FAB (Foodie & Broadcaster) in London

Vera May Hirons: 30th November 1912 - 14th May 2010

2010-05-29T13:58:00.003+01:00

Late last year, I blogged about my 97-year-old Auntie Vera ('Home is where the aunt is', posted 1st December 2009).

Towards the end, I wrote: "As I check for typos, I realise [it] reads like a fond obituary, one which, I hope, will prove substantially premature as I intend to be sitting in her back room in 2012, just as I did today, and raising a glass as she tucks into a small slice of suitable-for-diabetics birthday cake to mark her centenary."

Alas, my unintentional obit proved only mildly premature. Vera has left us, and I returned to Birmingham this week for her funeral.

It was a lovely, simple, understated, mildly religious affair. Very English. Very non-London. Only the lay preacher and I spoke. I had laboured long and hard, attempting to capture, in a five-minute address, the essence of a long, eventful life and an independent, forward-looking, joyful personality. Various mourners were kind enough to say, unasked, that I achieved it.

I thought I would feel only happiness on the day, as my memories of Vera are all good and she had said often during her final fortnight that she was ready go to. And, certainly, happiness was the day's overriding emotion. However, to my surprise, I found myself on the verge of tears numerous times. I'm such a cry baby these days. However did that happen? Is it a simple consequence of age? Do Life's knocks create a reservoir of sadness, liable to overflow whenever another unhappy event raises the saltwater level? Or is it that Society, which once decreed that only girls cry, now tells men they may, indeed should, let it all out? Who knows?

My first dodgy moment was in the funeral car on the way to the crematorium when one of Vera's step great grandsons, aged about eight and fascinated by every detail of his first funeral, piped up that he really loved Grandma Vera and would particularly miss the footballer pyjamas she bought him for Christmas every year. I said he'd better make the current pair last, then, as he wouldn't be getting any more pyjamas. The adults with us laughed at this modest joke but he took it entirely seriously and nodded in that fiercely earnest way only a youngster can. It was that reaction, for some reason, which raised the level of the reservoir dangerously high.

Milling around outside the crematorium was a group of woman of many nationalities. They were the carers whose work had allowed Auntie to remain in her own home until she died. Going into a home was the greatest fear of her final years. Even getting her into hospital for minor surgery took some doing because: "Once they get you in there, they never let you out again!"

I commented that attending elderly clients' funerals must be a fairly regular event. "Oh, no," a grey-haired Indian lady in a sari corrected me, "we don't normally go. We've only come because it's Vera's funeral and we all loved her so much." The others murmured their agreement, one adding that she had never attended such an event before but wouldn't have missed Vera's for anything. When a third explained that she would have to forgo the wake because she had had only three hours' sleep after working all night, I had to excuse myself and bite my lip very hard.

As I negotiated the vile, 60s, pedestrian subway to the railway station for the 10-minute ride from Vera's not-very-pretty bit of Brum back to the city centre, I wondered whether, after visiting her there so many times, I would ever go to B20 again. Now that I have a Midlands-based job, I can finally live in my fabulous flat in the Second City's iconic, cylindrical tower, The Rotunda (see same previous blog). I move in in a fortnight and I'd imagined popping over to Perry Barr at least weekly to check on her but it seems the timing was off and it isn't to be. I'll have to make do with a fund of lovely memories instead (oh dear, saltwater level rising dangerously....)

Finally, here's the verdict of another of Vera's impeccably behaved little step great grandsons upon his first funeral: "They're very sad things but they're good things too because you learn stuff about people."

Photographs courtesy of Rommel Catalan

The case of a badly bruised leg

2010-05-25T23:27:00.001+01:00

We live in a uniform world these days. Every high street boasts the same shops selling the same goods. Pop into a McDonalds or Starbucks anywhere on the globe and you can confidently predict how big your Big Mac or skinny your skinny latte will be.

And yet there's one mass-produced item we expect to be unique: our suitcase. Have you customised your luggage to prevent you hauling someone else's undies and trashy novels off the carousel at Heathrow? Of course you haven't. You assume you'll know your case as soon as you see it, even though logic tells you any of your fellow passengers could easily own an identical one.

I am no exception to this strange suspension of disbelief, and I am a wincing, limping, groaning, tragic thing because of it.

On Monday morning, I caught the train back from London to Leicester as usual to start another week on the wireless. Unlike last week's fiasco (see previous blog), the journey proceded smoothly. We pulled into Leicester, I collected my case from the rack and skipped jauntily into a perfect East Midlands spring morning.

For no particular reason, it then entered my head that I might have left my diary at home. I decided to check before starting my walk to work and unzipped the compartment in my case which I reserve for this important book.

It wasn't there. Oh well, I'd just have to manage without it until I went home on Friday night. Unless I'd inadvertently put it in the main body of my case. No, it wasn't there, either, although I was pleased and surprised to see that I'd brought a bottle of water with me. Oh, and sunglasses, too. They'd be handy now the weather had finally come good. Very nice sunglasses, actually. Nicer than mine.

Hang on a minute.....NICER THAN MINE??? This wasn't my case!

Without even pausing to zip it up, I pelted back down the platform and flung it and myself back onto the train. "I'm terribly sorry," I panted to a surprised and slightly frightened carriage, "I've taken this case by mistake!"

The rightful owner stepped forward and was very nice about it. I wrenched mine, which was indeed identical and had been right next to his, off the rack and headed for the door.

Which then began to close. If I didn't get off that train, I'd have to go to Derby and back, and probably miss the start of my radio show, which must never happen! I threw my case out and myself after it, crashing on top of it in an ungainly and painful heap (watched, no doubt, by those slightly frightened passengers and convincing any waverers as to my mental state).

One of the refinements of modern rolling stock is that the doors close automatically even if the train isn't about to depart. Sure enough, the 10.01 for stations to Sheffield was in no hurry to leave. All I'd needed to do was push the button and the door would have reopened and I could have departed without doing my comedy impersonation of a stunt man.

Thirty-six hours later, I'm still limping and wincing, although the pain is decreasing so I don't think I've done myself any serious harm.

But the moral of the story is clear: customise your cases! I thought about getting some stickers for mine, but where does anyone over the age of 10 buy stickers?

And stickers say so much: people assume, not unreasonably, that you are passionate about whatever cause or organisation they advertise. Do they do ones for people who are slightly left-of-centre, vaguely worried about global warming but not enough to do very much recycling, fairly proud to be British though aware we don't always get it right, and all for banning the bomb provided the other side ban it first?

No, I thought not. It looks like more suitcase comedy capers could be in the offing.

Travel - at a price

2010-05-18T23:17:00.001+01:00

I've had a frustratingly, infuriatingly, pointlessly expensive weekend.  And it could have been even worse.....

I work in Leicester all week and go home by train to London at weekends. I buy my tickets online during the week. A seat on the 14.57 Leicester-St Pancras service on a Friday afternoon costs £12, a surprisingly fair price for modern-day robber barons East Midlands Trains whose fares dwarf those of other operators and who, unfortunately, have the monopoly on journeys into and out of Leicester.

Last week, though, I didn't get round to buying my tickets until Friday morning. Sure enough, the price had leapt to £48. And none of the other trains leaving that afternoon was any cheaper.

Cost of my tardiness: £36.

The boyf and I are off to Belfast in September, volcanic ash permitting. I'm to 'marry' a friend and his other half. I am not licenced to perform civil partnerships, so Stephen and Ravi will do the legal bit quickly and quietly beforehand. I will then invite them to declare their mutual love and commitment before weeping friends and family in beautiful Belfast Castle. I am honoured and can't wait.

Ryanair seats are £30 return, substantially less, you'll notice, than a Leicester to London, bought-on-the-day single from East Midlands "just give us yer money and no-one gets hurt" Trains. Brilliant deal.

But mind that mouse! Don't, whatever you do, click one of the little aeroplane symbols thinking you're selecting the flight detailed alongside it. I did - and ended up booking the 6am red-eye in both directions. I knew that changing the journeys would incur a penalty. I didn't, however, anticipate its increasing the cost from £60 for the two of us to A HUNDRED AND EIGHTY POUNDS!

Cost of my careless clicks: £120. Total needless spend of the weekend so far: £156.

On Monday morning, I set off for another week on the wireless in Leicester. The Victoria Line was up the spout. Commuters were packed onto the platform like the proverbial tinned sardines. An already heaving train finally limped into the station. About one in 10 of those waiting managed to elbow their way on. For me, with a large suitcase, the situation was hopeless.

I went back up the escalator and beeped out, thus paying £1.80 on my Oyster for a journey Transport for London had been unable to deliver. I suppose I could have argued my case with an official but time was tight.

I hailed a cab. The ride to St Pancras Station was agonisingly slow, roadworks at Waterloo proving particularly sticky. I arrived just as my train pulled out, so the taxi fare was another £20 wasted.

Cost of London Underground's eternally fragile signalling system: £1.80 + £20 = £21.80. Total needless spend of the weekend so far: £177.80.

Missing the start of your show is one of radio's great no-nos and I was now seriously doubting whether I could make mine.  But, joy upon joy, another fast train to Leicester, the 09.25, was leaving in minutes. I was saved!

However, East Midlands Trains doesn't let you use your ticket on the next train if you've missed yours -that wouldn't extort the maximum cash out of its long suffering passengers, you see - so I knew I'd be caught by the ticket inspector on the 09.25 and fined £62 (or, rather, required to buy another ticket at the standard price, as they prefer to think of it). Yes, that really is what EMT does to you for daring to catch a train a few minutes before or after the one you're booked on. You dyed-in-the-wool motorists can't believe what we public transport users put up with, can you? At times, neither can we!

Anyway, I should have simply put my ticket through the slot at the barrier, boarded the train and subsequently paid my fine. Instead, I foolishly asked the charmless jobsworth at the barrier whether my ticket was valid on the 09.25. "No," he replied, "you need to return to the ticket office to buy a new one for this service."

But if I did that, I wouldn't have time to catch this servie! Couldn't I just jump on board and pay the fine? "No." I really would get into terrible trouble if I didn't catch that train: couldn't he make an exception? "No." By now, he was physically barring my way.

Swearing - and not entirely under my breath - I descended the escalator en route to the ticket hall.  But then I had an idea. I came back up the 'up' escalator, calmly walked back to the barrier avoiding eye contact with Mr Charmless Jobsworth, stuck my ticket in, went through, and caught the train with seconds to spare. Hah!

And it got even better: when the inspector came round, I gave him my ticket and, sure enough, he immediately clocked that I was on the wrong train. "I know!" I gushed, all faux innocence. "The Victoria Line was hopeless this morning, so I missed the 09.15 by moments. Thank goodness for the 09.25!" Had The Revenue Team been working that train, he explained, they'd have made me buy a standard price ticket (the £62 "fine").  But they weren't, and he was going to let me off!

East Midlands Trains, it seems, had made the fatal error of employing a reasonable bloke! I'm sure they'll soon rumble him and replace him with a charmless automaton, but I was in the clear.

"In future," he said, "just explain the problems you've had getting to the station to the staff at the ticket barrier, and they'll stamp your ticket and let you through." Somehow, I both kept a straight face and refrained from saying: "Have you actually met the barrier staff at St Pancras?"

Cost to East Midlands Trains of inadvertently employing a decent human being: £62.

So, what morals do we draw from this sorry chain of events? Well, there are so many, you can take your pick. For example:

a) East Midlands Trains are &%$"£*@!!!!!!
b) silly computing errors can cost you dear
c) in London, you're always only a signalling failure away from disaster
d) I'll never be rich

However, I prefer e):

e) it's only money: I've still got my health and strength and people who love me, not to mention more Diana Ross CDs than you could shake a stick at. What's £177.80 compared to all that?

Thank you for reading. My spleen is now fully vented.

PS: can you lend us a tenner?

Pass the raw celery, please

2010-05-09T21:06:00.002+01:00

People often remark that I don't look my age. As I am allergic to physical exercise (my latest efforts to attend a gym regularly, as detailed in a previous blog, have inevitably fizzled out), I can only put this down to a mixture of good gene inheritance and a sensible diet.

How is it, then, that today I consumed enough chocolate, shortbread and crisps to keep an entire sink estate of couch potatoes happy from now till Tuesday week? Answer: I have spent the day judging the annual Great Taste Awards.

Manufacturers of just about any foodstuffs can submit their products. A small percentage are awarded one, two or three gold stars with which they can then emblazon their packaging. This is a big deal in the food world; it's claimed these coveted stars have turned more than one tiny, artisan producer into a big player.

Clearly, then, it's a weighty responsibility for the judges who include producers, delicatessan proprietors, chocolatiers, cheesemakers, food PRs, chefs and writers. Big names like Antony Worrall Thompson are happy to take part, even though there is no fee.

The judging takes place at various venues across many days. At each session, 40 to 50 informed foodies are split into teams of five or six, each ploughing through endless, anonymous samples of sausage, cheese, oatcakes, ice cream and elderflower cordial. They arrive at a score and write a short report on every item suggesting possible improvements. Does the balance of sweet and sour in a relish need adjusting? Would a shortbread be better if it were cut a tad thicker? A rum truffle tastes terrific but its appearance is offputtingly dull: could the makers give the chocolate shell a sheen?

If they come across a sliver of bacon, pot of joghurt or square of chocolate with the wow factor, the judges refer it up to the supreme tasting table, the members of which have the final say on how many, if any, of those three coveted gold stars it will be awarded.

As a rookie judge last year, I was astonished to be asked to serve on the supreme table for one session. I was a bit shy and overawed to start with but, within minutes, had returned to my usual, opinionated, passionate self, and was debating furiously with Charles Campion, food writing doyen of The London Evening Standard, the optimum ratio of crisp crust to squidgy middle in the perfect chocolate brownie.

My session this year took place within the Real Food Festival at the Earls Court arena, so the lunchbreak afforded an opportunity to tour the stalls, sample the wines and stroke bored longhorn cattle and cute little lambs (which will be even more delightful in the near future when accompanied by roast potatoes and mint sauce).

Because cooking facilities at Earls Court are limited, all the hot entries were saved for another day leaving us to deal with things like chocolate, shortbread, potato crisps and chutney.

Gorging on such forbidden fruits might sound like heaven but, believe me, after your seventh fudge sample in a row, actual fruit is what your poor, abused body is crying out for.

But I mustn't complain. It's an honour to be asked, some (though certainly not all) of the samples are simply sensational, and it's fascinating to meet fellow foodies from every corner of the culinary universe.

I'm back home now. Sure enough, the initial sugar rush from all those sweetmeats has worn off and I can barely keep my eyes open. Why didn't I Hoover my flat whilst I was as high as a kite?

I'm about to rustle up a bit of dinner. I'm thinking a large, crisp, undressed salad followed by a bowl of strawberries without sugar or cream. Anything lurking in the cake tin or biscuit barrel is safe tonight.

The ride of my life

2010-05-08T15:14:00.002+01:00

We all have to face our demons sometimes. One of mine has always been horses. Specifically, horseriding.

Why would you want to climb onto the back of a huge, highly-strung creature liable to freak out if a car backfires or a mischievous dog starts snapping around its far-too-thin legs?

Why would you want to risk being concussed or even spending the rest of your life in a wheelchair when The Good Lord gave us the intelligence to invent the pedal cycle and internal combustion engine, not to mention providing us with a perfectly serviceable pair of legs?

This has always been my view: I was never the little boy rushing to the gate to give Dobbin a sugar lump. I wanted to keep my fingers safe for piano practice, thanks all the same. Female friends who went all misty-eyed at the thought of owning a pony filled me with baffled disdain.

But, of course, all one’s chickens – and, indeed, horses – eventually come home to roost and, this past week, my weekly challenge on my lunchtime show on BBC Radio Leicester has been to learn to ride.

As you may know from my last blog, I’ve already successfully tackled bingo calling, floristry, street cleaning, maypole dancing, pork pie making, beatboxing and town crying. None of those dismayed me anything like as much as getting into the saddle.

It was with a heavy heart, therefore, that I headed to the charming village of Somerby in rural Leicestershire for my first lesson. When I got hopelessly lost and had to drive back to the centre of Leicester and start again, I was secretly pleased. I rang the equestrian centre to explain that I would be terribly late: would they still be able to fit me in? Of course, no problem, laughed the lady on the phone. Damn!

Fast forward an hour, and I’ve started my recording machine, been fitted for a hard hat and am on my way to meet J.T. who is to be my (hopefully) trusty steed. Interesting name, I muse, as the recording machine whirs, why J.T.? Gail, the riding school owner, becomes hesitant and coy for the first time. “Oh, it’s, erm, an abbreviation for, you know, er, John Thomas,” she finally gets out. It takes me a second to catch on; J.T. is so named because he is unusually well-blessed, even for a horse. I sneak a peek but see nothing out of the ordinary. Mind you, he is a pensioner these days and I am not a lash-fluttering filly.

Soon, I’ve climbed a set of wooden steps (so that’s my first fear, that I wouldn’t even be able to mount the wretched thing, dealt with) and am in the saddle. Blimey, it’s high up there! I’m breathless and tense but fortunately, I have a job to do and that keeps my terror under control: I focus on the fact that I must return with some good radio.

Before long, a young lady who initially led J.T., has relinquished the reigns and I am starting him, stopping him, and turning him right and left all by myself. And it’s fine!

Just as I’m becoming relatively comfortable, owner Gail says it’s time to trot. The secret to trotting, it turns out, is rising and falling in unison with the horse. If the horse is going up whilst you are coming down, your nether regions connect with the saddle on a regular and painful basis. I have a hunch this repeated slapping of the undercarriage is less of an issue for women than men. I never quite got the rhythm, as my cry of ‘ow!’, ‘ow!’, ‘ow!’ confirmed, but I did trot.

As it was still going so well, Gail suggested we leave the safe predictability of the indoor arena for a hack down the lane. What, on a first lesson? What about barking dogs and backfiring cars and a hundred other horse-spooking possibilities? An experienced horseman could no doubt cope with most of them but what chance would I have?

Gail, of course, pooh-poohed my fears. The weather and countryside were beautiful. The few dogs we encountered were friendly and the odd vehicle was driven with consideration. To my utter astonishment, I walked, trotted, stopped, started and turned J.T. around the Leicestershire fields, if not like an old hand, certainly with little fear and even with a degree of relaxed confidence.

Gail pronounced that I had passed my weekly challenge and that she could certainly make a horseman out of me.

I won’t be granting her that opportunity. I haven’t experienced a bridle-path-to-Damascus conversion. I was still pleased to dismount and retake control of my destiny. However, the experience was a reasonably pleasant one, and I definitely conquered my riding demons.

This week, I am to learn the art of tattooing. Unbelievably, a volunteer has been found who is prepared to allow me to permanently ink his body after just a couple of hours’ tuition. I feel the ante has been upped once again. I can’t help feeling that, as the needle whirs and my hand trembles and my victim looks up at me with a trusting smile, I shall wish I was back in the saddle.

And if you’d told me that a week ago…..

Taking the tasks

2010-05-03T15:37:00.004+01:00

Question: what do bingo-calling, pork pie-making, street cleaning, floristry, town crying, maypole dancing and beatboxing have in common?

Answer: I can do all of ‘em! Maybe not to the very highest standards, but I definitely can!

One of the features of the BBC Radio Leicester show of which I’m currently long-term caretaker, is a weekly challenge.

As if mastering the technicals of 21st-century radio wasn’t enough for my aging brain (see previous blog), I have, from the start, been required to master a new skill every seven days, too.

Listeners follow my progress through the week as an expert tutors me and I practice. At least, I hope listeners do so: for all I know, they could be yelling at the radio: “Who cares whether you can construct a simple bouquet with three long-stemmed roses and a variety of ornamental grasses, Bill? Play another song, for heaven’s sake, before we retune to commercial rival Anonymous FM!” (strapline: “playing Leicestershire’s favourite six songs over and over again until you lose the will to live”).

On Friday, teacher turns examiner. He or she concocts what they consider to be a fair test of my abilities, and I take that test live on air.

I don’t like to boast (is it ever true when someone says that?) but thus far, I’ve passed seven out of seven.

As with most things, there’s more to floristry, bingo calling, even litter picking, than meets the eye.

Take the bingo. For a start, camping it up by announcing 22 as two little ducks, 59 as the Brighton line or, perish the thought, 88 as feelings-hurting, litigation-creating two fat ladies, is strictly verboten. Bingo has gone serious, slick and modern with cash prizes running into four figures. Neither the players, many of whom are no longer fat ladies of a certain age, incidentally, nor the management, want time-delaying whimsy anymore; they demand fast, efficient delivery, and nothing but.

Each numbers must be announced in a certain way. 50, for example, can only be delivered as ‘five-oh, fifty’. The same rule applies to all the others that end in 0. The reason? If you say ‘forty’ before you’ve said ‘four-oh’, it can be misheard as ‘fourteen’ and occasion a false shout of ‘House!’.

Single digit numbers, meanwhile, must always be announced as, for example, ‘eight, on its own, number eight’. No other permutation is acceptable, not even ‘number eight, on its own, eight’. Again, this is because this form is thought least likely to cause confusion.

Only machine gun delivery will do. There simply isn’t time to think: “Ooo, 64’s come up. Do I say ‘six and four, sixty four’ or is it ‘sixty four, six and four?”

The hundred-odd bowed heads at Mecca Bingo’s lunchtime session formed a daunting sight, but I pulled it off. Being a broadcaster to the souls of my feet and roots of my hair, the fact that tens of thousands of radio listeners were eavesdropping on my moment of pressure, which I guess would be many people’s primary concern, never occurred to me, let alone added to the pressure.

I’m proud to say I got a spontaneous round of applause from the players at Leicester’s Freemans Common (which sounds quite scenic but is, in fact, an industrial estate). I controlled my euphoria and managed not to thank my mother, agent, director and, more than anyone, the writers for such a fabulous script (52, 7, 13, 44, 8: poetry!) before handing the mic back to the regular caller.

In the course of these challenges, I’ve also managed a bit of cliché destruction. My colleagues (and I, if I’m honest) assumed that, as a gay man possessed of, shall we say, a certainly degree of flamboyance, I’d take to floristry like the proverbial duck to water, but struggle with becoming a binman.

It turned out to be quite the reverse: despite kind and patient tutorage and much practice, I never really produced a professional-looking bouquet. In fact, I still can’t work out how anyone with fewer than four hands manages it. Not only do you have to hold together countless stems of varying length, they also have to be at different angles. Grasses must be wrapped around to form bows or heart-shaped loops. Then it all has to be tightly secured with ribbon. Relax the grip of your aching hand for even an instant and you end up with blooms lolling at crazy angles in a “bouquet” no-one in their right mind would want to give or receive.

My teacher-turned-examiner gave me a pass for my Friday on-air effort which I think says more about her benevolence than my skill. Floristry was certainly the closest I’ve come to a fail.

