The Narrow Boat Diary: bottle this.

Well, no news has been good news. The potentially combustible mix of myself, Beyonce Knowles and Des O'Connor CBE travelling through the Northamptonshire waterways on our hired narrow-boat, The Kettleby Princess, has been rendered harmless by the combination of fresh air, good food and the happy routine of canal navigation.

As you may recall, some tension had arisen over the issue of washing up and the fair and reasonable distribution of chores on board, all resolved over one of B's cakes and a pot of Des's lapsang. We went on to navigate Foxton Locks, and with some panache, Des insisting on winding every sluice gate (some showing off perhaps; neither of us is immune) and a highly satisfactory evening at 'Bridge 61', a canalside pub.

This was interesting; like so many very famous people, my travelling companions have a capacity to turn it on or turn it off, seemingly at will. Des's fame is so complete and his face so familiar that people say hello to him all the time, as if he were their neighbour. In a way he's just that: he has been in the corner of our living rooms for over 40 years; he just never got around to asking for a cup of sugar. His easy charm was there for all to see last night, everyone in the bar assuming he was a friend of a friend, or someone they'd met at at a conference a few years ago but couldn't quite place. This could have gone either way, but Des chose to keep a low profile for the common good.

Beyonce's impact is different, and I write this as she sleeps, snoring lightly in her tiny cabin at the other end of the boat, her Paddington Bear 'Do not disturb; bear sleeping!' sign swinging slowly back and forth with the gentle swell of the canal. First there's The Look, the look that says 'I'm buying two pints of Marston's Pedigree and a packet of Quavers and I appear to be to standing next to Beyonce' look. What comes next is a mixture of disbelief, close inspection, wonder; then finally resignation. The sheer implausibility of the setting weighs heavily on the subject. To a man (and it's always a man) they choose disbelief over acceptance ('this just cannot be') and we continue with our evening, or our shopping trip to Somerfield's. In mitigation, wearing one of my old Gap shirts and a pair of Levi's, and free of make up, B could be any other attractive boatie wife (albeit Texan).

This lack of attention went down well with my guests, revelling as they were in the joy of a quiet pint in a Leicestershire pub. As the acknowledged king of showbiz anecdotes, Des had us in fits. Once we had explained the significance of Morecambe and Wise, Beyonce begged Des to go on, her enthusiasm no doubt fuelled by the three pints of Pedigree she had downed. At this point people were beginning to look over into our corner so we thought better of it and got out while we were ahead.

Back on board, cocoas, Calvados and a packet of fig rolls to help us on our way, the evening carried on in a similar vein; lots of giggles over the game of Ker-plunk we found in the cupboard under the bench, and Des giving us a fabulous 'Wrap your troubles in dreams' with me and B tapping out the rhythm on the Formica-topped fold-out table; bliss. We even danced. Who could ask for anything more?

Best,
Fred

The Narrow Boat Diary: a thaw

Phew. After a suitable cooling off period I am pleased to report that the three of us are back on track.

It was Beyonce herself who broke the ice, although as Des and I kept getting the giggles (nerves) it was probably only a matter of time; there's no hiding place on 'The Kettleby Princess'. B was actually very sweet, calling us in from up top, where we had been sharing the helm and enjoying the sunshine. As soon as we heard "Y'all wanna get down here; I got sump'n I wanna say" (how exotic Miss Knowles Texan twang sounds in the rural idyll of the Northants meadows) we went below, having taken the precaution of laying off our craft to the northern bank of the canal, looping a rope (sheet?) around a willow.

Indulge me; I shall try to write it as Miss Knowles said it, because I cannot over-emphasise the effect her Southern drawl had on we two, her travelling companions.

'Thing is', she began, 'I figured it out; y'all call it washin'up. Home we call it doin' the dishes. Makes no difference; wouldna'known how anyways' she continued, flicking her fabulous hair back and settling herself, with an almost imperceptible shimmy, onto the foam cushions by the fold-out dining table (and reducing Des and I to jelly in the process).

'See, me and Jay? We got people do that stuff, and, and now ah'm 'barrassed; you puts that list up on the side o'the boat sayin' "Miss Knowles to wash up"? I figured y'all tryin'a tell me I needed take a bath, and I surely don' need no bath, I mean I know it's kinda primitive here but we got a shower an' I been usin'it, and I know you have too Des, cos I figure you been usin' ma shampoo, but ah'm gonna let that pass on account of wantn' ta get along wid y'all, and anyways it makes up for the houmous. Now I just feel kinda dumb 'cos y'all jus' wanted me to do the dishes, an' I will, I surely will if one o' you fine gen'lemen shows me how, an' I wanna say sorry, 'cos I know y'all meant no 'ffence. I wan'us to be friends: I made us all a cake'. This last, pleadingly.

Des and I, I realised, were now in a sort of trance and quite unable to speak. It's not for nothing that this girl is a global recording and performing phenomenon with a net worth that must rival Luxemburg, I told myself, gathering my wits. Yes, of course, we blurted out, and proceeded to trip over ourselves in the process of making amends, with much talk of 'Two peoples separated by a common language' and so forth. Needless to say, Beyonce's cake was delicious, and with a nice pot of Des's tea to wash it down, all was well once more.

It is my fervent wish that our holiday can now proceed in harmony.

Tomorrow: Foxton locks.

Best,
Fred

The Narrow Boat Diary: In The Beginning

From a related social network site last week: 'I have this very evening shaken hands with Des O'Connor. We hit it off immediately so it looks like another narrow-boat holiday's on the cards (although how me, Des AND Beyonce are all going to fit is a bit of a mystery).'

The Narrow Boat Diary: The Story So far

Well, it's all kicked off today: Beyonce's thrown a fit over the washing up, so me and Des are keeping a low profile (not easy on a narrow-boat). With hindsight, it was probably a mistake to suggest to La Knowles that she might like to do her bit, especially after I had gone to the trouble of putting up a rota. And while we're there, says I, could she please not keep dipping into Mr O'Connor's houmous (bless; Des had been too polite to say anything). Life on the canals is about sharing and co-operation, I went on, and we'd all get a lot more out of the holiday if we each put a bit more in. I was, by this time, talking to her fast-disappearing rear and trying not to listen to her colourful, and very loud, response. This was a while ago: all three of us now going about on eggshells until things have calmed down. Northamptonshire continues to slip past at a steady three miles an hour, the dunk dunk dunk of our Kubota diesel engine and the gentle swish of reeds our only soundtrack.
More later
Fred