting artist.

I know, we are heading towards the "ageism" debate and a whole "good looking sells" argument. I suppose that is just the way the world turns.

I maintain not being good looking enough has prevented me from having a glittering TV career. Shortly, I will change this argument to include "I am also too old".

Actually thinking about it...I probably am too old!

Dark Lady and I have been busy making wedding plans and trying very hard to ensure it is as stress free as possible. We are planning something low key. So low key I am not sure I have been invited.

We were looking at cakes the other day as we probably need to have one of these. We are not too keen on having the standard three tier with the plastic Bride and Groom stuck on the top, so we looked on the internet at various cake sites. One we saw which looked pleasant enough, but nothing startling, retailed at a mad £999!


Mentioned it on the show and, as a result, thank you to everyone who offered to make us a cake. You really are very kind.

Think we are all sorted now, although the DL vetoed the idea of a Bob the Builder supermarket-bought job. My local supermarket will print a pic on the cake using some Fancy computerised icing system. Few months back went past the counter and there was a sign pointing out that they had the right to veto "unsuitable pictures".

Wonder what brought that about? A plethora of confections featuring bottoms, breasts and worse? Or Wedding cakes resplendent with the photo of the former wife/husband or police mugshot?

Taking time off from the planning we headed to the Mermaid Theatre in London for a Radio 2 In Concert special featuring OMD.


Before the gig proper started we went upstairs to watch Jo Whiley doing her stuff with the band and also a live set from Jonathan Jeremiah, who seemed familiar and played some wonderful songs backed by a string quartet. I have a suspicion that I have played him as part of the library a year or so back.

We took our seats one row back from the stage which boasted an unparalleled view.

On came the band and the couple in front stood up blocking aforementioned view!

I politely tapped the woman on the shoulder and asked her to sit down and she said

"Why don't you stand up?"

Not sure what the riposte to this should have been. I was on the horns of a dilemma here: was I spoiling their fun by asking then to remain seated? Or were they being inconsiderate by blocking our view?

Luckily they sat down after a few minutes and remained so for most of the gig.

I felt for a guy on the front row nearest the aisle who walked with the aid of stick. His view was continually blocked by people rushing to the front to Dad dance. So much so that his patience began to wear thin. By the time the band launched into "Enola Gay" he was using the stick as a weapon to hoik people out of his eyeline.

The weekend came and it was off to the Lake District for my Aunt’s 80th Birthday lunch.

You are so useful and kind with all your help with gift ideas. When people are into middle-age and beyond generally they have everything they need and in many cases are looking to downsize and simplify their lives. To that end the word had gone out:

"No gadgets"

Hmm, a problem. You had come to the rescue for my Dad several times now with a snorkel and the idea of having him fired from a cannon. What to get for an 80 year old music teacher?

The ideas came pouring in. We needed something musical, so extreme sports and a gigolo were politely declined. Although a bungee jumping Chippendale playing a zither did flit across my mind for a moment....only a moment mind.


I will tell you the rest of the story in the next blog which, if I remember, will also contain a glowing review of a vinyl to CD burning turntable I have just bought; soon I will be able to play you some of the albums and singles in my collection that are not available in other formats and so, at the moment, don't get an airing.

It is currently in its box. I just hope I can get it to work!

HERE COMES THE BRIDE

It was away to the Cotswolds the other weekend in order to attend the nuptials of the Dark Lady's best friend, Annie; a woman that I am getting to know and like immensely.

She will be reading this so it is important to keep on the right side as she knows all the DL's "Skeletons". I am hoping for a few juicy nuggets of personal info just in case we ever have a knock down drag-out fight about anything:

"Well, I may have forgotten to take the rubbish out but at least I didn't get horribly drunk on holiday in Lloret and marry a 74 year-old waiter called Pablo!"

"Darling, I never knew your Great Aunt was Eva Braun?"

So far on all the evidence from first-hand experience and what Annie has told me, there is nothing to get my teeth into.

She doesn't even like shopping that much either, so we can't argue about a totally unnecessary pair of shoes (as I reach for a nerdy magazine to drool over the prospect of a totally necessary second car or a Microlight).


I will play the long game on this one.