Being part of a Council gang, cleaning Leicester city centre’s streets, however, was both relatively easy and great fun. I bonded with the other guys instantly and soon got to grips with the mechanical claw device that saves you bending to retrieve every crisp packet and Coke can. I derived satisfaction, too, from giving the manky, hard-to-get-at corners of various items of street furniture, a good brushing. I’m sure it would be miserable on a cold, wet day but, with the sun on my high-visibility jacketed back, it seemed a lovely way to get some light exercise and do something useful at the same time.

You’ve indulged me sufficiently for one session, so I’ll regale you with my pork pie making, town crying, maypole dancing and beatboxing in future blogs.

Coming up this week is horse riding. I confidently predict my first fail. I only hope I don’t end up concussed or permanently wheelchair-bound. It has long been my view that horses are highly strung, bloody minded, excessively emotional scaredy cats, just waiting for an excuse to toss that pesky rider off their back and canter free. If God meant us to sit up there, about a thousand miles above the ground, he would have given us unbreakable spines and denied us the intelligence to invent the pedal cycle and combustion engine. “You’ll never get me up on one of those things” has long been my equine mantra so quite why I have agreed to saddle up at one of Leicestershire’s riding schools, I have no idea.

Anyway, watch this space. I shall report back on my dealings with Dobbin. Anyone got any spare apples or sugar lumps?

Not quite going Radio Ga-Ga

2010-04-24T11:07:00.002+01:00

Shame on me. It’s so long since I blogged, you must have thought I’d packed it in for good.

The truth is, I’ve been too tired. What I thought would be the cushiest job I’ve ever had – presenting a mere two hours a day of local radio – has done me in.

I used to broadcast four hours a night, four times a week, on London’s phone-in station, LBC 97.3 I started at 1am and somehow kept my brain in gear and the phone lines buzzing until signing off at 5. These hours are called the graveyard shift, and rightly so because they are an absolute killer. The only chances I got to refocus my mind or empty my bladder were brief new bulletins and ad breaks.

If the computer system crashed or there was some other technical fault, there were no engineers around to consult. The only other person at the station was a phone-answerer, and most of them had far less technical knowledge than I did. Theoretically, I could have phoned an engineer and woken them up. Curiously, on the very rare occasions when this proved unavoidable, they weren’t too pleased. I couldn’t even slam on a CD whilst I investigated the fault; on a speech station, no music is allowed. Playing an entire song, unless it illustrates a feature, breaches your licence, and means a fine for the station and quite possibly the dole queue for the presenter.

Attempting to diagnose a technical fault whilst listening to and challenging the possibly libellous and usually wildly inaccurate opinions of an inebriated caller is not easy. In fact, it’s the hardest job I’ve ever done and, please God, the hardest job I ever will do.

So, playing a few songs and doing a few lightweight interviews for a mere two hours a day on BBC Radio Leicester, and at lunchtime when the mind and body aren’t begging to be allowed to shut down, sounded like a breeze. I’d be in at 10 and out by 3 without breaking into a sweat. Being away from home from Monday to Friday, I’d be unable to tackle all those niggling domestic jobs that always want doing (hoorah!), and would end up blogging away at a furious rate, as much to pass the time as for any other reason.

Not a bit of it. If the learning curve had been any steeper, I’d have ended up with vertigo. I’ve had to master the BBC’s arcane information system to find scripts, sound clips, jingles and trails. I’ve battled with new-fangled equipment when pre-recording, learnt how to transfer the results to my PC, worked out how to edit them, and attempted to store the finished product in the correct file before transferring it to the appropriate day’s running order. It’s been hard!

I’ve had to interrupt colleagues, all of whom always have too much to do – believe me, there is no slack in BBC local radio these days – time and again. They’ve been unfailingly helpful and patient but I’ve felt so guilty. And stupid. And old. And defeated.

Then there was the terror of setting up the studio ready for my live shows. When I started in BBC local radio, there were cartridges to play (like the old eight-track you had in your Ford Capri), reel-to-reel tape recorders, turntables for records, new-fangled CD players, and that was about it. Today, I have to monitor no fewer than six computer screens and know how all kinds of bits of kit work. And there’s no technician the other side of the glass to appeal to when you get stuck anymore – you’re flying solo.

The scariest bit is what we call ‘taking control’. The previous presenter works from an adjacent studio. Towards the end of his programme, you have to select an inordinate number of symbols on touch screens until his programme is actually going out via your studio. Get it even minutely wrong and you haven’t taken control at all, even though you may think you have. The first you know of your mistake is when you realise not a word of what you’re saying is being broadcast. You have reduced the station to silence, and that’s rarely good on radio.

Take control wrongly in a different way and you instantly cut off your predecessor before you’re ready to fill the void. Again, silence reigns. It’s hard to know who will be less amused, the colleague the end of whose show you've just destroyed or your boss.

And then there were the more mundane tensions that everyone experiences in a new workplace, like forgetting where the loos are, not being able to absorb colleagues’ names, and not being able to find the kitchen.

The last problem (which I detailed in a previous blog) wouldn’t normally be of crucial importance unless you were literally dying of thirst or hunger but, believe me, when you are due there to interview a chef live as he rustles up a dish and you have only the duration of one record to make the journey from the studio, you don’t half panic when you can’t find it. Eventually, I ran into the engineers’ room and screamed: “Help! Tell me where the kitchen is! I need to be there in seconds!” “It’s there,” they replied in a baffled and slightly nervous tone, pointing at a door all of six feet away from which the unmistakable aroma of cooking was emanating.

How is it that an old trooper like me had so much to learn? It’s partly because I’ve been broadcasting in the commercial sector for the past few years where all the equipment is different. But I also hadn’t realised how cosseted I’d been prior to that during my last stint at a BBC local station. There, because I had another job to dash to each day, I was what’s known as show-and-go. It sounds a bit like taking only one bottle of shampoo into the shower but it means your colleagues assemble everything for you, you swan in, glance through your scripts, glide onto the air, do the show, and head off to your next gig leaving others to clear up all your mess, from logging the music details to washing up the tea mugs.

There are no handmaidens to ease my burden at BBC Leicester: I have half a broadcast assistant. Her hands are more than full finding and booking guests to fill my show and the other one she works on. That leaves me to do everything else.

Of course, it’s getting easier. Some of the procedures that originally had me sobbing with frustration are already second nature. Others are still difficult but can be confidently tackled by following the idiot-proof, step-by-step instructions which I’ve written for myself. When I do get stuck, I remind myself that it now happens far less often, so well done, me! (It doesn’t work, of course – I still feel old and slow and stupid.)

Why, you might ask, have I persevered if it’s all been so tear-inducing and time-consuming?

Two reasons: I hate not working. I’ve worked all my life. The word that invariably cropped up on my school reports was ‘conscientious’. My essays were always handed in on time. I just can’t loll about. Hobbies are fine but only as a counterpoint to hard work. As you might have read in previous blogs, I’ve been somewhat under-employed since leaving LBC last autumn, so the opportunity to flex my radio muscles again daily was one I grabbed with both hands.

The second, even more important reason is that I just love being on the radio. Even on Day One at Leicester when working the desk felt like driving a car on an icy road very fast after only half a driving lesson, the actual broadcasting bit was simultaneously exhilarating and comfortable. Getting the best out of a caller, landing a killer question on a prevaricating official, being funny or creative off the cuff, even introducing a song just right – these are the things which, quite frankly, I live for.

That might sound terribly sad, I realise: shouldn’t I live for the love of my partner, friends and family? For the beauty of Nature? For making the world a better place? Well, yeah, those things are fine up to a point but they’re not being on the radio, are they?

I’m afraid if I had to choose either a romantic dinner and night of passion with Thierry Henry (the world’s most attractive man, as you’ve possibly noticed) or presenting a radio show flawlessly, there’d be no contest.

It would be the fabulous food and ‘afters’ with M. Henry, obviously. Good grief, you didn’t really think I was that sad, did you?

But I still really, really love being on the radio…..

Finding my feet and fish in The East

2010-03-19T17:25:00.005Z

Look at the date on my previous blog: 3rd March! That's over two weeks ago and represents the longest gap between posts since I started. I humbly apologise. I don't know why you all bother with me, but I'm glad you do (quite a lot of you, according to Google analytics - who are these readers in India, Russia and Canada? I'm intrigued. Shows yourselves!)

You'll have to completely let me off, at least as far as this last week is concerned. I've been up in the East Midlands presenting BBC Radio Leicester's lunchtime show and it has wiped me out.

This is not what I was expecting. I've been presenting daily programmes on BBC local stations, off and on for more than 20 years. I thought I'd breeze through it, especially as it's only a two-hour show. I thought I'd have so much spare time, I'd be blogging until you couldn't bear to read another word.

What I hadn't taken into account, because I'd completely forgotten about it, is how tiring working in a new environment with new colleagues is, however nice it and they might be (and both the building and people seem very nice at the Beeb in Leicester). I ran around like a harrassed, headless chicken for the first couple of days, unable even to find the studio, toilet, my desk or the kitchen.

You might think mislaying the kitchen wouldn't be the end of the world unless you were starving but, on Day 2, I was to interview a fishmonger there as he poached haddock, boiled roe and sauteed chitterlings (which, it turns out, are fish intestines - you learn something every day - and absolutely yummy).

In the studio, I commanded the computer to play a longish song then headed kitchenwards with headphones, microphone and a box of technical tricks I don't understand that enables me to continue broadcasting away from base. The BBC at Leicester is hardly a vast, labyrinthine edifice like London's Broadcasting House or Television Centre yet I simply could not find the blasted kitchen. After a couple of panic-filled minutes that felt like a week and a half, I put my head round the door of the engineers' office and begged them for help. "It's just there," they replied. I was approximately three feet away from the kitchen door. I made it just as the record began to fade.

Once I'd got my breath back, the food feature turned out to be a joy because John Heath, the fishmonger in question, and I have had dealings before. Three years ago, John's fish, chips and mushy peas was runner-up main course in Series 2 of Britain's Best Dish, the annual, culinary contest on ITV1 featuring chefs Ed Baines and John Burton Race and wine guru Jilly Goolden.

Ed, John and Jilly act both as mentors and judges on the show and, towards the end of the series, were augmented by London Evening Standard restaurant critic Charles Campion, culinary goddess Sophie Grigson and me. We were rendered ecstatic by John's pearly white, perfectly flaky cod in gossamer-light batter with chips that would have your great granny weeping with nostalgia.

He was beaten by the narrowest of margins by an ambrosial lamb biryani. We all felt awful having to choose one dish over the other as they were both way ahead of the pack, and couldn't have been more different: it was like saying a superb pear was better than a stunning apple.

John appears to have recovered from the disappointment of ending up so near yet so far from the glittering televisual prize and is still happily supplying haddock, halibut and herring to the good folk of Wigston Magna, as he has done for an amazing 47 years.

Some of my more squeamish new colleagues were aghast at the relish with which I consumed his roe and chitterlings, so goodness knows what they'll make of next Tuesday's cookery feature. I'll be meeting a guy who cooks roadkill in the exhaust pipe of his camper van. Fricassee of squirrel, anyone? I like to think of myself as fearlessly omnivorous but maybe even I will be yearning for the return of fried fish intestines.

I suppose I could always fail to find the kitchen on purpose......

Photos courtesy of http://www.programmes.stv.tv/, http://www.guardian.co.uk/, http://www.glanceimage.co.uk/

Playing with Poirot, rum, chocolate and a large portion of turkey

2010-03-03T21:04:00.005Z

Another bizarre day in the life that I call mine.

It started with my providing piano accompaniment whilst David "Poirot" Suchet and two thesps, both aged about 90, sang a song made famous by the forgotten comedian Sid Fields for a BBC4 documentary. I then enjoyed sipping no fewer than 11 rums, each paired with an exquisite chocolate dessert. The fact that I can even find my PC's keyboard, let alone hit the right letters, proves either that I'm a disturbingly hardened drinker or an exceptional typist. I prefer to believe the latter.

And later, I shall have the dubious pleasure of rubbishing Andrew Lloyd Webber's new musical on BBC Radio London 94.9.

Shall we run through all that in a little more detail?

Sid Field was a hugely successful comedian in the 1940s. He was also, like me, a Brummie, so I am ashamed not to have previously heard of him. His act, I learnt today, was not only hilarious but camp and riddled with doubles entendres. I like the guy more and more!

The BBC has commissioned a documentary about him, presented by David Suchet who portrayed him in a musical, What a Performance, in 1994. This morning, he and I repaired to the Prince of Wales Theatre in Leicester Square. Mr Suchet interviewed two extremely elderly gentlemen who appeared with Mr Field in various West End variety shows during the Second World War. I played piano whilst all three sang 'I'm Gonna Get Lit Up (When the Lights Go On in London)', apparently one of Mr Field's greatest hits.

Mr Suchet was charming, urbane and actorly, and displayed an encyclopaedic knowledge and burning enthusiasm for his subject. He teased fabulous wartime, theatrical tales out of the two old boys who, despite their great age, remain performers to their very bones. One of them delivered a brilliant tap routine, albeit whilst sitting down, as befits a nonagenarian.

They weren't the easiest trio to musically direct, each having different ideas about the tempo and lyrics. The director pronounced himself satisfied with our rendition, however, so who am I to argue?

The first rule of TV filming is that it will overrun. Sure enough, I had to jog from Leicester Square to Wigmore Street for my next appointment, a rum and chocolate matching session at posh cookery school, L'atelier des Chefs.

It was worth being temporary out of puff, though. After introductions from north London restaurateur and rum expert Ian Burrell and world-class chocolatier Ramon Morató from Spain, I and a gaggle of food writers, chocolate retailers and assorted freeloaders worked our way through 11 of Senor Morató's divine desserts, each one accompanied by a different rum selected by Mr Burrell.

I like rum as much as the next lush but have never majored on it and so was surprised to discover that rums are at least as diverse as whiskies. Indeed, one tasted exactly like a peaty single malt. Others were reminiscent of brandy and calvados. Some were pale with a sweet edge, some deeply hued and firey.

As for the puds, I'll make you green with envy with the details of just a couple: first, imagine the heaven that is a little cube of sugar syrup-soaked chocolate sponge topped with a tart passion fruit set cream, a dried raspberry and a speck of crystalised violet. Then think of the taste and textural sensation a mini sphere of dense, deeply-flavoured chocolate mousse atop the tiniest dice of banana and crunchy biscuit swimming in a sharp lime syrup would provide.

I'm not convinced rum and puds are natural culinary companions but, hey, it sure was a blast finding out.

Soon, I shall head off to my third and final appointment of the day, describing the events of my past week to Joanne Good on BBC London 94.9. In addition to reviewing several restaurants, I shall report on Press night at Lord Lloyd Webber's new musical, Love Never Dies, at The Adelphi.

I feel uncustomarily nervous because I shall be slating one of the giants of musical theatre. There's no logical reason to be, as I shall only be proferring an honest opinion. That opinion will be that the show is a total turkey. With stuffing, cranberry sauce and chipolatas.

It continues the story of the Phantom of the Opera and Christine. The Phantom has fled Paris for a new life in New York's Coney Island where he runs an amusement park and theatre. Christine has given up the stage and married a petulant alcoholic who drinks and gambles away all their funds. Without revealing his identity, the Phantom, who is still obsessed by her, offers her a vast amount of money for a one-night singing engagement. Thus she, her husband and their 10-year-old son are lured to America where poor old Phantom hopes finally to win her heart.

So far so good. After that, no good at all. The plot is unbelievable (can you swallow, for example, the idea that the Phantom had sex with Christine before releasing her to marry the boy she loved? Gaston Leroux who wrote the original story must be turning in his grave). There are no laughs - it's all shade and no light. The songs are just awful - A.L.W has forgotten how to write memorable tunes. The audience tittered at what should have been the tense dénouement. Applause throughout was lukewarm and shortlived.

I am not one of Theatreland's sneering snobs who routinely dismiss Lloyd Webber. I love Jesus Christ Superstar, Evita, Sunset Boulevard and the original Phantom. But please, if you are thinking of spending £50 of your hard-earned money on a West End musical, don't waste it on this bum-numbing tosh. Not when Priscilla Queen of the Desert, Wicked, Billy Elliot, Sister Act and especially Legally Blonde are around. If you want high drama, suffering and quasi opera rather than feelgood fun, catch Les Miserables. It's still doing good business after more than 24 years. Love Never Dies doesn't deserve to run for 24 days.

Images courtesy of http://www.commons.wikipedia.org/, http://www.probertencyclopaedia.com/, http://www.ilovemygrub.com/, http://www.elter.net/, http://www.beachbumberry.com/, http://www.thesun.co.uk/ http://www.fongsongs.blogspot.com/

Page boy

2010-02-26T17:01:00.004Z

Life is full of surprises. Well, mine is, at any rate. As regular readers may recall, within the last few weeks, I've appeared on a West End stage, made small talk with a drunken convicted murderer, and worn the late comedian Billy Dainty's toupee whilst listening to a 78 recording of The Beverley Sisters.

Surprised though I was by all of the above, none of them comes close to my latest bolt from the blue; I have been included in the acknowledgements of a physics text book for undergraduates!

Yes, I, the schoolboy whose lack of interest in science was eclipsed only by his loathing of PE, the boy who scraped a grade C physics O-level then gratefully dropped the subject like a hot brick, have been thanked in print by the author of a learned tome.

The writer is Dr Sharon Ann Holgate whom I've known for years since she was a regular contributor to my afternoon show on BBC Southern Counties Radio. Sharon has a brain like a planet and a string of letters after her name that looks like a lengthy Croation sentence. Yet she pulls off the rare trick of also being down-to-earth, fun-loving and fashion-conscious. She even knows about popular culture! And, despite being an uber-smarty-pants, she's a total klutz when it comes to mobile phones. She was, therefore, the ideal candidate to demystify a different aspect of popular science and how it relates to the world around us on my radio show each week.

We've since kept in touch and, this week, I attend the launch of her latest work, Understanding Solid State Physics (yours from Amazon for a mere £37.04 - go on, it'll make a change from your Danielle Steel or Len Deighton). I flicked through a copy and, sure enough, there was my name with those of significant academics I'd never heard of.

I couldn't wait to take Sharon to one side to ask her what I'd done to deserve such an honour. One of her aims is to link physics theories to everyday life, and she'd once asked me, as a foodie, what I thought of a product designed to keep food fresh for longer in the fridge. Apparently, my response saved her from writing a large number of wasted words. Who'd've thought!

What's coming next, I wonder: a citation from The Rugby Football Union? Candlelit dinner with Thierry Henry (yes, please)? A private audience with The Pope (no, thanks)?

As a rock star with an unfortunate propensity for bedding his followers once said: "Life is what happens whilst you're busy making fans."

When roast carrots take wing

2010-02-23T17:54:00.001Z

A happy blog today. I want to remind you of that wonderful moment when you do something, something you care about, 110% right, and you don't know how.

It could be a party you throw or attend, a sexual encounter, a work project, a public performance. You haven't prepared more thoroughly than usual, you don't seem to be expending greater effort, yet the whole thing floats effortlessly, gloriously, glitteringly along. At some point, you realise all that's required of you is to allow it to go on happening.

Entertainers will recognise what I'm talking about. An actor has been in a play for six months, banging out eight shows a week. One night, quite possibly a wet Wednesday in Hull, the atmosphere becomes electric, the audience is enthralled, every member of the cast's performance goes up a notch.  Or a comedian delivers the same stand-up routine he's performed countless times to moderate acclaim but this time, the entire crowd is rendered helpless from the first gag. Bouyed up by this, he tosses in ad libs and all of them, even the ones that didn't sound particularly promising in his head the split second before they left his lips, hit the spot. What's more, on some mystical, possibly primeval level, he knows they'll hit the spot, even though he doesn't know how he knows.

Don't try to analyse it. You'll get nowhere and, like quicksilver, if you try to grab it, it will disappear through your fingers.  But then, it disappears anyway; the following night, the play's performance is its usual, respectable, solid self. The stand-up comic has an okay night but no-one in the audience requires treatment from St John's Ambulance to get over their hysteria.

I occasionally experience the phenomenon when I'm cooking a meal. I've thrown countless dinner parties over the past 30 years and can probably count on the fingers of one hand the times when every component of every course has been, to my eyes and tastebuds at least, unimprovable.

To my delight and bafflement, it happened last Sunday. My chilled asparagus spears were neither too firm nor too mushy. They had retained their bright greenness and big asparagus flavour. The mayonnaise I knocked up to go with them had just the desired degree of lemon and garlic. The quantities were exactly right.

My sea bass fillets had steamed to optimum white, juicy, flaky, fishiness the first time I checked on them. The roast roots on which they sat were crunchy without, mashy within, well-seasoned, not oily. Both components married ecstatically with the dill dressing I spooned over. It had that restaurant look about it. It was still hot when it reached the diners. They loved it. They left their plates so clean, it seemed an extravagance to put them in the dishwasher.

I could bore you with the virtues of my chocolate orange mousse in similar fashion but you get the picture. And, sure enough, the most fascinating aspect is that all this was achieved with less, not more, effort than usual. It was as if some greater force had taken over and I was merely the conduit

Cherish these moments. They are few and far between and you'll need them when you're sitting in the old people's home, bored witless. The solitary sunny afternoon when every square inch of your garden shimmered with beauty.  The night when sex was somehow simultaneously surpising and inevitable so that you felt you were reading each other's minds. The round of golf when the clubs seemed to swing themselves and you notched up your best ever score (and knew you would).

Whatever your moments are, hang onto them, re-run them, smile a secret smile about them. Nurse will think you're going ga-ga but she'll probably think that anyway.

Let her.

An interesting stage in my career

2010-02-18T01:40:00.004Z

One of the best things about being a TV and radio performer is that you get asked to do all kinds of things for which you're completely unqualified.

For example, despite my acting experience being limited to a few school plays, I have often appeared on stage. I've donned Joseph's amazing technicolour dreamcoat, toured in a comedy and been booed and cheered in several pantomimes.

I've even performed in the West End, something some proper actors never have the good fortune to experience. Okay, it was way back in 1985 but at least it was at The Palace Theatre, one of London's biggest, and at least it was a solo spot: I sang one of my own compositions at the piano in a starry concert to raise money for the dependants of Keith Blakelock, the policeman murdered in the Tottenham riots.

I was such a success, I knew they'd have me back and, sure enough, a mere 25 years on, I've just made my West End comeback. Again, it was a one-nighter but there the similarities ended. This time, I had a non-speaking role (don't sneer; it never did Marcel Marceau any harm), and it was in a serious drama.

An Inspector Calls, J.B. Priestley's attack on capitalism and the class system, had long been an unfashionable staple of regional rep when director Stephen Daldry began the lengthy process of reinventing and rehabilitating it 20 years ago. His tense, dark interpretation, complete with spectacular exploding house (by designer Ian MacNeil) has won raves and awards around the world.

One of Daldry's innovations is a kind of mute, time-travelling Greek chorus. Approximately a dozen men, women and children representing the working classes, excluded from the comfortable, smug and apparently secure, middle-class, 1910s world of the protagonists, stand by, sternly watching events. Their clothes clearly announce that they, however, are from the 1940s. It's all a bit complicated and, in any case, I don't want to reveal too much and spoil things: see the play, or at least read it, and all will become clear.

Anyway, to get the production talked about, the PR people had the brainwave of inviting a different broadcaster, journalist or blogger each night to join the chorus, and this Tuesday, it was my turn.

I reported to the stage door of the beautiful old Wyndhams Theatre in Leicester Square at five and was taken to wardrobe for my 'costume fitting'. All it entailed was being allotted an overcoat, scarf and hat, although I did get to choose between two scarves and two hats. I went for the brighter scarf and bigger hat, obviously, to maximise the impact of my brief moment in the spotlight.

One of the other Greek chorus members (they call themselves supernumeraries) took me to the stage and walked me through the 'part'. There was a step forward to remember, a 180 degree turn (on the right shoulder), a turn back (right shoulder again), a final turn away (left this time) and an exit, all on dialogue or other sound cues.

I began to feel quite nervous. I remembered our school drama teacher stressing how vital it was for every chorus member to act as one because "if one of you does it differently, that's the one every member of the audience's eyes will be drawn to!" Gulp...

We supernumeraries had two other scenes but these involved only standing motionless in the bourgeois family's house and bowing twice at the curtain so at least there were few opportunities to screw up there. Finally, I was warned there would be some loud bangs and that jumping or screaming in surprise would constitute unacceptable focus pulling.

It was still barely six o'clock and our first entrance was not until after 8.30 so now began one of the main activities of an actor's life; hanging around. Installed in the green room, I met the other supers as they arrived. They were a welcoming and surprisingly diverse bunch including the understudies to all the main roles plus other theatricals like Paul Tate, a larger-than-life northern gentleman who had joined the cast after giving Dame in pantomime: I could certainly picture him berating Jack for trading the cow for a bag of beans or fondly cuffing cheeky Aladdin. Other members of our group, however, weren't actors at all; there was a housewife, students, a teacher and a couple of office workers all of whom came directly from their day jobs to make a few extra bob.

All were eager to hear about me; I suppose an injection of new blood is always welcome when you're stuck doing not much with the same colleagues eight times every week. Teas and coffees were frequently made and distributed, and when a box of shortbread from a recent trip to Edinburgh was broken open, quite a party atmosphere ensued.

Eventually, it was time to go on. I entered, I stepped, I turned, I turned again, I got off. I can't say the adrenalin was pumping but it was definitely an experience I'll remember, and I was quietly proud that I'd carried out my minimal duties accurately. Indeed, one of my colleagues claimed I was the first guest who had got everything right but I'm not sure whether he meant it or was just joking.

Well, you can't tell with these actors, can you?

Pictures courtesy of http://www.abbeyboxoffice.co.uk/, http://www.showsinwestend.co.uk/ and http://arthurlloyd.co.uk/

Sweet charity!

2010-02-15T16:26:00.002Z

A few blogs ago ('Give over, Gordon!', 6th January, 2010), I railed against the insane hoops charity shops have to jump through to claim the tax on the money they make from selling your unwanted shirts, books and DVDs.

Any donor who pays income tax is invited to fill in a Gift Aid form with a unique code number. A sticker with that number is then attached to every one of their donated items. Once everything's been sold, the shop informs HM Revenue and Customs of the total raised and claims the extra 28%. It is a bureaucratic nightmare; the assistant at my charity shop told me she spends at least three hours a week at the computer punching in the codes. And goodness knows how much it is costing the taxpayer for civil servants to process the claims from all the UK's charity shops, probably far more than the relatively trivial amounts being paid out to many of the charities.

The simple way to deal with this would, of course, be to declare charitable donations tax-free. Why on earth should they be taxed in the first place? Because there is never enough money in the kitty to pay for all the public services we have come to expect and rely on, I suppose, and the Government is desperate to claw in cash from wherever it can. Nevertheless, it seems a particularly low piece of stooping.

I'm blogging about it again because today I received a letter from my local charity shop which reveals that the situation is even crazier than I realised.

Not only does the shop have to go through the nonsense I've already listed, it is also required to write to me every time it makes a Gift Aid claim. If it doesn't, the Scrooge-like automatons at HM Revenue and Customs won't cough up the additional 28%. The shop can either wait until every item I donated has been sold, thus delaying receipt of the tax money which is rightfully theirs, or it can claim every so often as my unwanted Christmas and birthday presents gradually find new homes but it must apply to HMRC and write to me every single time.

And get this: I can choose to reclaim the proceeds from the sale! The good-hearted volunteers at the charity shop are required by law to inform me, again in writing, that I can change my mind and swell my own coffers rather than those of the charity.

You might think it unfair that the shop can be forced to hand the cash over when it has invested time, labour and expense in washing and ironing, labelling, displaying and finally selling my stuff, but don't worry, the Government has thought of that: I have to pay the shop an administration fee....OF ONE PER CENT! My items made £25.64 so, by my reckoning, if I chose to be a capricious, tight-fisted old so-and-so, I could demand £25.37 simply for having donated and dropped off the goods, leaving the shop with all of 27 pence for doing all the rest.

All over the country, kind-hearted souls are giving their time to raise money for the sick, old and disadvantaged. Their work receives little attention and is decidedly short on glamour - would you relish laundering a stranger's clothes? How they keep going in the face of such spiteful provocation, I've no idea.

And how the pen-pushers at Revenue and Customs sleep at night, even if they are just following orders, I find equally baffling.

(I'm) just a puppet on a string

2010-02-14T20:33:00.004Z

Only three and a bit months to go! I'm seriously over-excited. I expect you are, too. How will you be celebrating this year? Whom will you be with? It's always difficult to know whose invitation to accept, isn't it? A lovely dilemma, but a dilemma, nonetheless. Or are you hosting? A big do or a small one?

What do you mean, you don't know what I'm talking about? I'm only talking about the cultural event (not to mention the gay event) of the calendar!

Still no clearer? Oh, for heaven's sake.... Alright, here are a few clues; British pride, British shame, block voting, musical clichés (especially key changes), intensely annoying television comperes and commeres, puppets, clowns, transvestites, stilt walkers, girls getting their skirts ripped off, hurdy-gurdies. I'm talking Eurovision!

I have so much to say about this vast and ever growing, glorious, overblown, camp, insane, slightly out of tune celebration of the mediocre that I shall only scratch the surface in one blog, but here goes.

Let's start at the beginning; it's a very good place to start. The first Eurovision you can remember dates you as surely as revealing which timelord is 'your' Dr Who. If trees watched Eurovision, they wouldn't need rings in their trunks.

I lost my Eurovision virginity in 1967. I was eight and watched with my mum and dad, nan, and godparents, Uncle Fred and Auntie Tit. (I sense eyebrows shooting up. Fred's last name was Titterton, and Auntie Tit was his wife. I can't remember her first name because I always called her, in all innocence, by that abbreviation of her surname. If the grown-ups used to smirk about it, they were careful not to do so within my eyeline).

Anyway, there we were, five grown-ups and little me, eating mum's ham and mustard sandwiches with whisky for the men, sherry for the women - sorry, ladies - and milk for me, watching Sandie Shaw cruise to victory in a mini dress and bare feet with Puppet on a String, a song we now know she couldn't stand. Our hearts were in our mouths when the technicians forgot to turn on her microphone so that no-one could hear the whole of her first long note (the 'I' of 'I wonder if one day that/you'll say that/you care'). It didn't stop her winning by a landslide, though, scoring more than twice as many votes (47) as runners-up Ireland (22).

The grown-ups, I remember, were mildly diverted by the spectacle and mildly pleased by the UK's success. I, meanwhile, was thrilled and captivated in that intense way only kids are capable of. I didn't scream or punch the air, though, however much I wanted to, as the UK's votes racked up; it was unusual for eight-year-olds to be allowed up so late in those days so the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself, as it would have resulted in the familiar refrain: "What are you still doing up? You should have been in bed ages ago! Go and get your pyjamas on. Now!"

Anyway, it was the start of my lifelong love affair with Eurovision. Like most relationships, it has had its ups and downs. We broke up for much of the 80s. You know how it goes; we'd been an item a long time and probably became serious far too young - I was eight and Eurovision was only 11 when we got together. And both of us had stopped trying; Eurovision was tired and flabby, it wasn't a vivacious, attractive contest you could proudly boast of having a relationship with anymore. I was a young man by this time; the world was my oyster and there were countless distractions to turn my head.

Of course, I now regret that decade of estrangement and I'm sure if Eurovision could talk, it would say the same. We got back together about 10 years ago; I can't pinpoint exactly when or how. As is the way of rekindled relationships, it just crept up on us until it became blindingly obvious we were meant for each other and would be together, come what may, forevermore.

How Eurovision has tested my fidelity since then. There were the years when the UK's entires ended up near or at the bottom and sooo didn't deserve it (take a bow, Nicki French, James Fox and Andy Abraham), not to mention the years when UK entries did just as badly but richly deserved it (bow your heads in shame, Scooch, Daz Sampson and especially you, brain-searingly out-of-tune Jemini).

But, like many a faithless mistress, just when Eurovision realised it might lose me again, it was all over me like a rash. And of course, feeble, lovesick fool that I am, I fell back in love thanks to Jade and Lord Lloyd Webber marching proudly to fifth place with It's My Time (despite that unfortunate incident involving Jade's eye and a violin bow).

What of this year? Pete Waterman of Stock, Aitken and Waterman fame will write our song and, for the second year running, the televised competition will be to find its performer. This is completely arse about face for a song contest, of course, but never mind. There are those who assume we'll end up with a dance floor filler like Kylie's I Should Be So Lucky or Ricky Astley's Never Gonna Give You Up, and I can think of far worse outcomes than that. It is true that Waterman ballads are thin on the ground - I can only cite Kylie and Jason's Especially For You off the top of my head - but you never know; people mature and develop, and that includes songwriters and producers.

One thing's for sure: whoever ends up singing whatever railway enthusiast Mr W comes up with will have a tougher job on their hands than Sandie Shaw did. She only had to see off 16 rivals but there will be 24 acts in this year's final. Still, at least a further 15 will have been eliminated in two semi-finals before we get involved (39 countries have confirmed their intention to participate as I write). In case you didn't know, this is because the UK, Spain, France and Germany buy their way straight into the final by more or less bankrolling the event. It's a pretty odious lesson for our young to learn, that being the richest, not the best, is what matters. Still, that's the way the world works, so they may as well get used to it as early as possible, I suppose. And, having said all that, the Big Four have languished at the bottom of the scoreboard so often in recent years, one can't help wondering whether the poorer nations aren't registering a protest by biting the hands that finance their extravaganza. In which case, Eurovision sends out a very different message to youngsters about how the world works, perhaps a preferable one.

Anyway, roll on the contest to find a singer for Europe, not 'A Song for Europe' as it always used to be. And even more so, by a factor of at least a million billion trillion squillion, roll on 29th May when our TV sets will transport us to Oslo for the inexplicably thrilling main event. I've made my lifetime commitment to the Eurosong for better or worse, for more points or for fewer, and, as Sonia so wisely sang in County Cork, Ireland, in 1993, Better the Devil You Know Than the Devil You Don't (aha).

photos courtesy of http://www.songcontestvoting.com/; http://www.plasticpop.co.uk/; http://www.dailymail.co.uk/; http://www.radioassistant.com/

Why rations should be back in fashion

2010-02-10T02:16:00.005Z

I alluded to Bedlam in my last blog, and tonight I went there!

Bethlem Royal Hospital, to give Bedlam its proper name, no longer houses the insane, manacles them to the walls and invites in the public to gawp at them, thank goodness. Today, the building houses the Imperial War Museum. It still welcomes the public but now they gawp at fighter planes and cannons, the tools of humankind's insanity, rather than at insane humans themselves, one might say.

I was there for the launch of the Museum's latest exhibition, The Ministry of Food, which marks the 70th anniversary of the introduction of rationing and tells how Britain dug for victory during World War II. There's a 1940s greenhouse, grocer's shop and domestic kitchen to explore. Government information films play, gloriously dated in style and tone, denouncing, for example, the fecklessness of cutting a slice of bread when there are still potatoes on the table.  There are posters, too; in one, a glamorous, cloche-hatted woman is ostricised by her equally chic peers who have somehow discovered she's been profligate with the sprouts. It's a splendid exhibition, bringing history alive for youngsters whilst providing bucketloads of nostalgia for their grandparents.

As is the way of these things, the great and the good gathered to graze, glug and gossip. Betty Boothroyd, Patricia Routledge, Moira Stuart, Celia Imrie and TV gardener Monty Don were among the famous faces enjoying war-themed canapés like mini, open-topped Lord Woolton pies (wholemeal pastry filled with whatever Dad dug up from the vegetable patch that day) and chicken and Spam croquettes.  There was a chance to compare regular biscuits with the wartime, potato-based equivalent (not crisp); real cream versus margarine whipped with sugar (greasy and gritty); even real goose against vegetarian 'goose' (consisting mainly of potato and herbs, a very poor substitute centrepiece on Christmas day).

One inescapable conclusion of this exhibition is that there are lessons we can, and must, learn today from how food was produced and consumed back then. It might not have felt like a whole lot of fun, but the diet 'enjoyed' during WW2 was the healthiest of the 20th century, high in fibre, low in fat. Whilst our tastebuds might find 40s veg overcooked, at least the vegetables would have had real flavour. Processed foods hardly figured. Children's teeth weren't rotted by sugary drinks and unlimited sweets. Food, perforce, was as seasonal and local as possible.  Growing your own - the number of allotment holders more than doubled during the war years - provided physical exercise. Left-overs were invariably used up. Packaging was minimal and recyclable.

In short, just about everything we are entreated to do was being practiced back then.  Same tactics, different foes: our grandparents' enemy was Hitler, ours are climate change and obesity. Let's hope our generation also emerges victorious against the odds.

(image courtesy of http://www.commons.wikimedia.org/)

The food’s the zing

2010-02-09T02:14:00.004Z

At 7pm, the queues outside the HMV Apollo (AKA the Carling Apollo, Labatts Apollo, the Hammersmith Apollo or the Hammersmith Odeon, depending on your vintage) numbered several hundred and snaked away down Queen Caroline Street. Barriers had been erected, security goons patrolled.

What show could possibly have drawn such a crowd? Had Robbie and Take That finally buried the hatchet? Had cryogenicists brought back John and George to shake their mop tops with Paul and Ringo? Was Amy Winehouse rumoured to be performing sober?

None of the above. As snow fell and winds worthy of Siberia whistled, the huddled masses waited, hoped and prayed to be allowed to witness the final couple of hours of the day’s auditions for Britain’s Got Talent.

I’m not entirely sure what this says about 21st-century society, other than that Simon Cowell is a genius, obviously. Were these frozen teenagers keen to witness the birth of the next Susan Boyle? (Now there’s an image you wouldn’t want to dwell on.) Were they there primarily to laugh at the no-hopers in the modern equivalent of visiting Bedlam? Did they merely dream of featuring in a split-second cut-away on the telly? I think we should be told.

I was on my way to Indian Zing , a brilliant restaurant incongruously located on a sad and scuzzy section of W6’s King Street. I first ate there when I reviewed it for viewlondon.co.uk (and they remembered so thank goodness I gave it a four-stars near-rave). This time, I was attending my first meeting of the dining club, Dos Hermanos. The term is Spanish for ‘two brothers’ and the brothers in question who created and run the club (for love, not money) are writer, traveller and foodie Simon Majumdar (read his culinary travelogue paperback, Eat My Globe) and his sibling, Robin.

It works like this: 40 or 50 foodies bowl up to a restaurant on a Monday night having heard of the event via Facebook. They each pay a flat fee – a very reasonable £40 on this occasion – for a set dinner, drinks and some lovely extras, and get to socialise and network with likeminded souls. The restaurant makes money by being packed on what would otherwise be the quietest night of the week, and by the economy of scale derived from serving a set meal to one, huge sitting. It’s a win-win.

To make the nights even better value, manufacturers sometimes use them as a platform for their culinary wares. Sure enough, Johnnie Walker got us under way with whisky and tropical fruit juice cocktails, then provided shots of their various varieties to “match” each course. We had to sit through a brief spiel by a Johnnie Walker representative but it was a small price to pay for free booze.

You might think a slug of Scotch wouldn’t marry with pork vindaloo, Goan fish curry or the sugar syrup-soaked Indian dumplings, gulab jamun. You’d be pretty much right, actually. None of the combinations were screw-your-face-up horrid but let’s put this this way; brewers and vintners have little to fear. Speaking of which, wine also flowed freely thanks to another sponsor.

As if we hadn’t received enough for our £40 by the time it became impossible to force down another mouthful of chicken biryani or Indian rice pud, we waddled out of the door with an unusually generous goodie bag containing

* a large bottle of 'Meantime' India pale ale (got up to look like a bottle of champagne, so a brief moment of disappointment there)
* liquorice in many forms
* a string of dried red chillies
* bars of chocolate, both Green & Black’s and Thorntons
* watermelon and mango juices
* curry powder
* chewing gum
* Luscombe organic lime crush (fizzy drink for the chattering classes)
* a jar of pickled walnuts (never got the point of those but I’ll give them another go)
* a pack of Fisherman’s Friends (at least they’ll take away the taste of the walnuts)

A Catholic selection to say the least, some of it appropriate for a night of sub-continental feasting, some of it apparently entirely unconnected but all very welcome (well, apart from the walnuts, perhaps).

Perhaps I’ll see you at the next meeting of Dos Hermanos. I’ll be the one confirming that, yes, I did once win Come Dine with Me and, no, I mustn’t have another canapé or I’ll never eat my dinner, or a second pre-dinner cocktail or I’ll be under the table. Oh, go on, then……

One thing’s for sure; it’s a lot more fun than freezing your bahjis off in the vain hope of hearing Simon Cowell destroy the dreams of a tone-deaf borderline simpleton.

(images courtesy of http://uk.askmen.com and http://authors.simonandschuster.com/)

Blood, toil, tears and sweat – or at least the last three…

2010-02-05T17:14:00.004Z

I’ve mentioned before that one of my motives for blogging is procrastination. Today, I’m excelling myself: the subject of my blog is the very thing I’m blogging in order to avoid.

This ‘very thing’, this horrible, sweaty, painful ‘very thing’, this ‘very thing’ that makes me feel like a uncoordinated, unintelligent five-year-old is going to the gym.

I was a fat and short-sighted kid and it put me off physical exercise for life. There’s only so many times you can be the last boy chosen for the football team without losing interest – approximately one, in my case. As for rugby, why would you risk ending up in a wheelchair just to gain possession of a ball which isn’t even ball-shaped? And cricket! Why risk a broken finger when your Grade IV piano exam is coming up in a fortnight? Cross country running was the least of the evils; at least you weren’t part of a team whose members were likely to get cross about your ineptitude and lack of interest, and there was no scary, dangerous, bone-crunching contact. It was merely sweaty, knackering and boring, and the 11-year-old me was grateful for such small mercies.

Several months of serious dieting when I was 20 got rid of the flab. I was thrilled beyond measure by the new, 31-inch-waisted me. I had no muscles or definition, of course, but neither did anyone else in the late-70s. A six-pack was half a dozen tins of lager, and definition was the meaning of words. I began to dress more trendily and my sexual shyness fell away revealing a slim-hipped coquette. I landed a first boyfriend who was so fit, he got paid to take his clothes off, and who dumped his rather tubby partner for me (see previous blog, ‘First love with a Zulu warrior’).

The message all this burned into my brain was: ‘Thin is good. Thin sets you free. Thin gets you what you want.’ I’m guessing that’s why, 30 years later, I was still eating and drinking healthily and moderately and still fitting into 31-inch waist jeans whilst most friends of a similar vintage had steadily expanded.

30 years later, but not 31 years later, alas: despite not changing my lifestyle in any way that I can pinpoint, I have suddenly put on nearly a stone. It has gone straight to my waist – my arms and chest remain as undeveloped as ever – and has forced me to edit my wardrobe; some of the severely fitted shirts I always felt so sexy in now look and feel like Victorian ladies’ corsets.

I was always unbearably smug about others’ middle-aged spread, I now realise. “Honestly, that beer belly is sooo unattractive! I can’t think why he doesn’t do something about it.” Not anymore.

What to do? Exercising seemed marginally less unattractive than watching even more carefully what I eat. And a gym had recently opened at the development I live in with bargain membership rates. Thus, I found myself entering this alien world of strange-looking equipment, red faces and the wreak of sweat.

I signed up, and was offered a fitness evaluation and a bespoke exercise programme with supervision the first time I attempted it, all for a bargain 50 quid. At least the embarrassment of having my flab measured was offset by the fact that the trainer conducting the evaluation was – cliche of cliches – a dark, handsome, fit Italian with the bluest eyes and blackest hair. Let us call him Antonio, for Antonio is not his name. His verdict was that I’m not bad at all in cardiovascular terms but have the physical strength of a unusually fey butterfly.

Two days later, Antonio was taking me through the fitness programme I am supposed to complete thrice-weekly for the rest of my natural – that’s quite a thought. I was, of course, utterly hopeless at emulating Antonio’s effortless demonstration of each exercise, my ability to concentrate further impeded when, every so often, his exertions would cause his trackie top and bottoms to part company, allowing a gasp-inducing flash of toned, tanned midriff. The situation was not helped when I instinctively looked away only to find myself staring at the grinning, what-the-heck-are-you-doing-here? face of a stunning African gentleman with whom I enjoyed a delicious dalliance several years ago.

Fast-forward another couple of days, and you find me attempting my first unsupervised session, feeling as comfortable as a rugby league prop forward pressing flowers or an opera diva doing a shift with the bin men. I couldn’t fathom how to work the padlock on my locker, let alone remember which machines were intended for which exercises. Once I’d located the right ones, I couldn’t programme them. And as for making my body match those in the pictures illustrating the floor exercises, I may as well have attempted to read a novel in Swahili.

Luckily, the heavenly Antonio was on duty. For no extra charge, he took me through every exercise a second time. He only burst out laughing once at my baffled gaucheness which some might call unprofessional but which I deem little short of saintly.

I really can’t ask him again so, next time, I simply must fly solo without crashing. That next time should have been this afternoon. I just about had the time for once so, of course, I squandered it by writing this blog instead on my comfy sofa with a pot of tea and some chocolate digestives.

I’ve got a hectic weekend lined up, with a double bill to attend at the Riverside Studios’ gay film festival in Hammersmith, dinner to cook for friends, not to mention housework and ironing, so, when I finally force myself back to that hideous den of pain where stinking sweat drips off smug faces, I’ll have had time to forget everything Antonio has taught, and re-taught, me.

I know I’m being daft. Embracing change is part of life. I pooh-poohed dishwashers until I moved into a home that already had one and was then speedily converted. I shied away from computing until it became impossible to carry on one’s professional or personal life without one. Now – the odd lover’s tiff aside – my PC is my best friend. So, clearly, if I stick at it, I’ll get into the swing of gym-going, grow some arms that don’t look as if they’d snap in a light breeze and, crucially, firm up that wobbly tum.