DL knew where we were headed so, as it was Friday - and by the end of the week I tend to be a bit shot to pieces with the early starts - she drove. We drove west with me occasionally waking from my slumber to proffer some important and timely route advice:

"LOOK OUT!!!!"

"MIND THAT BUS"

"HOW FAST DO YOU CALL THIS??"

"70!"

"OH....SEEMS FAster......" (lamely subsiding).

DL is a far better driver than me so I am in no position to criticise. It is just what we blokes are programmed to do.


The Warp speed journey continued and we soon found ourselves in a pretty village outside a pub called "The Ear".

This is where we were staying. Nice comfortable room with big bed and capacious bathroom. After a long week we were going to sleep the sleep of the dead.

(Oi! I know what you are thinking.....Disgusterating!!!)

DL had to go and help with the wedding rehearsal; she was to play an integral part in the proceedings by doing one of the readings, although I didn't know this until just before the proceedings. She likes to keep some things quiet. (Hmm, I wonder what 74 year-old Pablo would think?).

Off she went and I went and found a comfortable place to write the blog. The last blog before this one, that is. Creative juices flowed, as did the lager. The bar was very cosy with an open fire and WiFi. What more could a boy wish for?


Two hours later she was back and I was done. A quick bite to eat and she carried my drink-sodden form up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire.

That is when the trouble started. We may have been staying in an ancient coaching in may be a picturesque location…but it did creaks. Oh how it did creak. I think our room on the first floor was located under the corridor above. So every time anyone walked upstairs the groaning and squeaking and moaning of protesting woodwork meant sleep was well nigh impossible.

We were husks by the time the morning light came filtering through the leaded windows, and the foxes had ceased barking and the Cockerels had finished "Crowin' fo' day".

Breakfast. Then it was in the bar for "one for the ceremony" A minibus came to collect us as we hicced our way towards a tiny church.

Inside it was packed with Welshmen.


Now before you think I am about to make a selection of off-colour remarks about the Welsh, you can think again for a number of reasons.

1) Annie is Welsh

2) So is her intended, Steve

3) Steve is a truck driver so is immediately elevated to "top man" status

4) Steve is also very muscular, with a side order of extra muscles in case he runs out of the ones that he has already.

5) The church was packed with a male voice choir.

6) I present the Best Time of the Day show, not Top Gear!

The choir were wonderful. I defy you not to find a lump in your throat when they are in full flight.

DL gave a reading of part of Margery Williams’ children’s book, The Velveteen Rabbit.

Damn, there was that lump in the throat again.


Annie's dog even made a guest appearance complete with flowery lead.


Then amid the congratulations the corks popped at the back of the chapel and out came the champagne.

Now that is the way to get people into church on a Sunday. Booze!

Minibus returned and we headed for the pub.

Mulled wine and fabulous food and then the speeches.


Steve managed to lose his carefully crafted speech. He had been sweating over it for weeks but it didn't matter as he was very funny and went down a storm. Often the best speeches are off the cuff
As did his best man, Keith; another top bloke and a former truck-driver.

Father of the bride, Johnny, also did a great speech; he feigned being slow on the uptake when Annie had told him she was going to marry Steve.

"Steve who?"

"Austin?"
"Martin?"
"Jones?"
"…Hawking?"


The list was endless.


There was even a quiz set by Annie and the DL's friend and colleague, Martin.

As usual everyone looked at me when the music round came up.
As usual, I disappointed. DL was on my team and I discovered just how competitive she is.

I play tunes on the Radio in the middle of the night so inhabit a parallel universe. She is in business. Winning is important. She would be good on Dragon's Den. I think she would out-fox Lord Sugar! She would certainly charm him to death!

We staggered out of there ready for bed just after midnight as the minibus took us back to the "'Ear"

Then once more up the wooden hill, followed by everyone else to their respective rooms.

"Goodnight

CREEEEAK,

"Night"

SQUEEEEEAK

"See you at breakfast"

SKKRREAAANNKK"

"What time will you be down?"

NEEEERRRREEEAAARRR

"Bout 9-ish"

"Night"

RRRRRRRRRAAAAAUUNCH

As we checked out the following day I realised we hadn't been staying at “The Ear" after all. There had been some "signage malfunction"


I am still not sure where in the West Country we went, exactly.