Can I cross the Rubicon? Time will tell. Watch this space.

First love with a Zulu warrior (from Birmingham)

2010-01-29T17:14:00.001Z

What does Leicester mean to you? Now there’s a question you weren’t expecting. Unless you’re an East Midlander, the answer is probably; not very much.

To me, though, it conjures up ancient images of a smiley, fit, young, black man, baby-oiled skin all of a-glisten, dressed as a schoolboy, Zulu warrior or leather freak.

Leicester is on my mind today because I’m on a train heading there. As you may know from previous blogs, I’m between full-time jobs and so am gigging around the radio and TV stations of the land. There’s a chance of some presentation shifts at BBC Radio Leicester, so I’m doing a Norman Tebbit and getting on my bike or, at least, getting on the 09.25 East Midlands Trains service from St Pancras.

But why the delightful mental imagines of the dusky, kinkily-attired hottie? Well, he was my first love 30 years ago and, as The Walker Brothers so wisely told us, ‘first love never, ever dies’.

Actually, that’s not quite true; he was my first requited love. I’d fallen truly, madly, deeply for several boys at school five years or so previously. I never declared my feelings – this was the 1970s – but hinted unsubtly enough for most of them to get the message. None were remotely interested, and one went so far as to kick me ferociously if I strayed within range of his platform shoe. Lest you write off my adolescent self as pitifully desperate and cosmetically challenged, I should point out that other boys were infatuated with me but they were always the wrong ones.

At times, our boys-only fifth form positively pulsated with suppressed, homosexual lust. There were lingering, heartbroken looks; coquettish fiddling with our (then obligatory) long hair; heads just that crucial millimetre too close as they pored over shared set works; all of it noticed, gasped at and commented upon.

I don’t think any of my classmates ever got it together, although fair play to them if they did. And I can’t decide, even now from a 51-year-old happy homo’s perspective, whether the torrid ambience was a damning indictment or ringing endorsement of single-sex schooling.

Anyway, back to the shiny black guy with the leopard print loincloth who happened along five years later……

Let us call him Luther, for Luther is not his name. We met when we both had non-speaking parts in an episode of Angels, a hospital-based drama serial made at the BBC’s now demolished Pebble Mill Studios in Birmingham.

In those days, only members of Equity were allowed to undertake such work. I had obtained my coveted union card through singing and playing the piano in pubs and restaurants. Luther had procured his by stripping. In fact, back then, it seemed possible to join the actors’ union by doing anything except acting. Stories of actresses who’d become magicians’ assistants or club singers solely to gain membership were legion.

I was a virginal, naive, 20-year-old trainee journalist from Birmingham’s affluent white suburbs. He was 26, a factory worker by day who got his kit off for money at hen nights by night, from the tough, multi-racial inner city. He had fathered three children before realising he was gay, and lived in a council tower block with his boyfriend.

He was therefore both unavailable and my parents’ worst nightmare in terms of a partner for their son, being neither female, white, middle-class nor what they would have considered respectable. All of this rendered him utterly irresistible, needless to say.

We spent most of the 12-hour shift at the BBC together. Being extras or walk-ons in TV shows involves long periods of inactivity interspersed with brief spells of being man-in-pub or man-walking-past-building, so we had plenty of time to get to know each other.

He wasn’t remotely camp and had mentioned his children but not his shift in sexuality by the time we broke for dinner, yet I found myself unable to resist surreptitiously caressing his arm as we supped lagers in the bar, thereby risking a smack in the gob, such was the strength of my attraction.

He took my phone number and promised to call but didn’t. A week went by. Agony! Then I discovered my phone was faulty. It was fixed and, within an hour, Luther called. He’d been trying every night.

Without a thought for his poor boyfriend, I positively hurtled into his bed. It was thrilling and wonderful and fun and relaxed and comfortable and right and utterly, utterly overwhelming. I have never been happier and it remains one of the top ten moments of my life. How sorry I feel for those whose first time was a flaccid failure or painful error of judgement.

With all the arrogance of youth, I was soon demanding that Luther choose between his live-in lover of three years and me. He chose me.

From then on, I often drove him to his stripping engagements, a disproportionately high number of which, for some reason, took place in Leicester. I was introduced as his manager and was the only man allowed to remain in the room as baying, tanked-up woman tried to grab his tackle as he discoed past dressed as an African warrior or precocious schoolboy. Friends were amazed that this never drove me to a frenzy of jealously. In fact, it made me feel smug. The women had to buy a £5 ticket plus their drinks merely to cop a feel – if they were exceptionally lucky; I’d be getting the full works a couple of hours later for free. The thought of how they might have reacted had they known the truth of his relationship with his ‘manager’ only added to the frisson.

We were together for nearly a year but it was never quite right, except in the bedroom where it always seemed intensely right to me, not that I had anything to compare it with. To (almost) quote from another song, this time by the sainted Elaine and Barbara, ‘And though I moved my world to be with him/Still the gap between us was too wide’. Luther was happily plodding along as a factory storeman; I was writing for a newspaper and studying for my journalism finals. I dreamed of a broadcasting career in London; his ambition was to make ends meet, spend time with his kids and enjoy a few pints and a boogie on a Saturday night.

I called time on the relationship, then was badly hurt by a string of one-night-stand merchants. I went round to his flat to beg for forgiveness and a second chance. His smile upon seeing me would have lit up a small town. Clearly, he had missed me dreadfully and I was going to get my way. Then he introduced me, thankfully before I could launch into my well-rehearsed take-me-back speech, to Ian who was quite obviously the new me. I managed to hold it together long enough to have a cup of tea with them before hurrying home to bawl my eyes out.

I didn’t see Luther for nearly 20 years until we were reunited by a mutual acquaintance. As I knocked on his door, I realised, to my surprise and annoyance, that my heart was pounding. Of course, the Luther who answered my knock was just a pleasant-looking 50-year-old, well-preserved apart from a bit of a beer belly. What else did my thumping heart expect?

And yet, after a couple – and only a couple – of glasses of wine and the delicious meal he’d made, I was back under his spell. Had he said in his fabulous half Brummie-half Jamaican accent: “You’re not going home. Get upstairs and get ready for bed,” I confess I would have obeyed with indecent haste and a shameful lack of dignity.

Thank God he didn’t. We haven’t since become best mates, but we bump into each other every once in a while and it’s always a pleasure.

Whether he still keeps his Zulu spear, schoolboy’s satchel or head-to-toe leather gear in the attic, I’ve no idea. If he does, it’s probably best, like so many things, left undisturbed.

He’d never squeeze the leather over that dear little beer belly in any case.

A hair-raising, moving experience

2010-01-23T18:05:00.006Z

Greetings from my sickbed, or sick-sofa, to be accurate. I'm achy, weak and nauseous. Tonight, I shall miss Burns' Night for the first time in 17 years. So will my Filipino partner who splashed out £14 on a tartan tie for the occasion (see previous blog). We are both beyond gutted.

I fear that three days of helping a friend clear 18 years' worth of clutter is to blame. I inhaled huge quantities of ancient, filthy, black dust containing heaven knows what nasties, and became so cold and wet as I toiled at the skip that I lost all feeling in my fingers. One or other has taken its toll.

The friend in question is professional pianist and all-round entertainer Bobby Crush who entranced the nation and became a serial winner of Hughie Green's Opportunity Knocks in 1972. Younger readers may not know that Op Knox, as it was affectionately referred to, was a long-running, much-watched TV talent competition, the Britain's Got Talent of its day. Bob still performs constantly at the highest level and bills himself, with complete justification, as Britain's Top Piano Entertainer.

Unfortunately for me, he is also Britain's Top Hoarder. If the inability to let go of ancient gas bills, hideous gifts and adoring letters from fans, and yellowed showbusiness newspaper cuttings which aren't even about him were an Olympic sport, Team GB would have one gold in the bag every four years.

He may have accumulated an inexcusable quantity of rubbish over the years but at least it was intriguing rubbish: whilst blitzing his large, packed-to-the-rafters, cobwebbed garage where snails had colonised the walls, and the dusty loft crammed with boxes unexamined since moving-in day in 1991, we uncovered:

* Christmas cards received most years since 1980 plus hundreds of blank cards, bought but never sent
* mobile phones bigger than breeze blocks
* stereograms and cassette players
* a wind-up gramophone with 78s
* digs lists for places like Bridlington and Cromer, 20 years out of date
* 200 unused second-class stamps
* two dead mice
* two of Billy Dainty's toupees, and
* Mr Pastry's moustache

I realise those last two items in particular not only beggar belief but also require explanation for younger readers: Billy Dainty was a comedian and eccentric dancer, a big star in the 60s and 70s when I was growing up. Mr Pastry, meanwhile, was a bumbling, elderly, comedy character created by the actor Richard Hearne, a master of slapstick and a fellow comedic dancer most famous for a routine called The Lancers in which he charged through a ballroom, dancing out of step with an imaginary partner. Children, in particular, adored Mr Pastry, and I was no exception. If you had told me then that, 40 years later, I would be holding his fake moustache next to a skip on a freezing January day in north London, I would have given you a most peculiar look.

So, how did my friend come to own that 'tache and Mr Dainty's syrups? Bobby has starred in pantomime almost every Christmas since his talent show triumph in 1972. A few years ago, he realised his days as principal boy were numbered and so became a dame. Unlike the other pantomime roles, the dame is expected to provide many of his/her own costumes, wigs and props. When Billy Dainty, a great exponent of the art, passed away, his widow, Sandra, generously gave Bob all her late husband's wigs to get him started. As Bob delightedly examined the various vast and suitably hideous purple, pink and orange coiffures, he came across what appeared to be a pair of flattened gerbils. They were, in fact, Mr Dainty's hair pieces, included in error. Billy Dainty and Richard Hearne's Mr Pastry often worked together and, somehow, the latter's fake 'tache had ended up in the same wig box.

The surreality of finding such items in a garage in Hendon was heightened by the fact that we were playing a 78 by the Beverley Sisters on the wind-up gramophone at the time which kept wowing and winding down. When we added to this unique scenario by each donning one of the late Mr Dainty's hair pieces, I became quite hysterical and had to lean against the skip for support until I could control my laughter.

After three long, hard days, the skip was taken away with the contents of at least 50 boxes of tat. It was then that an email dropped: would Bobby like to appear on a celebrity edition of Cash in the Attic? It's not only comedy that's all about timing, is it?

Many a mickle.....

2010-01-17T23:38:00.004Z

I'm guessing most of you have never tried to kit out a budget-conscious Filipino with a kilt. Lucky you. Don't go there, it's a nightmare.

You might think the chances of needing such a warning are minimal, but you only need have Scottish friends and end up with a Pinoy boyfriend and you'll be glad you read this blog.

Even though I'm pure Sassenach as far back as I can trace, Burns' Night, when Scots around the world celebrate the birth of Robert Burns, their national poet, is one of my favourite dates of the calendar. If you've never seen a dirk plunged dramatically into the Great Chieftain o' the Puddin' Race whilst Burns' Ode to the Haggis is recited, or heard the Selkirk Grace or eaten cranachan (or, worse, if you haven't a clue what I'm talking about), I'm sorry for you. You are missing a treat, the perfect antidote to January's dark, depressing drear.

I celebrate with the same friends every year who request each guest wear tartan. I bought tartan trews from the long-departed Scotch House in Knightsbridge when I was first invited. Even though there was 50% off in the January sale, they still cost around £70.  I needed a not-so-wee dram to recover from the shock. How a pair of trousers not encrusted with diamonds or featuring 24-carat gold thread could cost so much, I've never understood, although I suppose I've ended up having my money's worth; I may only wear them once a year but they're still going strong 16 years on. And knowing I have to fit into them so soon after Christmas and New Year helps enormously when I'm being tempted by a fifth glass of mulled wine or nineth mince pie.

I have long fanticised about having a partner to initiate into the glory of tatties and neeps and peaty single malts, and finally, it has come to pass. My Filipino boyfriend of 13 months will accompany me this year so we needed to get him kitted out with a Royal Stewart kilt, MacDonald trews or Culloden waistcoat.

Pay attention, entrepreneurs, for I have discovered a gap in the market. In London's tartan shops, prices for a single item of clothing start in three figures. They are all about top-end bespoke tailoring. There's nothing wrong with that, of course, but what the capital also needs is a tartan Zara or H&M, a modern, inviting store with a youngish vibe and off-the-peg Scottish attire of reasonable quality at modest prices.

It can be done. Edingburgh, I'm told, has a chain of gift shops called Gold Brothers where you can get kitted out for comfortably under £100. And in 2008, Lidl, the cut-price supermarket chain, offered, in its north of the border stores, full Highland dress including kilt in a choice of tartans, Jacobean shirt, leather sporran and kilt hose, for an astonishing £55.

Despite its name, Gold Brothers is owned and run by Asians whilst Lidl, of course, is German.  Scottish outfitters, it seems, prefer to sneer at such cost-conscious retailing from their lofty, bespoke mountain tops, rather than get their sporrans dirty and deign to compete. They dismiss these cheaper alternatives as 'tartan tat'; I don't doubt the quality doesn't compare, but if you are only going to wear it once a year for Burns' Night or perhaps at a couple of rugby matches, you may not want or need to invest in a Savile Row-level outfit.

We are all far more aware of our cultural heritage these days. England fans now invariably wave the flag of St George at sporting events, not the union flag. Similarly, Scots who would never have bothered with highland dress a couple of decades ago now don the sporran and the dirk at every major social event. They are not all wealthy, and many of them live in England, so I am convinced a big business opportunity is going begging.

Back in London, my partner, a hardworking, modestly paid nurse, couldn't justify splashing out a three figure sum, and so ended up buying a £14 tie. It's hardly the major item of tartan attire our hosts request but we have explained, and they have graciously accepted, the situation.

The shop from which we bought it was antiquated and with less atmosphere than the Moon. The stock seemed aimed squarely at the over-70s. The manager was brusque, apparently considering us time-wasting penny-pinchers. It wasn't a shopping experience anyone young, fashion conscious or watching the pennies would have savoured.

The tie will suffice until Gold Brothers decide to come marauding across the border or Lidl runs another special offer. At which point, the posh purveyors won't see our ghillie brogues for dust.

A card-carrying curmudgeon

2010-01-12T11:36:00.002Z

I'm a hypercritical and ungrateful old so-and-so, as my nearest and dearest will willingly confirm. Other people are delighted just to receive a gift; I moan about its colour, practicality, whether I have the space to store it. Others are generous with praise and sparing with criticism when friends cook for them; although I bite my tongue, I'm thinking: "That salad was dreary; hasn't she ever heard of dressing? And this bland mince is meant to be chilli? A toothless crone has more bite!"

I've just had another birthday. 51, since you ask, although I've the skin of a 29-year-old. Actually, I must give it back to him, I'm stretching it! Boom! boom! (I'm afraid years of appearing in pantomimes takes its toll.)

Where was I? Oh yes, my birthday. As usual, I received about 20 cards and, as usual, I didn't deserve them. Rather than be thankful for my caring friends and family, there I was, picking every one of them apart. ("Ooo, this one's a bit naff. Hmm, that one's dreary. Why does my auntie still think I'm 15?")

I'm not sporting a naughty-but-lovable schoolboy smirk as I write this. I wish I wasn't like it, really I do, but I fear the spot-changing potential for quinquagenarian leopards is slight.

Before you condemn me, however, stop and think for a moment: aren't you just a little bit like me? Doesn't tearing open at least some of the following on your big day make you tut and roll your eyes rather than smile and coo?

Cards that aren't birthday cards: I'll concede that any card is better than none - at least the sender remembered your special day - but surely they could have laid their hands on a birthday card rather than a reproduction of an impressionist painting or a dirty cartoon joke that's blank where the birthday rhyme or salutation should be. "I was bothered about your birthday, just not that bothered," is the scent these cards give off. And it's so easily avoidable; keep half a dozen assorted birthday cards in a drawer - girlie ones, men's ones, trad ones, modern ones, a couple for tinies, but nothing too specific - and you'll never get caught without. Replenish supplies whenever you find yourself passing a card shop or even at the supermarket. The recipient will never know their card was selected without them in mind.

Non-date-specific cards on important birthdays: stepping gingerly across the line into a new decade is a very big deal, so don't mark it with a general birthday card. Every shop stocks ones with 30, 40, 60 or 80 emblazoned on the front. Use them! (If the recipient is trying to knock a few years off their age, you also gain the delicious pleasure of bursting their bubble of denial. You may need to pull a convincing innocent face, of course. Practice, if necessary.)

Cards that have nothing to do with the recipient: you hardly drink but receive a jokey effort with a little cartoon man who's clearly the worse for wear and is holding a giant pint, four times his size. Or a golfer in plus-fours hopes you'll be 'in the swing' on your special day, even though you've never picked up a putter. Has the sender somehow mixed you up with his Uncle Ernie?

E-cards: don't get me started. E-cards are the very antithesis of what birthday cards are all about. Sending a traditional card takes thought and effort. Sending an email with attachment does not. Neither does texting or sending greetings via social networking sites. And let's not hear the saving-the-planet excuse. Saving the sender time, trouble and money, more like.

I'm reaching the end of the blog now. This is where I'm supposed to say something conciliatory like: "Still, at the end of the day, it's the thought that counts. As long as people remember and wish you well, perhaps it doesn't matter too much how they do it."

Never gonna happen.....

(Images courtesy of http://www.home.bitconnect.com/; http://www.squashed-tomato.co.uk/; http://www.forgiftsandcards.co.uk/)

Pinoy parties: the westerners' survival guide

2010-01-10T15:26:00.001Z

It's 3am and I'm lying in my Filipino boyfriend's bed in snow-flecked Walthamstow, East London. He lives with his sister and her husband, and tonight was his sister's 31st birthday party. I can't sleep yet because the last few die-hards are laughing and shouting a wall away over one last drink (at least, I'm hoping that's what it is).

I don't too much mind having to wait, as it's been a thoroughly enjoyable evening and it gives me a chance to ponder over the differences between Pinoy parties and British ones.

Food is a very big deal at Filipino dos. I realise it often is at British ones, too, but not invariably. The idea of a drinks party with just a few nibbles is anathema to Filipinos. The kitchen table invariably groans with an array of meat dishes, fish, seafood and rice. A selection of very sweet sweets will surely follow. However much you eat, you will be entreated to take more. It will never run short. And a substantial doggy bag will be pressed into your hand upon departure.

There may not be wine. Wine is no big deal in The Philippines as I discovered when I visited recently for the first time to attend the boyf's sister's wedding (see previous blogs). Almost everything over there is ridiculously cheap by western standards. A bottle of rum, whisky or vodka is yours for a jaw-dropping £3, for example (so is gin, although you'll have a devil of a job tracking down any tonic to go with it. Filipinos tend us use Sprite). However, a bottle of wine that would be £5 or £6 in the UK will cost you...£5 or £6. This is so wildly out of kilter that it's unsurprising it hasn't caught on.

After a few days there, I really fanced a glass of red and so bought a bottle to take to a party. My partner warned me that no-one would be interested in it so I had better be prepared to down it all myself. He couldn't have been more wrong. The younger crowd gave it a wide berth, but the 50- and 60-somethings were intrigued. Not one of them had tasted red wine but they all gave it a go. They sipped, hmmm'd and ha'd a bit, then one nipped to the kitchen and returned with ice cubes. Ah, Ernst and Julio Gallo Merlot on the rocks - much better!

So, don't expect wine when you attend a Filipino party. Take your own, to be safe. Or get stuck into the beer and whisky that are sure to be on offer.

Do a few vocal exercises during your pre-party shower, as there will be a karaoke machine. No party is complete without one, and you will have to withstand serious and repeated cajoling if you don't fancy performing. Pretty much everyone else, from four-year-olds to octogenarians, will take their turn on the mic without bashfulness or hesitation. Even Harry Enfield-esque teenagers will stop grunting and looking tortured and momentarily morph into Beyonce or Justin Timberlake.

Make sure you are looking your best because you will be photographed so often, you'll wonder whether they've mistaken you for a major celebrity. And this being the digital, internet age, those photos will be all over the world by the following lunchtime.

Finally, prepare to be enveloped in a sea of warmth and friendliness. You know how British parties can sometimes be stiff or cliquey, at least until the ice is broken? There's none of that. Everyone mixes, laughs, talks and smiles from the off. Even the teetotal guests, of whom there will be a higher percentage than you are used to, seem relaxed, happy to be there, just downright joyful.

At Pinoy parties, the rice is always sticky, but never the ambience.

Give over, Gordon!

2010-01-06T15:42:00.001Z

A few blogs ago, I expounded the theory that the world is divided into two groups; those with fascinating lives who are too busy to blog about them, and those with little to write about but all the time in the world to do so.

I have to confess that I have crossed the line from Group A to Group B. Once, only the enforced inactivity of plane or train journeys afforded me the chance to hit the QWERTY. I was stressed. You can feel the pain in some of my blogs. Sometimes the ironing didn't get done for three weeks, and I dreaded misreading my diary and missing a gig. I was forever turning down invitation from friends. I yearned for less pressure and more free time.

Then I gave up my full-time job without another to jump to. I had several red-hot irons in the fire and was confident I'd get fixed up pretty quickly. My confidence was misplaced: several months on, I'm still freelancing here and there but there are weeks when the diary is bare.

And I hate it. I just can't do inactivity. You know how when battery hens are released by animal liberationists, they stand around, baffled, disorientated and unhappy? Their previous life might have been hideous but at least it was familiar. It's quite a while until ancient instincts kick in and they start pecking and scratching. I am that chicken. I have all the time in the world and don't know what to do with it.

The question is: can I write an entertaining blog when I've hardly anything to write about? That's a challenge, and any challenge has to be better than gawping at daytime TV ("Join us on This Morning tomorrow and meet the woman whose husband cheated on her with 53 other women," Philip Schofield just trailed after the ITV Lunchtime News. Dear God!).

I know, let's do: "A Vist to the Charity Shop." That doesn't sound like a particularly fecund terrain, does it? Right, here goes....

My mantra these past few indolent weeks has been: keep busy! One way of doing so was to give my flat a seroius declutter. Consequently, yesterday found me struggling onto the 87 bus with six arm-breaking bagfuls of accumulated junk (quality junk, mind!).

And here's the interesting thing: I was given a Gift Aid form to fill in. Gift Aid, as you probably know, is tax relief on money donated to UK charities. Provided donors pay sufficient UK income tax, the charity can claim it back. (Financial matters always make my head spin, but it seems to this layman it would be far simpler, kinder and fairer if the Government just declared charitable donations tax-exempt. Pardon my naivety.)

I wasn't donating any cash, just clothes, CDs and books. Believe it or not, tax is payable even on profits from the sale of my unwanted tat! Do you think whilst Gordon Brown watches TV of an evening, instead of doing a spot of knitting, he squeezes stones in the hope of extracting a single drop of blood?

Every item I handed over had to have a sticker attached so that, when it was sold, it could be matched to my Gift Aid code number. All this effort to earn extra coppers on the sale of a 20p paperback or 50p shirt. The charity shop lady said she spent a minimum of three hours every week, bashing these codes into the computer. What happens at charity shops without sufficient staff or where the volunteers don't have computer skills? Are good causes missing out on revnue?

At least there's an upside to this tiresome bureaucracy: because a record must be kept of how much my items raise, the shop can email me the total in a few weeks' time. This is supposed to create 'charity shop loyalty', ensuring I don't take the results of my next clear-out elsewhere.

The same evening, I donated online to another charity in recognition of a cousin's plan to run this year's London Marathon. When it came to the Gift Aid section, one of the questions was: are you related to the person you are sponsoring? It seems that, if you are, the charity can't claim back the tax! Why? How can our relationship possibly make a scrap of difference? Should I have lied and said I was a friend? It would have increased my donation by £10, according to my calculation. Are public servants actually paid to investigate such matters instead of doing something remotely useful? Can one be punished if such a well-intentioned deception is uncovered?

Maybe I should use some of my free time to start a campaign to stamp out all this mean-spirited, arcane nonsense. I probably won't, though. I have to stay positive and believe that, before long, another fabulous full-time broadcasting position will come along for me to grab, and I'll be back to stress, sleep deprivation and unironed laundry, happily complaining that I desperately need some free time.

Chance can be a fine thing

2010-01-03T15:07:00.002Z

Showbusiness is a scary beast. In what other walk of life can you be sacked after years of sterling service simply because your boss thinks a younger face might look better on screen? Where else can you fail a job interview because you're the wrong gender or colour, or speak with the wrong accent?

Actually, probably everywhere, the difference being that in other worlds discrimination is covert or even unconscious whereas in entertainment, it's deemed perfectly reasonable to say: "Sorry. You're brilliant but we're looking for a woman/someone in their 30s/someone from the ethnic minorities."

Another unsettling aspect is that the bulk of your work will be instantly forgotten whilst one or, if you are incredibly lucky, several performances will forever define you. And they aren't necessarily your best performances, or in classy or groundbreaking projects, either.

An actor toils for years bringing exciting new prespectives to Shakespeare's leading roles yet 999 people out of every 1,000 know him first, and probably only, as the perplexed dad in three series of a so-so sitcom. A singer makes hundreds of recordings over the decades yet the one annoying novelty hit she knocked off in half an hour and never liked is the song she has to include in every performance of her career.

Five years ago, I was approached to take part in a new reality TV show for Channel 4. It was to be called Come Dine with Me. Five strangers would take turns, over a week, to host dinner parties for each other at their homes, the researcher explained. Each night, the guests would mark that night's host's efforts out of 10. The winner would receive £1,000. It sounded okay and I was doing radio full-time at that point and fancied a bit of telly again, so I agreed.

Five years on, Come Dine with Me is, of course, one of TV's best loved and most watched shows. There have been countless series, frequent celebrity editions and a rather brilliant book. What's more, the early shows are still repeated frequently on Channel 4, More 4 and other, lesser, satelite channels.

My involvement took only four evenings and one full day. It was neither the hardest work I've ever done nor the most enjoyable or rewarding. It certainly didn't feel like we were making TV magic yet, because the format turned out to be a winner, because of brilliant editing and commentary and, more than anything, for the drearily prosaic reason that it keeps getting rebroadcast, it has become my calling card.

Every time it's back on, I receive a flurry of emails via my website. Some say: "We wondered what had happened to you since That's Life." For the benefit of younger readers, That's Life was a much-watched TV series that ran from the 70s to the 90s. I was one of its many presenters (from 82 to 85) and it was my previous calling card. I have worked non-stop ever since, earned a good living and done some work I'm immensely proud of, but a relatively short spell of Autocue reading in my mid-20s is what people remember.

To be fair, some of the emails also refer fondly to radio shows I've hosted on various stations over the decades. But what of my six years globetrotting for BBC1's Holiday Programme? I agonised over every line of every commentary, determined to give a full and fair account of the country or resort visited, yet no-one remembers my efforts (although, I suppose you could say free foreign travel, even when you're working long days and sometimes in challenging situations, is its own reward). What about my years in Southampton presenting all kinds of regional TV shows, including some scary live ones which we got away with by the skin of our teeth? Gone, and forgotten.

Of course, sometimes collective selective memory works in your favour. I was a contestant on an appalling show on Five called Ann Maurice: Interior Rivalry. The concept was that Ms Maurice, known as The House Doctor because of her ability to diagnose and cure faults in homes for sale, would choose her successor. I was one of 12 hopefuls who, with a stunning lack of format originality, were to be put through a series of challenges and eliminated one by one. I researched thoroughly: I arrived with business plans and a head full of innovatory but low-cost design solutions. I even tracked down the guy who had assisted Ann on four series of House Doctor, filled him with cocktails and got him to spill the beans about her likes and dislikes, and what made her tick.

What I hadn't accounted for was living in a communal house, sharing an overheated bedroom with three snoring strangers and dealing with a dearth of bathrooms and toilets. Funnily enough, I'm not at my best when sleep-deprived and constipated. I suspect this was a deliberate ploy by the programme makers: not only is a shared house cheaper than 12 en suite hotel rooms, it also generates tears and fights.

Neither was I prepared for ripping up rotten carpets and banging cockroaches over the head with the heel of my shoe, as happened at the first (and only) house I worked on. Why would I have been? Ann Maurice's immaculate suits and manicured nails stated pretty clearly that she had never had to do that. If God had intended her to, He wouldn't have given us tradesmen, would He? Nor could I cope with 17-hour working days (another way to ensure trantrums and drama, of course), nor the blatant, shameless determination of fellow contestants to win regardless.

I pretty much gave up and eliminated myself. I couldn't get home quickly enough to hug my pristine toilet and sleep the sleep of The Dead in my cool, private bedroom.

I must have come across appallingly on the show; weak, half-hearted, defeatist. I say 'must have' because I've never seen it. It would be just too embarrasing and bring up truly painful memories. The fortunate thing is, hardly anybody else has seen it, either. It got terrible ratings initially and has been repeated only a handful of times on obscure satelite channels.

I also failed spectacularly on a radio presenters' special edition of The Weakest Link. I was the second contestant to be voted off! Again, that edition never gets re-aired, thank you, God, and everyone has long forgotten my ineptitude (unless they are kindly avoiding the subject and, believe me, neither my friends, family nor listeners are that kind of people!).

I suppose we professional broadcasters and entertainers should be thankful for even one hit in a lifetime, even if the utter flukiness of it will turn you into a paranoid alcoholic if you're not careful. I'm still miffed, though, that, were I to mention my Indian travelogue of 1987 on BBC1 or my cool handling of The South's council election results on Meridian four years later, I would be met only with blank stares. Damnit, I was good!

photos courtesy of http://www.ukgameshows.com/, http://www.tvlistings.zap2it.com/, http://www.flowtv.org/

Training for the future

2009-12-29T10:40:00.001Z

Hallelujah, it's over! We've come through it again. We may be fatter, poorer and with liver damage; we may have fallen out irrevocably with certain family members (and announced the fact to a large gathering in a loud, slurred voice); we may be biting our nails to the quick wondering what we're going to do about January's credit card bills, but at least we're still alive. Our grandparents survived Hitler and his bombs, and their stoicism lives on in us today, kicking in every December 25th, praise be.

So, how was the C-word (don't make me say it!) for you? Mine was terrific, thank you for asking. Because I almost totally avoided it, by working.

Work is a wonderful thing.  Not only do you get paid for it, it enables you to decline invitations without causing offence. An old acquaintance invites you to their wedding: you can't tell them the truth, which is: "I really can't be bothered to search for a present, travel for hours and blow a small fortune on a hotel room just to see you get married. I'm too old and tired to make small talk for what will feel like a year and a half with deaf, elderly members of your family. In any case, I suspect you've only asked me to make the numbers up, or out of a misplaced sense of obligation. So, thanks all the same, but I won't bother."

You can, however, say: "Gosh, I'd love to, but I have to work that weekend." For some reason, that makes it totally alright. The happy couple probably won't even suggest that you try to swap your shifts. They certainly won't check that you were telling the truth - they've got far too many other things to fret about - so you don't even really have to be going to work!

In the same way, honest toil is the perfect way to escape the C-word which is why I accepted two radio gigs on C-Day, in cities 80 miles apart. I spent a total of six hours doing my favourite thing - being on the radio. I had no opportunity to drink too much or overeat, and I wasn't stuck for long enough with anybody to fall out with them.

And here comes the point of this blog: I was only able to broadcast in London and Southampton because my lovely cousin, God bless her, lent me her car. Why is it that we are constantly taught that public transport is the way forward, that to own a car, unless you live in the absolute depths of Nowhere-shire, is global-warmingly wicked, yet there is no public transport on Christmas Day?

Actually, that's not quite true; bizarrely, there has always been one form of public transport on the baby Jesus' birthday, and that's air travel. If you want to fly from Manchester to Madrid or from London to Las Vegas, no problem.  But if you need to get from Birmingham to Bradford or even just nip down the road from Streatham to Stockwell, you'll have to be in possession of a relatively clean driving licence and shell out serious money on a hire car.

It wasn't always thus. I'm too young to remember but I'm told trains ran on Christmas Day in this country as recently as the 1950s. Then the car became king. Cities, like my home town of Birmingham, were disastrously redesigned around them. Every family aspired to owning one, then two, then more.  To travel by train or bus was for the elderly, the poor and children.

Many of us no longer think that way, but the legacy lives on. I had to plan my Christmas movements, involving trains, buses and collecting and returning my cousin's car, like a military operation. And I've got to do it all over again at New Year because, even though there will be some trains on the 31st and 1st, they don't fit my needs. It's a logistical nightmare.  Thank heavens for my cousin; the cost of a hire car would have meant some of the gigs just weren't worth doing.

Plenty of people work on Christmas Day. Every TV and radio station puts out a service. Pubs pull pints, restaurants serve Christmas lunch. Firefighters fight fires, and someone makes sure your electricity stays on so you don't miss the Royal or the Royale Family. If you slice your finger off carving the turkey, there's a team waiting at A&E to stitch it back on.   Surely, therefore, sufficient bus and train staff could be found to work on the 25th if it were made worth their while.

For the first few years, there may be low take-up for the "new" service as people got used to its being there. Car-loving short-termists would rush to condemn the cost but we should face them down because, after a few years, Christmas Day public transport would seem as normal as dried-out turkey breast and having a shouting match with Uncle Eric.

Imagine the luxury of both drinking yourself silly and getting back to your own bed for the cost of a bus or train ticket when the in-laws become too much to bear. You really can't put a price on that.

Sorry, I just don't buy it

2009-12-23T14:57:00.001Z

The TV was awash these past few days with Eurostar officials being grilled about their trains' bizarre inability to function when it's colder outside the Channel Tunnel than in it.

Every spokesperson, irrespective of whatever first question the interviewer put to them, started by saying they were personally very sorry.

When several trainloads of passengers have been marooned underground for up to 16 hours in the dark and freezing cold, having panic attacks, running out of medication, unable to quiet screaming babies, being handed a small bottle of water to share between six or a Danish pastry between nine, and all with zero leadership or organisation, one would very much hope that these officials were extremely sorry!

The question is, though: does saying so at every opportunity make the situation better or worse?

Not so long ago, public officials just didn't do sorry. Getting a politician, council leader, senior police officer or business bigwig who had fouled up to utter the 's' word was tougher than pulling an impacted wisdom tooth. Then those wretched media trainers (and I should know, I used to be one) sprang out of nowhere and began teaching the Great and the Good 'how to communicate more effectively' and 'how to present a positive image in TV interviews'. What this really meant, of course, was 'how to smoothly avoid answering any embarrassing questions whilst appearing sincere and forthcoming'.

As part of this cynical plan, some genius hit on the idea of saying 'sorry'. Why not? It doesn't cost a penny. It doesn't involve any work, planning or decision-making. It makes you look less like a remote cabinet minister and more like a decent bloke who's merely doing his best.

And to start with, it was effective because it was new, different, attention-grabbing. Pretty soon, however, it became, inevitably, a victim of its own success. If everyone is personally sorry about everything all the time, it becomes meaningless.

We've now reached the point where politicians apologise personally for things that occurred before they were born. Whilst we can all agree it's terrible that people used to be sold into slavery, and that the bombing of Dresden in 1945 was, at least, questionable, if you weren't around at the time, you surely cannot, by definition, have anything to feel personally sorry for. Didn't we establish 2,000 years ago that the sins of the father shouldn't be visited on the sons?

In a different arena, have you noticed that every announcement about a delayed or cancelled train now includes a personal apology? The trouble is, you know it's impersonal: the announcer can't be genuinely moved by the late-running of the 17.42 to Guildford and the cancellation of the 18.06 to Strawberry Hill and every other service irregularity day in, day out. What's more, most of these announcements are now recorded messages, scheduled by computer: no member of staff even has to be sufficiently sorry to press a button. What could be more patronising, not to mention downright nonsensical, than a machine saying "I am very sorry..." - not even "we" or "South West Trains are very sorry..." - "...for the late running of this service"?

And, of course, it seeps into everyday life. How often now do you see a mum out with her two children and, when one does something unspeakable to the other, the only punishment is being told to: "Say sorry to your sister"? The offender does so willingly - it costs him nothing, unlike a smack or the withdrawl of privileges. He isn't sorry at all, though, and all parties know it, so where is the sense of justice for his walloped little sister? Once she's finished howling, she will strike back for the retribution her parent failed to obtain, safe in the knowledge that she too will only be required to utter a meaningless word as punishment.

How are we ever to turn the tide on all this handwringing, crocodile tear-splashed regret? I suppose we can only hope those in power, their mouth pieces and their media trainers will finally realise we no longer believe they're remotely sorry - if we ever did.

Don't hold your breath.

Porridge and cider

2009-12-12T16:57:00.004Z

I've been looking back through my blogs. They're not bad. There's always room for improvement, however, and I've identified at least one fault; a lack of killer intro's.

Shame on me: I was the star pupil of the Midland News Association's Class of '78 where the one thing that was constantly drummed into us was the need to grab and hold the readers' attention with a punchy lead paragraph.

So, from now on, there'll be no slow builds; no fey literary meanderings; no taking the leisurely, linguistically elegant B-road to our subjectival destination - and no showing off with big words just for the sake of it like that, either! No, killer intros rule from now on.

You'll have noticed that we're on paragraph four already and have still to encounter so much as an injure-you-very-slightly intro, let alone one of the killer variety. That's because this blog hasn't started yet. I know it seems to have, but it hasn't. This bit's just the prologue or foreward or preamble or whatever you want to call it. The real thing is about to start.....NOW!

I had a very interesting chat with a drunken convicted killer yesterday.

(See? I've still got it! Let us continue.....)

I was on a train to Wales and he came and sat across the aisle. I was writing Christmas cards and so was disinclined to chat but he was determined.  If you were brought up, as I was, by a mother who believed good manners counted above all else, there are only so many conversational opening gambits you can ignore.

This small, middle-aged, non-decript chap was going home after serving six and a half years of a twelve-year stretch for manslaughter. Rather than savour every moment of his first day of freedom with a clear mind, he had made a conscious decision "to get rat-arsed on cider" and, by midday, was well on the way.

He was an amiable soak, which made his crime all the harder to imagine: a bloke bumped into his wife in a pub so he hit him, too hard and in a particularly vulnerable part of the body, the front of the neck. The man died and my new best mate was convicted of manslaughter. If his fist had connected higher or lower, the victim would have lived and a far lesser charge would have been brought, but there was no bitterness or self-pity: "Oh, I shouldn't have done it. End of. Oh no, it was fair do's, mate."

And now he was on his way home to see the daughter and son who'd been a few weeks and four years old respectively when he was put away and whom he had never seen since. His wife had thought it too difficult to drag two young children on numerous trains and a ferry from Cardiff to London to Portsmouth to the Isle of Wight where he was incarcerated, then back again, and he didn't blame her.

Their first impression of their longlost daddy would be that of a semi-coherent little man, unsteady on his feet and stinking of cider. I wanted to ask why he couldn't stay sober at least until the evening when they were tucked up, and then let loose with his mates, but I thought better of it.

He guessed that I and my partner were a gay couple. "I'm not being funny, like, but are you and your mate, erm, you know, that way?" It sounded like the quaint enquiry of someone who'd been out of the loop for more like sixteen years than six.

I confirmed that we did indeed share the love that not only dares speak its name these days but positively shrieks it from the rooftops and insists you join in with a Mexican wave and a bottle of pink champagne. This was positively received: "I shared for eighteen months once with one of your lot. Best cellmate I ever had."

Whenever our conversation stalled, I returned to my cards and he went back to another of many phone calls, setting up meetings with drinking buddies, which always included the question: "Have you got any money?" A couple ended acrimoniously: "Alright, then, if that's how you feel, go f**k yourself and don't bother ringing me back because I won't answer, simple as that!" I believe prisoners aren't allowed mobiles so he'd acquired one pretty instantly upon release - or am I being spectacularly naive?

We parted company at Newport, where my other half and I left the train, with a warm handshake.  "I'm wearing all designer gear, you know," he suddenly volunteered. "This shirt is Lacoste and the jeans are Armani, all genuine, not knock-off." I guess he liked me and so wanted to go up in my estimation, and thought this would do the trick.

I found that terribly poignant, as I did the thought of his meeting his kids a couple more cans of strong cider down the line. I've got a horrible feeling they'll be saying goodbye to him before too long but I really want to be wrong.

Christmas schmistmas

2009-12-10T15:41:00.002Z

Though still a relative newcomer, I am fast realising that we bloggers blog for a variety of reasons. My love of the whole process of writing is one of my main motivators, as is a constant need to entertain and be the centre of attention: I've been like it since I was about three and long since learned to stop feeling worried or guilty about it. As the late actor Robert Morley once said (on Parkinson, I think): "People are always telling their children to stop showing off. I say don't. Showing off could be their only way of earning a living." Amen, Bob.

I've also blogged to vent my spleen (over the inadequacies of First Great Western's train service), to profess my love (for Birmingham and my Auntie Vera who lives there) and for a bit of self-psychoanalysis (why must I cram my life with busyness?).

Today, however, I'm tapping away for a different reason; procrastination. I'm avoiding writing my Christmas cards.

I hate it. I would rather clean a stranger's toilet. I would rather queue up in a particularly downmarket branch of Argos on a manic Saturday afternoon. I would rather be stuck in a lift with a right-wing, chain-smoking homophobe with an unusually large selection of holiday snaps. I would almost rather eat offal, but not quite.

It's not that I don't care about the cards' recipients. I'm really pleased to keep in touch with most of them even if I don't see them from one year to the next, although I wish I could get the numbers down a bit; I send and receive over 100 every year. In the past, I've tried to trim only to get concerned or hurt phone calls or notes in January: "We didn't get a card from you this year! Are you well? Have we upset you?" It's sweet that they should notice and care, of course, but how can anyone notice the absence of one card? Anyway, back onto my list these handwringing acquaintances have to go.

No, the three things that make writing Christmas cards torture are the mind-numbing repetition, the mind-hurting attempt to avoid that repetition and personalise each one and, more than anything, the realisation that Christmas is now well and truly upon us and there is no escape.

You see, it's not just writing cards I can't stand, it's the entire crassly-commercialised, bank account-emptying, wearying, worrying, anticlimactic, bloody kaboodle. Somewhere around mid-November, a fog of gloom descends. I've been like it ever since I was seven or eight. I've got to be careful how I express this next bit just in case young eyes should ever see this: I think it's because I never got over my parents' confession that a certain munificent, corpulent, hirsuite geriatric with a penchant for scarlet was fictitious (are you with me?). Or that they had lied about it whilst constantly drumming into me that lying is wrong!

Let's stop pretending for once; Christmas is full of stuff that's just so rubbish! For a start, turkey is the driest, blandest meat known to Man. How many cooks have devised elbarote wheezes over the years to attempt to give it some life? Everything from draping the wretched thing in butter-soaked muslin to cooking it upside down. You don't have to bother with all that palaver when you're roasting a chicken or a leg of lamb, do you? You just bung it in the oven! Turkey's not even British or traditional, it's a hideous American important that replaced goose, the juiciest, tastiest flesh your grateful tastebuds are ever likely to encounter.

Then there's the overall menu. At no other time of the year would anyone advocate following a mountainous roast dinner with the richest, heaviest and most alcoholic of puddings (which hardly anybody likes). And let's not even get onto the torture of a dozen people, all of whom have consumed sprouts and some of whom are elderly, being trapped together in a modestly-proportioned room with well-sealed windows and doors. Or being dragooned into playing games. Or having to pretend your five-year-old nephew isn't getting on your nerves. Or that terrible, four o'clock anticlimax when every present has been opened and thoroughly examined and dinner consumed, yet it's still hours before there's anything decent on the telly.

I could go on and on and, believe me, I'd love to but it's time to get the cards out and get down to it.

I'll be working my socks off over Christmas and New Year - I've seven radio and TV gigs between the 25th and the 1st with a couple more pending. I'll be doing what I enjoy, earning good money and avoiding a bloated stomach, sore head and short temper. You know, somewhere deep inside, you want to be me.

(Picture courtesy of http://www.whalecottage.com/)

A fruitful journey

2009-12-05T18:45:00.000Z

Regular readers may recall I missed a First Great Western train to the Cotswolds recently because of huge queues at the ticket machines at Paddington Station.

I've just made the same journey again. I wasn't going to get caught twice so this time I got to Paddington with half an hour to spare - and there were no queues at all. How could two Friday night rush hours be so different? It's not as if First Great Western has installed loads of extra machines or doubled staffing levels at the ticket office in response to my email of complaint.

Missing the train last time meant I arrived an hour late. This time, I alighted at Charlbury a mere 15 minutes behind schedule. This was caused by a long sit at Reading Station. The guard - sorry, train manager - a close relation of Les Dawson at his most lugubrious, informed us this was thanks to a staff no-show. He had agreed to do the job instead.

"I didn't have to," he deadpanned. "I could have refused and then this train would have been taken out of service. So yippee for me!"

One station later, we experienced another, more minor delay. Mr Dawson's less cheerful cousin was soon back on the mic with the explanation. "A passenger got out of the front carriage and didn't close the door. I've just had to walk the entire length of this train to close it." Yes, it was all about him.

I didn't know whether to be appalled at this lack of professionalism or cheered by a bit of British eccentricity.

My friend picked me up from the station. Rather than just sit and wait for the delayed train, he explained, he had used the extra 15 minutes to drive off and buy some blueberries. Unfortunately, he didn't add that he had left the blueberries on the passenger seat. Ah well, they were destined for the topping of a blueberry cheesecake, so he'd have had to have puréed them later in any case. Shame about the leather upholstery, though....

After that, the weekend went pretty smoothly which was almost a disappointment.

Moobing forward

2009-12-05T18:07:00.005Z

A great privilege of being a journalist is meeting people, visiting places and seeing things you wouldn't otherwise be able to. Not every experience is pleasant, of course; for every personal hero you get to interview (Tony Benn), there's a personal villain (Ann Widdecombe). For every fragrant, jewelled palace, there's a damp, overcrowded council flat. And for every obsequious handshake from a grateful PR, there's a mouthful of abuse from someone who'd much rather you weren't poking around in their nefarious business.

Last Friday, I attended a surgical procedure and I'm still trying to work out whether it was a Tony Benn or an Ann Widdecombe moment.

I've been making a film for Channel Five TV's 'Live From Studio Five' show in which Melinda Messenger, Ian Wright and Kate Walsh meet celebrities and chew the fat entertainingly about the (mainly) inconsequential issues of the day. They like a bit of more serious meat in their sandwich, however, which is where I came in.

When I was a boy, I developed man boobs or moobs, or gynecomastia, to give it its proper name. It's a much misunderstood condition. If you are overweight with a beer gut and a fat arse as well as man boobs, you probably don't have gynecomastia - you have pseudogynecomastia and need to diet and hit the gym. If you are slim, fit and firm everywhere else but your moobs persist, you do.

My story is typical. I tried diet and exercise to no avail. I laughed along with schoolmates' jibes, some intended to wound, others just uttered unthinkingly, then cried in private. I became a master of illusion; clothes were bought on the basis of how effectively they camouflaged the abnormality. I was always first in and last out of the swimming pool, and I never sunbathed topless "because of my sensitive skin".

Finally, at the age of 40, I plucked up the courage to do something about it. I found a cosmetic surgeon who pronounced me an ideal candidate for liposuction. Not to put too fine a point on it, under general anaesthetic, the fat was sucked out of my tits. My chest was then tightly bound so that my new shape could consolidate. After a few days, my swaddling was peeled off. Staring back at me from the mirror, amid a glorious, abstract artwork of red, blue, purple, brown and black bruises, was an unremarkable, unmistakably boob-free, male torso. It was one of the greatest moments of my life. A decade on, my chest remains as flat as the proverbial pancake and I remain euphoric and grateful.

Since then, I've unintentionally become a cheerleader for corrective surgery for the condition. I've written about it in national and regional newspapers, debated it on radio and reported on it for television.

For this latest film, the producer had found a man who was prepared to let us film his going under the knife. It took her some months; when you've spent most of your life loathing part of your body and treating it as your guilty secret, you're disinclined to show it off to millions of strangers, even it if is about to be rectified.

It's perhaps not entirely surprising that the brave soul who finally stepped forward is a professional performer. Simon Evans is a stand-up comedian and co-writer of TV sitcom Not Going Out.

After I'd interviewed him and his surgeon, it was time to don surgical scrubs and accompany them to theatre. I had no idea whether I would sail through the sight of human flesh being sliced into or immediately crash to the floor. I'm glad to report that I was fine and able to witness the whole fascinating sequence of events. Simon witnessed it too as, these days, it's carried out under local anaesthetic. If you, on the other hand, topple over at a nosebleed, look away now.....

Small incisions are made to the side of each breast and anaesthetic injected. This is followed by a probe which delivers ultrasonic vibrations to break down the fat. Before they get smaller, the breasts become larger; Simon's chest alarmingly transformed from Kate Moss proportions to something Katie Price wouldn't have been too ashamed of. Then, tubes are connected and the broken down fat is sucked out. Along a long, transparent tube it crawls en route to a measuring jar. Here, it separates like fat and meat juices when you're making gravy for the Sunday roast. It looks more like a strawberry milkshake, though, with a white frothy head above pink liquid. (I did warn you to look away.)

During the 90-minute sessions, Simon revealed that he had a gig that night. Even though the change from general to local anaesthetic meant he'd recuperate faster than I had a decade before, this seemed a bit optimistic and was not endorsed by the surgeon. But that's performers for you; we never turn down a gig unless, possibly, we have a temperature of 105, at least two of our limbs are hanging off and our entire family has just been wiped out in a freak accident. Mind you, even then.....

I'm thrilled for Simon because I know it's the best decision he'll ever make. Anyone cursed with a physical characteristic associated with the opposite sex will know how wretched it makes you feel and how severely it can limit your life. Society just isn't ready to deal maturely with high-voiced men or balding or bearded women.

And that's why I never miss a chance to bang the drum about correcting gynecomastia. I want every man overly blessed up top to know how easily their problem can be resolved. To put it bluntly, don't be a sucker - get 'em sucked!

Photo courtesy of http://www.guardian.co.uk/

Home is where the aunt is

2009-12-01T01:14:00.002Z

This blog comes to you courtesy of Virgin Trains (incidentally, am I the only person who often feels a bit sick on a Pendalino but never on any other type of train?). I'm hurtling back to London after a day trip to Birmingham.

As the train neared Brum a few hours ago, I felt the usual tingle of anticipation and excitement. I know some feel our second city is a bit of a joke but it's my hometown and I love it dearly. Actually, far fewer people joke about it these days thanks to its rather thrilling makeover. The sparkling new Bull Ring Shopping Centre and the reinvention of The Rotunda, our iconic, 60s, cylindrical office block, as luxury city centre apartments (which, unusually, actually are quite luxurious and are bang in the city centre) are just two of many grands projets that have loosened, if not yet entirely shaken off, Birmingham's second city/second rate image.

When I idly picked up a discarded property supplement on a suburban train in south London three years ago and learnt of The Rotunda's future, I could barely breath with excitement and knew I had to own one of its apartments. I don't know why I bothered to consult my accountant first because he decreed that I couldn't afford to, and I went ahead and did it anyway. I queued for six hours from six o'clock on a dark, cold morning (some prospective buyers had camped out for two nights) to secure the last-but-one flat of the kind I wanted, a two-bed, two-bath way up on the 17th floor.

Signing the paperwork was a thrilling moment, and I was so glad I had turned down first £1,000 then £5,000 in cash offered by Asian investors in return for my place in the queue. Actually, even if I'd wanted to, social pressure would probably have prevented me. Six hours of nothing to do had caused British reserve to shatter. My fellow would-be buyers and I had, by this stage, held each other's place during loo trips, fetched coffees and even shared pictures of our children and grandchildren on our phones to pass the time. Giving up would, I'm fairly certain, have been viewed as terribly bad form. Would those behind me even have considered that the Asian businessmen had the right to buy my queue position? A hideous fracas might have broken out: just think how heated Waitrose shoppers become if someone barges in to buy a bag of spinach and a part-baked focaccia rather than a £250,000-plus flat.

What was interesting was that most of my fellow queuers seemed, like me, to be Brummies making a predominantly emotional purchase. Sure, we wanted to live in a cool flat or to acquire a sound investment but, more than that, we wanted to own a piece of our history. Little did we know we were buying at the top of the market: I'm currently £60-70,000 down on the deal. What's more, I can't live in my slice-of-cake-shaped apartment in the sky in the dead centre of my hometown because I can't get a job up there. Instead, I rent it out: I've spent less than one hour in it in the two years I've owned it! Yet, to my surprise, none of this depresses me: I'll live there somehow one day and, meanwhile, a small chunk of my roots - if roots can be said to have chunks - belongs to me, and that feels good.

My trip today was occasioned by my Auntie Vera's 97th birthday. She still lives at home, although these days she sleeps downstairs and needs a rota of carers. I've seen her sail through a major brain operation, the removal of cataracts on both eyes and the death of two loving husbands and three of her four siblings. She is stone deaf, diabetic and has had breast cancer, which never seems to get worse, for as long as I can remember.

Despite all this, she is cheerful and glad and grateful to be alive. If you've survived an urban, working-class childhood in the 1910s and 20s, then Hitler's bombs, I guess such things are small beer.

At 15, she started work as a shop girl, as they were dismissively known in those days. By the time she retired, she had risen to become one of the chief buyers at Rackham's, Birmingham's top department store (now House of Frazer, and she still gets her staff discount 38 years after clocking off for the final time).

She didn't marry until she was well into her 30s and decided not to have children, preferring her career with its regular trips to the trade shows of London, Paris and Milan. It's hard for us to appreciate how glamorous her working life would have been considered back then, or how unusual it would have been for a woman to scale such dizzy heights, or the level of social pressure to wed early and produce a brood that she must have withstood.

When she was 80, she started going to keep-fit classes because: "I'm at the age now where you have to start looking after your body."

It's unsurprising that such an independent-thinking achiever never turned a hair when, in the late 1970s, her only nephew announced he was gay. She tried to convince my parents who, in contrast, all but disowned me, that it was no big deal. She failed but, God bless her, she gave it her best shot. She adored my former partner of 16 years, becoming positively flirtatious in his presence, and is delighted that I have now found love again.

Like Birmingham, of which she is immensely proud to be a daughter, my Auntie Vera is honest, warm, indomitable and devoid of airs and graces.

Over tea and cake ("Oo, goo on, Bill, 'ave another piece, you need fattening up!"), I told her I planned to blog about her. She was pleased but couldn't really grasp the concept. As I check it for typos, I realise the result reads like a fond obituary, one which, I hope, will prove substantially premature as I intend to be sitting in her back room in 2012, just as I did today, and raising a glass as she tucks into a small slice of suitable-for-diabetics birthday cake to mark her centenary. She'll be moderately pleased but not overly impressed to receive a card from The Queen and, after her decades in the fashion world, will no doubt have something to say about whatever Her Majesty is wearing in the photograph on the front.

(Photographs courtesy of http://www.rhinocarhire.com/, Rommel Catalan and http://www.property.britishland.com/)

Pop-eyed at olive oil

2009-11-21T18:53:00.002Z

Good Italian meals, it seems, are like buses; you wait ages for one then two come along at once. Recently, on the same day, I enjoyed lunch from the celebrated hands of Giorgio Locatelli and dinner cooked by Alessandro Traverso.

Even the most half-hearted of foodies will know of Signor Locatelli from his Michelin-starred West End establishment, Locanda Locatelli, and his other popular restaurants. Don't, on the other hand, even try to embellish your foodie credentials by claiming knowledge of Signor Traverso; he is a friend who acquires the rights to children's television programmes by day (well, somebody's got to) and becomes a splendid, amateur, Italian cook by night. His lemon and mint risotto, which costs only a few pence per portion and which he audaciously makes in a pressure cooker, could make you weep with pleasure.

The day began with a morning of Italian olive oil tasting at the Mermaid Conference Centre at Blackfriars. Yes, whilst you were toiling in your office, driving your bus, looking after your children or doing something else useful, 70 to 80 of us were slurping oils and comparing the colour, clarity, viscosity, grassiness, richness, pepperiness and I forget what else.

And to think that when I was a boy - and I'm not that old - we only encountered olive oil in tiny bottles at the chemist's where it meant to cure earache. We've come a long way.

Its story in this country is surely similar to that of wine. My parents were lucky if they drank wine once a year. Actually, 'lucky' isn't the right word, as they were rarely relaxed enough to enjoy it. For a start, they would be in a restaurant, a rarely-visited, intimidating place full of etiquette booby traps and superior staff. Then there would be the worry of knowing what to order: no-one back than had consumed enough to know whether they were a Chardonnay lover or a sauvignon blanc kind of guy. Better to stick to gin and orange for the ladies and mild or bitter for the gents: you knew where you were with a Beefeater and Britvic or a pint of M&B.

Then, suddenly, we were all wielding corkscrews and knocking back the Blue Nun and Mateus Rose and feeling ever so European and sophisticated. Fast forward a bit further and everyone is debating grape varietals, New World versus Old, supermarket own labels against the big brands. Then we realised there was more to sparkling wine than over-priced champagne and tooth-rottingly sweet Asti Spumante, that dessert wines were brilliant with dessert (the clue in the name ought to have alerted us sooner), and that roses could vary as much as reds and whites. Now olive oil is making the same kind of journey.

You'd have thought our tasting session was an event of international importance - a meeting of EU delegates, perhaps, or a UN press conference - rather than a jolly good skive for olive oil producers, retailers, a posh, tweedy chap who announced himself as 'Britain's only qualified olive oil taster', plus numerous food writers who should have been pounding their PCs, meeting deadlines for articles like "11 new ways with bananas!!" or "10-minute Christmas pudding: it's not too late to make your own!".

First, a panel of the great and good of Italian olive oil addressed us via headsets and an interpreter. Then an elegant Englishwoman of Italian descent with the dark looks of Sophia Loren but the refined accent of Celia Johnson waxed lyrical about the product. She "trembles with excitement" when she encounters a new variety, apparently, which sounded very Sophia and not at all Celia. Olive oil was "the oldest food known to mankind," she claimed. What, older than woolly mammoth steak gnawed by a caveman? Never mind, it sounded good.

We were advised to pour a little of each oil into the palm of our hand, inhale the bouquet then slurp it, taking in plenty of air, as you would when tasting wines (although we weren't offered a receptacle for spitting, thankfully). Ms Loren-Johnson hoped we hadn't been drinking coffee, smoking or gargling with mouthwash as all these activities blunt the tastebuds.

Unquestionably, there was a fair degree of vareity in the oils' colours and flavours, although I couldn't quite identify the almond or chocolate notes described by our passionate hostess (perhaps she was also distantly related to Jilly Goolden). Between samples, we sipped water and ate tiny slivers of apple to refresh our palates.

The subsequent Q&A was perhaps the most informative and fun part of the morning. We learnt that olive oil that's past its best but not yet rancid makes an excellent moisturiser or, mixed with salt, a body scrub. It's not just a boon to humans, either; rub it into your horse's coat and he'll gleam like he's in the title sequence of TV's Black Beauty. Whether it's wise to ride him in this condition was not discussed: might his saddle be more likely to slide off?

Was it true that many Italians start the day by drinking a glass of olive oil, someone wanted to know. Absolutely, enthused Ms Loren-Johnson-Goolden, it's a well known way of 'keeping the body balanced'. Balderdash, countered one of the gloomy Italian heavyweights via his interpreter and our headsets, it's extremely rare for Italians to consume olive oil in this way.

What's the difference between virgin and extra-virgin? The latter is cold-pressed, a chemical-free process producing a lower level of acidity, we were told. I've always thought we need to coin a new term to replace 'extra-virgin'. How can anything be more virginal than virgin? It makes no more sense than 'super omnipotent' would, or 'especially unique' or 'blander than Daniel O'Donnell'.

Always store olive oil in a cool, dark place, we learned, as light and temperature fluctuation are its greatest foes. For this reason, never buy it in clear bottles and run screaming from any deli that displays it in the window.

Signor Locatelli was on the panel, and all ears pricked up when he announced that he must dash back to Refettorio, the Italian restaurant in the nearby Crowne Plaza City Hotel of which he is consultant, to finish making our lunch, every course of which would incorporate the oils we had been tasting. We were to sample carpaccio of sea bass; gnocchi with both cooked and shaved, raw artichoke; roast, crusted sea bream and, slightly alarmingly, olive oil cake with olive oil ice cream and dark chocolate sorbet.

Suddenly, the lack of regulation governing sell-by dates, and price differentials between Italian and Spanish oils seemed less riveting.

And the lunch was truly outstanding. The ambience was buzzy yet relaxed, and the company - I shared a table with three effervescent women responsible for many of Waitrose's publications - charming and stimulating. Our wine glasses were regularly topped up by smiling staff and, most importantly, every one of Signor Locatelli's culinary creations sang. Even the pud, which had sounded suspiciously clever-clever, proved that olive oil into cake and ice cream will go. He toured the tables afterwards to canvass opinion and seemed as excited as a kid in a sweet shop by our fulsome praise. He is either a master showman or still besotted by his craft, and the quality of his food suggests the latter.

My only concern was whether I'd be ready for another Italian feast that night. Trencherman that I am, I shouldn't have worried. My friend, Alessandro, was on fine culinary form, delighting his guests with a cold, thin, crisp, Med veg and parmesan tart followed by bagna cauda. This is a dip made from vast quantities of garlic and anchovies and, seemingly, little else. There are rumours that olive oil and butter play supporting roles, but you'd never know it. Each diner receives a bowl of the stuff set over a tea light candle to keep it hot. All manner of raw and cooked vegetables are provided to dip into it. It a warming, wintery, fun, communal, healthy feast although, if you dislike anchovies, it must truly be the dish from hell. The garlic rules out snogging for at least three days but guarantees you plenty of space when commuting on the Northern Line. The meal concluded with not one but two very sound homemade cakes, one chocolate, the other featuring pears.

I couldn't help but think what a 'London' occasion it was. Eight of us sat round the table, all men aged 30 to 50. Three were German and two, Italian. There was one Dutchman and one Filipino which made me the lone Brit. I'm probably wearing my metropolitan-tinted spectacles, but I couldn't imagine such a group convening in Nuneaton or Newton Abbot, so I don't think I'll go and live there. (As the snotty continuity announcer played by Suzie Blake on 'Victoria Wood: As Seen on TV' once said: "And now a message for our viewers in the North: it must be awful for you.")

(Pictures courtesy of http://northcote.com/ and http://ilricciolo.blogspot.com/)

Love in a foreign climate

2009-11-17T08:34:00.004Z

I'm a sucker for a good wedding (a bad one can be fun, too) so I was delighted that the centrepiece of my trip to The Philippines was the marriage of my boyfriend's sister.

She and her husband were first hitched a few years ago, but they were young and penniless back then, so it was a tiny, civil affair. They then moved to London where, even if the streets aren't paved with gold, it is at least possible for a nurse and a chef to earn enough to save for the wedding of their dreams, provided they hold it back in The Philippines where everything is so much cheaper. Those dreams included a white frock, white doves, 150 people scoffing a lavish feast and a gorgeous, pastel-hued church in their hometown of Cotabato. Oh, and an Englishman, me, bursting into song....

My role wasn't confined to cabaret crooning, either. In fact, it seemed to grow like Topsy. I was also granted the honour of being one of the bride's sponsors. This doesn't mean I had to donate 100 pesos to Children in Need for every yard she walked down the aisle without tripping over her elaborate train. Sponsors are older and allegedly wiser friends who agree to mediate should the union hit problems. The couple had appointed well over a dozen each, so let's hope they're not expecting major trouble.

As well as being the only non-Filipino sponsor, I was also the only one who, like the happy couple, lived in London, so I'm guessing I'll be first choice should any marital tweaking be required. It's perhaps fitting, therefore, that on the eve of the big day, I was promoted to chief sponsor. This meant that, as well as singing three songs, I would now be required to make a short speech. It all seemed to be turning into The Bill Buckley Show. I'm a born performer, so that was fine by me.

Preparations were extensive and meticulous. I was sent for a haircut, a facial, a pedicure and a manicure. I opted for clear nail polish as I didn't want to upstage the bride. I visited the home of my keyboard accompanist for two lengthy rehearsals of my songs.

Come the great morning, the wedding party departed from the bride's house in blazing sunshine. We picked our way along narrow, rubble- and litter-strewn passages between breeze block bungalows with corrugated iron roofs. My Kurt Geiger patent leather dress shoes encountered dust for the first time. It was a far cry from Liberty in Regent Street, whence they came.

All the neighbours turned out to witness this fairytale procession, complete with pale-faced Englishman towering over everyone else. Dogs, chickens and small children seemed especially agog. A dead rat, on its back with its legs in the air, appeared less interested.

The flowers in the huge church were yellow and white to match the building's colour scheme, perfect for a hot climate. The service was long and seriously catholic but no-one fainted or nodded off in the heat. The congregation's hymn singing put that of the average English wedding to shame.

To my surprise, all the wedding photos were taken in the church. The priest disappeared, leaving friends and family to join the bride and groom at the altar in various configurations. This meant the happy couple left the building last, rather than first, and there was no need for the electric keyboard player (the church appeared to have no organ) to master Mendelssohn's Wedding March.

Onto the reception, held in a function room atop Cotabato City's only shopping mall. It was the familiar flower-filled scene of cloth-covered round tables but differences from a western do soon emerged. An 'emcee' (the word is presumably a delightful corruption of MC, or Master of Ceremonies) gave a running commentary. His voice was not the most expressive, and he was clearly a stranger to the dictum 'less is more'. His comments were underscored by love ballads performed by off-duty soldiers. The bride and groom dined alone on a stage. There was no alcohol; instead, a bottle of Coca Cola with a straw and a glass of water graced each place setting. The only dancing was the bride and groom's first smooch. And by 3 o'clock, it was all over.

Every guest received a momento from London. My ashtray, with pictures of Tower Bridge, the London Eye and a guardsman in his bearskin, has now crossed the world and ended up back where it started.

My speech was listened to politely, although I'm not sure the crowd understood all the gags - they certainly found my ashtray's round trip less hilarious than I did.

They loved my singing, though. My first number was Eric Clapton's Wonderful Tonight, the bride's favourite, to which the couple danced their first (and only) dance.

I was about to do a bit of patter between numbers when the emcee (who had introduced me as 'Mr Anthony Bill') cut in, wanting to know how many more songs I intended to sing, as events were running late. Two, I informed him. One would be better, he replied.  Having worked so hard to perfect my set, and sensing that the audience were on my side, I asked them to decide. 'Two', they overwhelmingly replied. Hah!

Next came Theme from Love Story (Where Do I Begin?). This was an even bigger hit than my first number, eliciting huge cheers. The emcee still had the last laugh, though. Before I could speak, he was back on the mic, announcing that the bride and groom would cut the cake during my third and final song, Burt Bacharach's What the World Needs Now. This I didn't mind in the least, but he then talked all over it, giving the guests entirely unnecessary information like: "And they are now cutting the cake."   I had dared to attempt to usurp his authority, and I had paid for it!

Two white doves were released. As we were in a function room, they were unable to soar into the blue, soaring instead only to the ceiling, but it was still a nice touch.

I learnt later that, although 150 had been invited, 200 had turned up to the reception. Extra, uninvited guests are par for the course at Filipino weddings, apparently, so the bride and groom had taken the precaution of catering for an extra 20. Instead, an additional 50 had to be accommodated. Perhaps they all wanted to witness the brilliant English singer.

I don't blame the gatecrashers, though, as, my run-in with the emcee aside, it was a lovely occasion. I was honoured to be given two major roles, especially as I have known the couple for less than a year.  The lack of booze meant no-one got into a drunken argument and it was nice to be back home, Kurt Geigers kicked off, by mid-afternoon.

My boyfriend's sister and her husband had the wedding they wanted, and that's what matters, of course, whether it takes place in Cotabato, Canberra, Cologne or Coventry.

(photos courtesy of Rommel Catalan)

Fear in The Philippines is strictly from the birds

2009-11-16T10:02:00.002Z

I'm back from my fortnight's tour of The Philippines, a beautiful, vibrant, chaotic country where every purchase is a bargain, the sun always shines and almost every face wears a smile.

There's no such thing as paradise, however (although Paradise Island in Mindanao Province could certainly stake a claim), and the country has quite a reputation for crime, fairing badly in international comparisons of murder and manslaughter rates and those for other serious offences. This is inevitable, perhaps, in a land of mass poverty where government and police corruption is so widespread and long-established that the topic elicits little more than a shrug when you bring it up in conversation.

And sure enough, my determination to explore its cities freely meant that I encountered moments of utter terror and even came home with a minor head injury. This was not at the hands of gun-toting drug runners or even small time muggers or pickpockets, however. No, my adversaries were a dove and a small, insignificant wild bird that looks a bit like a sparrow or a blue tit.....

After spending a few days in the cities of Manila, Davao and Cotabato, I stopped gawping at signs in hotel lobbies and at entrances to shopping malls kindly requesting me to check in my firearms, although I never quite got used to kindly old hotel doormen invariably packing a hefty pistol.

Nonetheless, it was without a care that I hopped in and out of jeepneys (rattling old minibuses, often gloriously over-decorated) and the ubiquitous motorised trikes (poor people's taxis), many of which have religious slogans painted on the back. I'm not a believer but, if I had to negotiate the hooting maelstrom of vehicles, forever jockeying for position in the potholed, triple-parked streets, I'd probably put a bid in for some Divine protection, too.

Friends of my Filipino partner were amazed at my lack of nerves, which made me feel rather proud and terribly British. What they didn't know is that I suffer from ornithophobia, the irrational fear of birds. Well, I do and I don't: certain birds in certain situations reduce me to a shrieking, quivering wreck. Other birds in other situations are fine.

I've no problems with chickens, for example. My nan always kept a few hens at the bottom of the garden and, as a five-year-old, I remember stroking the tamer ones, and helping her feed them and collect their eggs, even feeling under those too lazy to rise from their nests, to see if a warm egg lurked. One of them once gave me a good hard peck despite Nan's assurance that she wouldn't mind my little hand groping her nether regions. I howled at the injustice of the situation ("But Nanny, you said she wouldn't mind. You said!") more than the pain, but even that experience didn't put me off.

We've lost the chicken-keeping habit in this country, of course, more's the pity, but not so the Filipinos. You see hens scratching around everywhere. No-one pens them in, not even the most impoverished of country folk for whom the loss of a regular egg supply would surely be significant. They wander onto main roads yet miraculously always avoid the thundering traffic by a feather's breadth.

What puzzled me was the number of cockerels. Every morning at my partner's family home in Cotabato City, my sleep would be punctured by their crowing.

All was explained when I visited the home of three generations of the boyfriend's relatives and was introduced to their very handsome and very tame young cock

"Why do so many people here keep a cockerel when they don't produce eggs?" I asked my other half's auntie. "Do you fatten them up for Christmas?"

"No, no, it's for fighting," she explained. "If you have a good cock, you can make big money." I stifled the obvious, off-colour rejoinder.

Unlike over here, no-one objects to the 'sport' of cock-fighting, it seems, even though the loser often dies. Dog fighting is popular in parts of The Philippines too, I was told. Both are legal. Auntie was fascinated to learn that in the UK, participation in either activity can get you a prison sentence and an unwanted appearance on News at Ten.

It was hard to think of the friendly bird I'd petted fighting to the death a few months down the line. I tried not to look shocked and I certainly didn't feel censorious or superior. After all, how many portions of battery chicken or intensively produced eggs have I consumed over the years? Far worse, surely, to endure life in an overcrowded cage than to be a Filipino fighting cock, wandering freely and doing all the things chickens are meant to do before meeting a bloody but relatively swift end.

"What's his name?" I asked. "He doesn't have a name," came the baffled reply. Clearly, Auntie was beginning to think the visiting Englishman was a couple of portions of rice short of a banquet.

So, it wasn't Cotabato's young contender which set off my ornithophobia, but a dove from the same city.

The main reason for my trip to The Philippines was the wedding of my partner's sister (about which I shall blog separately) at which a pair of white doves was released. Unfortunately, they didn't soar into the blue heavens but merely to the ceiling of the function room in which the reception was held. As they then flew back and forth overhead, I felt my phobia begin to tickle but I controlled it well.

Everyone wanted a picture with the tale, pale-faced visitor from London, England and, as I was bearing a cheesy grin for the hundredth time, I realised a boy was standing next to me with one of the doves clasped in his hands! Believe me, this was a very big deal.

I let out a cry of terror which I explained away, perhaps only partially successfully, by saying I'd only just noticed the bird and it had made me jump. I managed to stay put until everyone had got their picture at which point I beat an apparently unconcerned but nonetheless urgent retreat. Which only goes to show, I suppose, that I am attention-seeking, compulsive performer first, ornithophobic second.

The really bad moment occurred when the boyf and I decided to get a haircut in Manila a few days later. No sooner had I sat down in the barber's chair than I realised a small bird that looked like a sparrow or a blue tit was flying around the room. It was a maya, a common wild species in The Philippines, which, I assumed, had nipped in unbidden and would be shooed out, but no, it was a pet!

For the next 15 minutes, I entertained staff and customers by shouting, ducking, flinching and hiding under the barber's cape. I suggested someone catch the wretched thing and imprison it temporarily under the basket that held the manicurist's materials - upended, it would have served perfectly. The flaw in my plan, of course, was that the more staff tried to catch the maya, the higher he flew - until they gave up, at which point he recommenced whizzing past me from all directions, causing renewed shrieking, jumping and trembling.

Somehow, the barber managed to crop my hair with safety clippers inflicting only a few minor cuts to the head. I was appalled, however, when he got out his cut throat razor for some final neatening up. What was he thinking? I was liable to jerk my head at any moment and didn't fancy blood pouring from a gashed neck, however spectacular a finale it might have provided for my engrossed audience.

Now I'm back in south London to face my regular foe, the filthy, feral pigeon. At least when I'm in the barber's chair down Kennington Lane, his horrible, bobbing head can only stare at me from the other side of a plate-glass window. It's good to be home.

(Photos courtesy of http://www.commons.wikimedia.org/, http://www.katnarneo.wordpress.com/, http://www.virtualtourist.com/ and http://www.amberskinlove.wordpress.com/)

TV ads to the sum of human knowledge

2009-11-04T10:18:00.002Z

A surefire way to discover the priorities and preoccupations of a nation is to watch its TV ads.

I'm now in The Philippines where I've squeezed in a spot of telly amid the sun, sea, sand and sightseeing, from which I've learnt that its people worry about the colour of their underarms, lean towards hypochondria and don't understand milk.

One oft-shown commercial is for a deodorant which not only stops sweat but also bleaches the armpits. The attractive young woman featured is thrilled to be killing two birds with one roll-on. Dark underarms are a complete no-no, it seems. Women attend beauty parlours regularly to have that area of skin lightened. My Filipino partner says even modern males are at it. Indeed, he confesses to weekly sessions himself until he came to London where the cost of living and the exhaustion of nursing in the NHS taught him to love pigmented pits.

A higher porportion of ads than we are used to is for medicines and health products. Coughs, headaches, fatigue and indigestion can all be banished with a spoonful of syrup or by popping a pill. Is your liver below par? Don't worry, just purchase the preparation endorsed by a handsome tough guy ("It's the liver lover!").

Beautiful toddlers bounce with vitality because their mothers feed them a particular brand of formula milk. "It's the best!" Unfortuantely, the advertiser is legally required to immediately follow this claim with the contradictory full-screen rider: "Breast milk is best for babies up to two years and beyond". Two years and beyond? They'll be emulating David Walliams' 'bitty'-demanding Little Britain character if they're not careful.

I don't speak a word of Filipino but I don't need to to glean all this because many of the ads are in English. This is a trilingual nation; pretty much everyone speaks Filipino plus the dialectical language of wherever they come from, and English. In their soaps (based on the American model, so expect wall-to-wall good-looking actors, background music and lengthy close-ups but an absence of EastEnders grit and Coronation Street whimsy), one furious character might launch into a Filipino tirade but tag it in English ("So, tell that to your precious sister and see where it gets you!"). Similarly, in their equivalent of American Idol, nearly all the songs are American and British pop classics sung in English but the compere asks for the judges' comments in Filipino and they might answer in either.

These people understand English but don't have a clue about milk. Another ad shows cute teenagers enjoying sterilised milk straight from the can. Sterilised milk! This vile substance was already on its way out in the UK was I was a kid 40 years ago. Universal home refrigeration meant we all switched to pasteurised and realised what a thug sterilised had always been, nuking tea and tainting breakfast cereal.

And now, decades later, young Filipinos are being entreated to swig it neat, and from cans! Such bad manners! Such bad milk! Such indoctrination should surely concern the country even more than its young women's disinclination to accept the colour of their underarms. It's the pits!

East is east and west is west. And Hong Kong is both

2009-11-04T10:03:00.001Z

My two and a half days in Hong Kong have whizzed by faster than the city's ultra-reliable, sparkling-clean underground trains.

Countless travel writers have described its chaotic, cacophonous wonderment better than I ever could, so I'll keep my observations brief.

I've taken a near-vertical tram to its highest peak for a panoramic view of the stunning cityscape, and I've joined commuters on its old but indispensible Kowloon ferry.

I've sampled its haute cuisine (and will long remember the juicy eel with its crisp, charred skin) whilst watching the nightly laser spectacular, played out on the skyscrapers across the harbour. I've dined at a modest, semi-legal, neighbourhood joint where the chilli in the air-con system caused more coughing than the chilli in the dishes.

I've murdered ABBA classics in a karaoke bar, and managed not to titter from ticklishness as my toes were tweaked in the Zen-like, dimly-lit tranquility of a foot massage parlour.

The British legacy remains, and the resulting contrast between foreignness and familiarity is perhaps Hong Kong's most endearing characteristic. You need not go without your Pret a Manger sandwich or your Marks & Spencer undies. The buses are double deckers and the plugs have three pins. Some of those buses are bound for districts with Chinese names but others go to Kennedy Town or Clearwater Bay.

I'm warned that, for several months of the year, the heat and humidity are hard to bear, yet I still feel I could move there tomorrow.

Are there any media entrepreneurs out there? There's a gaping hole in the market for an English language radio station along the lines of Radio 2. I'd like to be its mid-morning presenter, please.

(Photo courtesy of http://www.goway.com/)

Izzy whizzy, let's keep busy

2009-11-04T09:39:00.002Z

I'm a relative newcomer to the blogisphere, so it would be unseemly for me to start formulating theories about its practitioners. I still shall, of course.....

I'm thinking that bloggers are divided into two groups:

a) those with the time and energy to blog because not much is happening in their lives, and whose musings are therefore likely to be less than riveting
b) those whose lives teem with blog-worthy activity and who therefore rarely find the time to blog about it

I'm delighted to say that, of late, I've been firmly rooted in category b), hence the lengthy silence since my last posting.

I apologise to my vast army of addicted fans; the withdrawal symptoms must have been horrendous. Actually, do I have a vast army of addicted fans? Do I have even a solitary, depleted platoon of mildly interested ones? I have no idea. I daresay there's an icon on my laptop screen which would give me all the facts and figures regarding my "traffic" - I believe that's the word? - at the click of a mouse but, as is the way with us 50-somethings, for whom every tiny new technological accomplishment is cause for celebration, I've yet to discover it. The only way I know of determining whether you're there or not is when you leave a comment. So, please comment every time you visit, even if you only want to say something along the lines of: "Your inane ramblings about your shallow, metropolitan, freebie-strewn existence are even more tedious than when my great aunt recounts her tales of post-war rationing for the umpteenth time." Thank you.

Going back a step, why did I instinctively write a moment ago that I'm delighted to have been too busy to blog? Why do I consider it preferable for every waking moment to be accounted for than to have time to watch the grass grow? I've always been like this, cramming every day with busyness and feeling mildly ashamed and depressed if I don't.

One of my friends, a mental health professional, confirms my suspicions that it's not a healthy mindset, and that many of us are prone to it. After all, what does an old dear invariably say when you ask after her wellbeing? "Oh, not too bad, thank you, dear. Keeping busy." She's been busy all her life, raising six kids on a pittance without the help of disposable nappies and Nintendo Wi's. Heaven knows, she's earned a break, yet she would never answer: "Oh, not too bad, thank you, dear. Just idling my days away doing bugger all," even if it were true. Keep a hamster running long enough in its wheel and it unlearns how to stand still, I suppose.

Last week, this hamster ran so fast, he thought his little legs would fall off. I completed 11 professional engagements in seven days, a personal best (there I go again: why isn't it a personal worst?), including presenting five overnight shows on BBC Radio London 94.9, conducting three interviews with authors in front of theatre audiences for The Guildford Book Festival, and pontificating three times about the national newspapers on TV and radio.

As any freelance will tell you, jobs are like buses; you wait weeks for one, then 11 turn up at once. Because we never know how long the wait will be for the next batch, we always say yes to all of them even if, as in this case, it means snatching the odd hour ot two's sleep here and there then worrying that you'll give an exhausted, below par performance.

I'm delighted to say all went well. I maintained concentration whilst entertaining London's insomniacs and nocturnal workers on the radio. I uttered remarks that sounded reasonably informed and profound (as long as you didn't think about them too hard) about The Times, Observer, Mirror et al. And I turned in more than adequate, if severely sleep-deprived, interviews after racing down to Guildford, with Radio 2 stalwart Ken Bruce and TV chef James Martin.

Both effortlessly delighted Surrey's bookworms, as did Frank Gardner, the BBC's Security Correspondent. Frank's the guy who was shot by Al-Qaeda militants in Riyahd several years back, an event which cost him the use of his legs and very nearly his life. You've seen him many times since, brillinatly demystifying the intricacies of international bomb plots from his wheelchair on the BBC news.

Frank, who turns out to be an hilarious raconteur, was physically gung-ho and an inveterate traveller before the cowardly fanatics cut him down in Saudi, and little has changed since. Though now a paraplegic, he scuba dives, goes quad-biking and has even abseiled in his wheelchair. He still roams the globe, even though his condition means sitting still on aeroplanes is nothing short of agony. He is always starving when he flies, too, because food goes straight through him, and eating is not worth the hassle and indignity of trying to get to the lavatory. (Of course, it's only airline food he's missing out on, but even so.....)

Next time I hear myself whingeing about my thickening waistline, thinning hair or some minor ache or pain, I shall think of Frank, a happily married father-of-two with a high-octane career who speaks several languages but doesn't know the meaning of 'self pity' in any of them.

Speaking of airline food, I finally have the chance to blog again because I'm on a packed Cathay Pacific jet to Hong Kong. Everyone else is asleep: how do they do it? As usual, one G&T and two glasses of Chardonnay have failed to knock me out. Here I sit, hollow-eyed, whizzing along in a metal tube at hundreds of miles per hour, 30,000 feet about the planet, tapping out words which, once I'm back on terra firma and have cut and pasted them to a blog, pretty much anyone in the world will be able to see, though the vast majority will choose not to.

I wonder which component of that scenario great grandma would have found hardest to comprehend. Still, at least she'd be happy that I'm keeping busy.

(Photos courtesy of http://www.baldrus.com/, http://www.mumsclub.co.uk/, http://www.news.bbc.co.uk/)

Getting intimate with Mr Showmanship

2009-10-17T16:26:00.004+01:00

I love brash, big budget, bums-on-seats West End musicals. Sister Act is sassy, Priscilla is camper than Christmas at Julian Clary's, Billy Elliot will move you to tears, Wicked is, well, wicked, and, for me, Hairpsray manages - just about - to be a brilliant, backcombed cut above even all the rest.

But don't forget that countless other shows are being performed nightly, often in tiny, out-of-the-way venues. Some will be bum-numbingly bad but others will knock your socks off (and isn't that equally true of big budget theatre in any case?).

In other words, if you've already seen all the blockbusters that tickle your fancy, try the Fringe. It's an incredibly cool, in-the-know thing to do, and tickets prices are far lower, so you can impress the boy- or girlfriend whilst saving £30-£40 a head!

Until 8th November, your best bet for high camp without the high price is Liberace Live from Heaven at The Leicester Square Theatre in which Bobby Crush, who rightly bills himself as Britain's Top Piano Entertainer, portrays the world's top piano entertainer of all time.

The premise is simple: Liberace finds himself at the Pearly Gates where he has to convince a panel of angels (played by the audience) that he merits a place in heaven rather than descending into the fiery furnace. It turns out that God (played on voice tape by Victoria Wood - inspired casting) is a George Gershwin fan. Cue keyboard medley of everything from Rhapsody in Blue to I Got Rhythm via Embraceable You.

Musical interludes punctuate the entire show, in fact, including a brillaint recreation of Liberace's famous invention, boogie woogie 16 to the bar (which is the standard, eight to the bar variety but with the left hand going at twice the speed; a real finger-buster as any pianist will tell you).

Bobby Crush delivers an absolute tour de force, not only matching Liberace's complex, high-speed, flawless pianistic technique but also offering a wholly convincing impression of the man who, despite his cheesy lines and fake-as-a-nine-bob-note fixed smile, was, for several years, the highest paid entertainer in the world. His outrageous costumes are recreated too, a gobsmackingly gaudy parade of sequins, feathers and fur.

There's a more serious side to the evening. Liberace was a troubled soul, a gay man living in a age when homosexuality was still illegal. Discovery would have meant social and professional ruin, which is why he sued The Daily Mirror in 1959 after one of its columnists dared to hint that he might not be the marrying kind. Such was the sexual naivité of the time, the jury believed the false testimony of this mincing old fruit who had never married (at least Rock Hudson put on a convincing act!) and awarded him massive damages. God is therefore rather put out (whilst St Peter, voiced by Stephen Fry, becomes nothing short of apoplectic) that Liberace had sworn on the Bible to tell only the truth .

Will the joy his music and showmanship brought to millions outweigh his blasphemous deceit in the minds of the audience of angels? Will they decide that he was more the victim of a cruel, illiberal age or a phoney, money-grabbing sinner?

The show is playing at the Leicester Square Theatre's basement studio in which even an audience of 60 constitutes a tight fit. That means, as is usually the case at fringe venues, that everyone gets a ringside seat, unlike in the big West End houses where sitting in Row Z or two floors up can leave you feeling divorced from the action. Intimacy borne of proximity is one of the Fringe's greatest attribtues even when, paradoxically, as in this case, it's fringe in the heart of the West End.

Indeed, the 'angels' in the front row are so close to the action, there's every chance of their being knocked sideways by the heavy, swirling hem of Liberace's floor-length, white fur cape. And, for twenty-odd quid, you can't ask much more of a night out than that!

(photos courtesy of http://www.leicestersquaretheatre.com/ and http://www.bobbycrush.com/)

A case of (non-mistaken) identity: footnote to a previous blog

2009-10-16T17:33:00.001+01:00

I'm just back from Waterloo where I reclaimed the suitcase I left on the train yesterday.

The guy in the lost property office was very chuffed to meet me. "Are you Bill Buckley, the radio presenter?" he asked. I confirmed this, with my best approximation of a modest shrug.

"Oh, I really used to love listening to you in the night on LBC," he gushed. I thanked him.

"And wait until I tell my parents I've met you! They were huge fans of yours when you were on BBC Southern Counties." I muttered something about that being very nice.

"Right, I've got your case here," he continued. "Do you have any form of identification?"

"But you know who I am!" I protested.

"Oh yes, but I can't hand anything over with some form of identification."

A credit card, carefully scrutinised, sufficed.....

Queues for food and queues to meet a foodie

2009-10-16T03:21:00.003+01:00

Celebrities are wont to bemoan the price of fame but not to give thanks for its awesome power. Last night, I witnessed that power in Guildford.

Surrey's county town recently acquired a branch of Jamie's Italian, the restaurant chain belonging to TV cheeky chappie and culinary campaigner Jamie Oliver. It's in an ugly 60s building some distance from the attractive, quaint high street but only a narrow pavement away from the town's vile and thunderous one-way system. And yet, at 7.15 on a Tuesday night, the place was packed and a queue of 40 (yes, 40; I counted twice because I couldn't believe it, either) stood patiently outside.

I daresay the cured meats, olives and pastas are perfectly nice (though a bit uneven, according to critics) but I doubt very much they're that nice. What's more, it isn't particularly cheap, and the chances of Jamie himself stuffing your ravioli are slimmer than a fasting supermodel. Yet, with any number of mid-priced alternatives a short stroll away, 40 people preferred to wait outside, inhaling bus and lorry fumes, for as long as it took. Ah, the power of celebrity.

Talking of celebrities, I was in town to interview Tom Parker Bowles and Dr Hilary Jones as part of the annual Guildford Book Festival. (Next week, I shall return to gently probe BBC security correspondent Frank Gardner, chef James Martin and Radio 2 stalwart Ken Bruce.)

For the benefit of those who've been living on Jupiter for the past few years, Tom is a food writer and broadcaster (and son of Camilla, now Mrs Prince Charles, as it happens) whilst Hilary has been dispensing medical advice from the GMTV (and, before that, the TVam) sofa for the past 20 years.

The usual format at these festivals is that an author is interviewed by someone like me in front of an audience, the members of which then buy his book and queue up to have him sign their copy.

Tom was first on at The Electric Theatre to flog his latest work, Full English: A Journey Through the British and Their Food.

We've met before but in a radio studio: he was one of my last interviewees when I hosted LBC 97.3's Sunday afternoon Food & Drink Show. I was removed rather hastily from that post - and from LBC altogether - a few weeks ago for the crime of presenting a couple of programmes at deadly rival BBC London 94.9. Tom nipped in and took the show over. Well, someone had to, and good luck to him because, despite being Eton- and Oxford-educated and both stepson and godson to the heir to the British throne, he is the most modest, affable, ego-free guy you could ever hope to meet. Actually, my theory is he's like that because of, rather than in spite of, his privilege. I think, consciously or unconsciously, he uses his niceness to wrong-foot jealous souls looking for reasons to dislike him.

He arrived in casual jacket, combats and trainers with just one assistant provided by his publishers, as is the usual practice. There were no hooray hangers-on and no security goons muttering into headsets, nor were there any pop-star demands for designer vodka or M&Ms with all the blue ones taken out.

We chatted before the performance about Leona Lewis who, only the day before, during a book-signing session at Waterstone's in London's Piccadilly, had been punched, and punched hard, by all accounts, by a deranged male 'fan'. Was a rabid class warrior or the maitre d' of Simpsons on the Strand (about whose breakfasts Tom waxes less than lyrical in the book) waiting to give him a good whack in the kisser, we wondered?

We agreed there's little you could do to eliminate the possibility; you could check fans for concealed weapons as stringently as if they were about to board a plane, but Leona's assailant just used his fist and you can't ban those. And a security guard would need reflexes like lightening to get between a fist employed without warning and an author's face.

The interview and the subsequent signing passed off without incident, needless to say, as did the following sesssion with Dr Hilary Jones, another charming, articulate interviewee who turned up without even a publisher's assistant.

The only blip in this otherwise silk-smooth excursion involved my suitcase - again! Regular readers may remember that Iberia recently flew me to Gran Canaria but only managed to get my case as far as Madrid. This time, the fault was all mine: I got off my train home at Vauxhall, leaving it in the luggage rack. The lost property department at Waterloo was unable to tell me whether it had been found - you have to wait until the following day for that information for some strange reason.

I do hope I get it back, not least because it contains a copy of the new book by Frank Gardner, one of next week's interviewees, and I've only read the first third, let alone sketched out any questions. Frank is a distinguished journalist who would see straight through an ill-prepared interviewer. And, as excuses go, I doubt he'd be any more impressed by: "Sorry, Frank, I left your book on the train," than any schoolmaster ever was by: "Sorry, sir, the dog ate my homework."

pictures courtesy of www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/entertainment... and http://www.gm.tv/

A funny turn (well, quite a few actually) at the theatre

2009-10-12T16:21:00.008+01:00

I was at The Palladium last night. I've seen countless shows there over the last 30 years (current incumbent Sister Act is highly recommended), but a visit still invariably induces a frisson of excitement, thanks to Sunday Night at the London Palladium.

For baffled younger readers, I should explain that this was TV's biggest entertainment shows of the 60s. Everyone from Judy Garland to The Rolling Stones topped the bill, and it launched the career of Bruce Forsyth (yes, kids, that's right, the old duffer on Strictly who thinks racist language is no big deal). It was a "variety" show, a concept which might leave the under-25s further confused. This means it featured professional entertainers, rather than hairdressers, school kids and odd-looking spinsters with learning difficulties desperate to change their lives. These were people who had polished their craft over many years and so could already juggle, perform magic tricks, tell jokes, dance or sing (sometimes all of the above) to a high standard without the intervention of a Simon Cowell-esque Svengali. Because they were so experienced, they didn't get nervous and sing sharp, nor were they critised by a panel of judges or voted off by the public. (I know - how weird is that?!)

And this was in the days of two television channels. Yes, honestly, kiddywinks, there were only two, and there was no box you could buy or service you could subscribe to to give you more. Your choice was the po-faced, we-know-what's-good-for-you BBC or the tits-and-tinsel, let's-'ave-a-larf ITV. Snobby families claimed they never watched ITV but its often far superior audience figures proved they were liars, guiltily enjoying Stars and Garters or Coronation Street with the curtains drawn. A legacy of the two channel era is that, to this day, I sometimes catch myself wondering what's on the other side when I intend to flip through the countless channels at my disposal.

This duopoly meant successful shows routinely attracted audiences of 20 million or more, and Sunday Night at the London Palladium was one such. It predated colour TV, of course, so, each time I visit the Palladium, I'm not only chuffed to stand in the space I gawped at from our living room every week but am also mildly shocked to discover it's not in black and white. Rich red is, in fact, the interior's dominant colour, just as it should be in a proper, traditional theatre.

Last night, I was there for a tribute concert for the late Danny La Rue. Again, bear with me, fellow oldies.... Danny la Rue was the first true cross-dressing superstar before Dame Edna was so much as a purple-coiffured twinkle in Barry Humphires' eye or Lily Savage had shoplifted her first bottle of peroxide. He was a glamorous, glittering exaggeration of womankind and one of the biggest stars of the day. (Mind you, we never quite 'got' him in our house: "What's so clever about that? It's just a man in a frock. When's Jimmy Tarbuck coming back on? See what's on the other side, Mother.")

I went because good friends were on the bill. Believe me, I didn't want to, even though the show was raising funds for The Entertainment Artistes' Benevolent Fund which looks after superannuated performers, many of whom think they're still in summer season in Blackpool whereas they're actually sitting in a care home in Twickenham.

The trouble with tribute or charity shows is that they are buttock-clechingly embarrassingly under-rehearsed. They're always held on a Sunday at a West End theatre in which another show has been playing Monday to Saturday. That means there's only one day to sort everything out, a near impossibility with numerous turns wanting to run through their act, sound, lighting, a band and goodness knows what else to contend with.

The other problem is they are buttock-numbingly long. Four hours-plus is not unusual. This is because the entertainers agree to do eight minutes but, once the spotlight hits them and they hear laughter and applause, they just can't help themselves and do 17 minutes instead.

I'm delighted to say that last night, neither criticism applied. Okay, the show did run three hours 35, but it was so entertaining, it seemed half that length. And, miraculously, it was technically almost faultless, too.

Many of the acts had a delightfully retro feel - how often do jugglers, ukele players or Irish dancers get a slot on TV these days, more's the pity? - and star names included Ronnie Corbett, Barry Cryer, Anita Harris and Roy Hudd (I can't even get started on explaining that lot to younger readers). More surprisingly, 70s prog rock god Rick Wakeman popped up, playing the piano beautifully and proving an effortlessly droll raconteur.

Special mentions (partly because they are my friends but mainly because they deserve it) go to Hilary O'Neil and Bobby Crush. Hilary is a criminally under-known singer, dancer, comedienne and impressionist, and I have never seen her be less than brilliant in any of those departments. Bobby, meanwhile, bills himself, with total justification, as Britain's Top Piano Entertainer. He is about to star as Liberace, the world's top piano entertainer of all time, at The Leicester Square Theatre (more about that in a future blog, no doubt) and treated us to a preview, performing a Dusty Springfield medley in one of Liberace's trademark, OTT, spangly costumes complete with dazzling, fixed smile (so not camp at all, then).

I downed a few white wines at the after-show reception and mwah-mwah-ed the great and the good of showbusiness, all of whom were kind enough to pretend they knew who I was. I was even kissed first by warm and wonderful King of the Jungle Christopher Biggins.

I've nibbled around the edges of showbusiness proper throughout my broadcasting career, and I love and admire its full-time practitioners; fearless, funny, feisty folk who suffer a thousand setbacks but never give up and always give 110%. Contrary to public perception, their lives are more about grit and graft than glamour and gracious living. If they had an ounce of sense, they'd jack it in and do something more steady and less demanding, like being an astronaut or running a small country.

If you've ever left a theatre feeling better than when you went in, be thankful that, in their misguided madness, your laughter and applause outweighs the back street digs, the broken promises and being on first name terms with the clerk at the benefits office.

(picture courtesy of http://www.geocities.com/)

Toff his trolley

2009-10-08T15:17:00.000+01:00

Just watched David Cameron's speech at the Tory conference. Well, it was either that or dust the skirting boards.

He wants the same choices for all our children that he had. I can't help feeling Eton may become rather oversubscribed.....

I'm just a boy who can't say no

2009-10-07T04:17:00.003+01:00

My stomach is distended. I look like I'm about to give birth to twins. I'm full to the brim and it will keep me awake tonight. And I've no-one to blame but myself.

Today, I lunched with my accountant and had dinner at an Italian restaurant I was reviewing for the website, viewlondon.co.uk Two meals out in one day is one too many, as far as I'm concerned. Still, I told myself, if I kept the lunch light, it would be perfectly manageable.

My accountant's offices are in Pimlico, one of my favourite bits of London because, whilst it boasts the architectural grandeur and some of the gentility of neighbouring Mayfair and Belgravia, many of its residents are quite poor, so there's a pinch of vibrancy, scuzziness and madness to leaven the mix. It also positively teems with restaurants, especially as you near Victoria. We peered at the menus of many before settling on a Mexican joint which irresistibly offered two-course lunches for a tenner.

The starter duly arrived. It was huge. Only a starving navvy could have seen off the vast mound of tortilla chips, melted cheese, guacamole, tomatoes and goodness knows what else. Only a starving navvy or I, that is. Because I can't leave food. If it's on my plate, it goes into my mouth.

The main course was of equally insane proportions, although I suppose I should have been grateful it wasn't even bigger. Again, I polished it off, fretting all the time about how I would manage a single radicchio leaf a few hours later.

Of course, when dinner time came round, I put away parma ham with melon, sea bream a la Meuniere and panna cotta with the utmost efficiency, even helping out my dinner date with her selection of vegetables and new potatoes for good measure. Which is why I am now lying around, nursing my pot belly, loathing myself and groaning 'never again!'.

Why do I do it? Why can't I put my knife and fork together neatly when I know I've had enough and calmly step away from the plate?

I can't recall my mother threatening to withold the rhubarb crumble unless all the carrots and cabbage were consumed. Many parents back then engaged in that kind of bargaining. Either that, or they guilt-tripped their kids by pointing out the starving Biafrans on the television news. Either tactic would probably be classed as abuse these days, bound to lead to eating disorders but, when you witness the narrow diet and non-existent table manners of some of today's children, it makes you think grandma had a point.

My mum never resorted to such measures because she never had to; I wanted to finish my vegetables because, like everything else she served, they were delicious.

How my heart goes out to those whose mothers were lousy cooks (and I remember the surprise of eating at friends' houses and discovering that some of their mums certainly were). How melancholy their childhood mealtime memories must be, although they presumably remain constantly surprised at how good most of what they eat in adult life tastes in comparison, which is a happy state of affairs, I suppose. I, meanwhile, am wont to compare, invariably unfavourably, the shortness of pastry, the crispness of chips, the fluffiness of mash or the richness of gravy with what mother dished up 40 years ago, day in, day out, apparently with little effort and usually to little acclaim.

Miraculously, I've completed half a century without becoming obese but, as the metabolism slows, it's sure to become harder. Will I ever learn to quit when I'm sated?

I doubt it. Believe it or not, I've just experienced a pang of hunger. Like buses, they never come singly so, if I don't go straight to bed, I shall find myself at the fridge, assessing my options for a late-night snack.

I am a hopeless case but I can live with it. Salvation and salivation are mutually exclusive, it seems. I'll take the latter every time.

Footnote to a former blog

2009-10-04T14:42:00.001+01:00

I promised you a couple of blogs ago that I'd report back following my inordinately long wait to collect pre-booked tickets at Paddington. Just how long would 'Worst' Great Western deem it reasonable to have to stand in line? Now that I'd nobly brought the problem to their attention, what scheme would they devise to stop it happening in the future? How much compensation would I receive for missing my train?

Their email had landed! Lewis Gale, a customer services advisor, apologises and appreciates "how frustrating this must have been". What's more he has logged my comments "as a complaint against the station on our system" (against the station! On their system! I'm starting to feel like a bit of a rotten telltale...)

There's more: "Senior Managers (note the capital letters!) will see the details in our regular report and can take any action to improve the situation for the future."

Wow, what a result! Power to the People!

Oh, hang on a minute, though.... None of my questions specifically addressed. No promises of any action. No dosh....

Isn't it great how modern technology enables "them" to patronise and fob us off so much faster and more easily?

Does that Cheddar need ironing? Pass it over...

2009-10-03T18:37:00.004+01:00

I'm back from debuting as a judge at The World Cheese Awards in Gran Canaria where 2,440 pressed curd creations from 34 countries vied for the honours.

Not since the 90s when I globetrotted for BBC TV as a Holiday Programme reporter have I encountered such wistful envy from friends. The sunshine! The five-star hotel! Not to mention all those five-star cheeses! 'Ooo, you are lucky, Bill!", "You get all the best gigs," "Bring a Brie back for me!", they chorused (and: "Huh! You call that work?" harrumphed one or two of those less imbued with generosity of spirit).

And yes, I am lucky and I do get at least some of the best gigs but, as I used to parrot like a mantra during the Holiday Programme years, it's hard work, not as glamorous as you'd think, and stuff goes wrong......

On this occasion, stuff went wrong from the off.  We British judges were to fly from Heathrow at a very civilised 12.10, change at Madrid (the new, Richard Rogers-designed terminal is every bit as sensational as critics have made out, incidentally) and arrive at Las Palmas at 18.25 in time to shower and change for a judges' welcoming dinner.

Then came a sequence of events, involving a knackered plane, a crashed computer system, no assistance or organisation by Iberia or anyone else, endless queuing, and an attempt to convince a puzzled Heathrow immigration official that my journey had started at Heathrow (resolved when her colleague leant over to gush about how she loves me on the radio).

We finally checked in at our hotel at 3 in the morning.  Oh - and my bag didn't make it until 5 the following afternoon.

After four hours' sleep, we were bused to the Alfredo Kraus conference centre (famous Spanish tenor, Austrian forebears, hence incongruous name). We dribbled out onto a terrace which overlooked an impossibly perfect bay where, below an azure sky, surfers, swimmers and sunbathers took full advantage of a sparkling sea and golden beach.  Was there one judge so dedicated to fermented milk products that they wouldn't have dashed from the building, ripped off their clothes and, with a mighty 'woohoo!', dived into the Atlantic, given the choice?

Instead, we were ushered into a hall where 20 judging tables groaned with more cheeses than the most ambitious deli ever dreamt of; soft ones, hard ones, tiny ones, some as big as yer 'ead; Goudas and goats', manchegos and mozzarellas, cottages and camemberts. There were almost as many camera crews, radio reporters and earnestly scribbling print journos, too.

And, get this: it's a spectator event! Two tiers of delegates, taking a breather from the accompanying trade festival, hung over the rails to watch our every move. What entertainment they could possibly have derived from our nibblings, noddings and jottings, I cannot imagine, but then people watch cricket or darts on the telly so I guess there's nothing they won't gawp at.

As a rookie judge with only a layman's knowledge of cheese, I did wonder quite what I was doing there as I changed into my paper white coat (most of the other judges had brought their own cotton jobs, of course, with their names embroidered across the chest, some accessorizing with dinky little white hats).

Luckily, one of my team mates was Cathy Strange whose business card described her as a 'global cheese buyer' as well it might: she supplies no fewer than 280 stores across Canada and the US. We were also joined by John Axon, a Gruyere consultant with his own shop, The Cheese Hamlet, in Didsbury who has been judging for nearly 20 years. I felt in safe, Gorgonzola-perfumed hands.

We were to consider appearance, body, flavour, and taste and texture balance in categories with snappy names like 'blue vein, any variety, uncut, natural rind', 'mozzarella, fresh cows' milk in ball (large or small)' and 'hard cheese produced on farm or dairy with a total output not exceeding a weekly average of 2 tonnes'.

Soon, phrases like 'inconsistent piercing', 'uneven rind formation' and 'aging fissures' were tripping from Cathy and John's lips. I was saying things more like 'Mmm, this one's yummy!', and 'Ooo, you'd definitely have seconds of this at a dinner party!'  Actually, that was pretty much why I was there; to represent the informed customer and bring the experts back to reality should they take an overly specialist view (which they didn't).

Oh, by the way, if ever you need a cheese ironing, I'm your man, thanks to John, who taught me. You know how cheesemakers stick that curved tool into a great big cheddar and winkle out a thin cylinder of the stuff for tasting, rather as if they were extricating a cork from a bottle of wine? Well, the implement is called an iron (they cost a fortune and a wide variety of bore width is available, you'll be relieved to hear), and the operation is called ironing (warning - don't get confused and try this at home on your best blouse).

My big (and, thankfully, unfounded) worry was whether I'd be able to nibble my way through up to 80 varieties without losing my critical faculties at best or losing my breakfast at worst. As at wine events, containers were provided for spitting out samples (gosh, I bet there's a stampede for the job of emptying and cleaning out those!) but, as Cathy and John didn't spit, neither did I.

Not all the cheeses were ambrosial. In fact, one or two were downright nasty. A sweaty, putty-like substance with the addition of about a thousand times too much black pepper will long linger in the memory for all the wrong reasons. But some were terrific, and it was an experience I wouldn't have missed.

That took us up to lunchtime, and I think the organisers hoped we'd attend some rather specialised lectures during the afternoon on subjects like maximising yield and international marketing. Having had three and a half hours' sleep through no fault of our own was the perfect get-out for us British judges who would surely have nodded off in any case, so the majority of us opted to sleep, either on the beach, beside the pool or in the cool of our darkened rooms.

I chose the last option and was roused at 5 by a porter with my long lost suitcase. So pleased was I, and so befuddled by sleep, I blurted out something like: 'Oh my God! You're wonderful! I will love you forever!' This was probably a tad excessive, especially from one clad only a pair of brightly checked boxers, kindly loaned by Radio 2 food expert Nigel Barden. I'm guessing the porter may have preferred five euros.

With nightfall came the awards dinner. After cava cocktails outside to make the most of the balmy, 25-degree night, we ploughed through apple and mango gazpacho (much less weird than it sounds), meltingly moist local pork fillet (although a mixed fruit skewer stuck in the top was a culinary flight of fancy too far) and a biscuity, caramelly concoction with mint ice cream (enticingly named 'typical dessert' on the fancy menu card). No cheese involved anywhere, you will notice. What a wise chef....

Part way through, a group wearing medieval monks' attire with just a hint of Baron Hardup from Cinderella took to the stage. These were the elders of the Guilde de Fromagers, formed in 1969 (so why the Middle Ages costumes?) to big up the cultural and historical importance of cheesemaking. The surreality of deadly serious Frenchmen processing through a Gran Canarian function in fancy dress was gloriously ramped up by their choice of music, a recording of Land of Hope and Glory.

They inducted several new members, including Cathy, my fellow judge, and Bharat Mistry, Tesco's technical development manager for continental cheese who had leant me a phone battery charger when I was still suitcase-less the night before! I felt quite emotional to see my newfound mates singled out for this great honour, although it's possible my immoderate enjoyment of various Canary Islands wines was partially responsible for the tears of pride pricking my eyes.

Finally, organiser Bob Farrand announced the supreme champion, a goats' cheese from Canada. This instantly prompted thoughts of a transatlantic jolly in 12 months' time: we were in Gran Canaria because one of the island's cheeses had triumped in London in 2008 - it's a bit like hosting The Eurovision Song Contest. However, London is the most likely venue for 2010, I understand. Oh well, at least that rules out hours of confusion at airports and lost luggage.

Speaking of lost luggage, my bag was the absolute first off the plane back at Heathrow. I was so astonished, I let it complete two circuits of the carousel before allowing myself to believe it was mine.....

(photo courtesy of www.stiltoncheese.com)

How long is long enough?

2009-09-28T19:09:00.002+01:00

I've developed a new habit - after a lifetime of arriving everywhere red-faced and panting with seconds to spare, I keep being early for appointments. Terrific, you might think, but unfortunately, we're not talking 15 or 20 minutes ahead, the kind of 'early' where you enjoy a mooch around the shops, or sit on a bench if the weather is clement and watch the world go by, until the alloted hour. No, I've started being really early...

In the last fortnight alone, I've rolled up 24 hours before I was needed to conduct a charity auction at a Mayfair art gallery, and two hours in advance of my annual sexual health check. Today, however, I recorded a new personal best, arriving precisely one month early for an inquest! What's more, I hadn't got to sleep until 7am after a presenting stint on BBC Radio London 94.9, and so dragged myself out of bed after three and a half hours' kip for absolutely no reason.

Why is this happening? Is it symptomatic of turning 50? Is sitting around dribbling and repeating myself in a care home just around the corner?

Last Friday night, however, I managed not to arrive ludicrously early to catch a train for a weekend break in The Cotswolds, then regretted it.

Question: how long is it reasonable to expect to queue for a ticket at Paddington? Hardened commuters may shake their heads and smile indulgently at my optimistism and naivety, but I assumed 15 minute would be ample. My jaw dropped as queues of at least 20 weary, would-be travellers snaked away from every ticket machine. 17 minutes later, I got my ticket, just as my train gathered speed on its way out of the station.

Whilst the cliché about Brits enjoying a good queue might be pushing it, we certainly behave impeccably under this kind of provocation. No-one tried to queue-jump, no-one became angry or violent. There may have been the occasional tut or despairing sigh but, other than that, we merely shuffled docilely forward whilst phoning our loved-ones to tell them we'd be late (an hour late in my case, such is the infrequency of the service to Charlbury).

I have emailed First Great Western (or Last Great Western or Worst Great Western as they are variously known) to ask them:

a) how long it is reasonable to expect to queue for a ticket
b) why they haven't installed twice as many ticket machines at Paddington, and
c) whether I can have some, or all, of my money back

Although you would have thought from the vast swarms of darting, dashing commuters that the entire capital was being evacuated, I understand the Friday night exodus is ever thus, so FGW can't claim they were caught unawares. Rest assured, I shall tell you what they say....

Other than that, my weekend in The Cotswolds was a delight. I cooked, dined out, gardened, dog-walked..... and made my debut at Lidl! I've never gone further downmarket than Asda before and was concerned I might be spotted (I'd foolishly forgotten to pack headscarf and dark glasses, so disguise was impossible) but seemed to get away with it.

I was astonished, not only by the amazingly low prices and apparently perfectly good quality, but also by the mix of customers: I'd imagined wall-to-wall tracksuited, pot-bellied riffraff loudly berating little Kylie (spelt 'Kie-leigh' or 'Kighlee') in her pushchair. They were there, sure enough, but mixed with an equal number of posh, country folk (we were in David Cameron's constituency, for goodness sake) saying: "We'll get the basics here, Cynthia, then pop to Waitrose for the fish and meat and some of their heavenly ciabatta."

Mercifully, the check-out queues were in no way reminiscent of those at Paddington the night before...

Global domination of cupcakes

2009-09-24T18:50:00.000+01:00

Monday night found me at the Primrose Bakery in Covent Garden, swilling champagne and Hoovering up exceptional sausage rolls and mini quiches to celebrate the launch of a new book by its owners, Cupcakes from the Primrose Bakery. Yup, that's right, it's a whole, glossy cookery book devoted to cupcakes.

I can't help but marvel at how these delicate little confections have so quickly become the gateaux de nos jours.  Why is it that any self-respecting Chelsea Henrietta will eschew a jam tart or cream slice but is defenceless when faced by what are really just fairycakes with a very thick layer of soft icing?

Do they somehow tap into early childhood nostalgia with their lurid rainbow of icing colours and pretty decoration? After all, if a little girl were asked to draw a plate of cakes, she'd use every pink, yellow and orange felt-tip pen in the pack and come up with something very like cupcakes - she wouldn't draw an undecorated Dundee or a slab of plain, pale Madeira.

Are they so insubstantial that it's easy to kid yourself they won't make you fat? Is it that finally we have discovered a cake with the proportion of frosting to sponge that we've all long craved, i.e. one-to-one?

Whatever the reason, these days, cupcakes rule the capital's hospitality scene. Sure enough, the Primrose Bakery provided a stunning selection at the book launch, the chocolate and coffee varieties proving particularly memorable.

If I were being ultra picky and ungrateful (and I am), the only slight disappointment was that no sweet wines were offered with them. It was commendable that the champagne never ran out, and very nice it was too with the savouries, but switching to a Spumante or similar would have not only partnered the cakes far better but also saved our hosts some money.

We still seem to struggle with the idea of medium or sweet wines, sparkling or still, in this country when they suit so many foods perfectly. But that's a whacking great hobbyhorse of mine which we'll save for another day.....

I am about to lose my blogging virginity

2009-09-24T17:05:00.001+01:00

My good friend, Mike Cooper, who knows about these things, says a media whore like me should be blogging so, after years of resisting, here I am! Expect to hear about food, radio, TV and London life in general from the inside over the days, weeks, maybe even years to come. BBx