Out The Window Bloke

The Narrow Boat Diaries, Chapter Six: Who'd have Thought It?

2011-10-30T23:57:00.007+01:00

It was dark now, and Des and I were getting used to a Kettleby Princess without Beyoncé. For a while we spoke little; each of us coming to terms with her not being there, not being stroppy and scary and beautiful all at the same time; we missed our shipmate.

Unspoken, we established the need to ‘do the dishes’. High tea with Jay Z and The Men (see Diaries passim) had left the cabin in a bit of a state, but the chore was a welcome diversion from the business of missing our friend. I dug out the bottle of sherry, a Manzanilla I’d been keeping back; sod tea, we needed a drink.
Donning the chewy Marigolds we found at the start of our holiday, and fishing out a bone-dry J-cloth (are they related?) that had taken on the shape of the ‘Limelite’ bottle over which it had been draped, Des filled the sink and got stuck in.

‘So,’ he began, ‘I’m in LA, at The Marmont for this do; I’m wearing a lovely jacket, that salmon pink one that you wouldn’t let me work the lock in the other day, remember?’ (I did). ‘And this chap comes up all arsy and very drunk and he says “Hey man” (at this point Des O’Connor CBE adopted an eerily plausible imitation of a West Coast rocker) “I know you man, I KNOW you; you’re that English dude I saw last time I was in Lunnun’” and I’m standing there thinking who on Earth is this, and he carries on “You’re.. don’t tell me.. no, no, no.. don’t tell me man you’re..” At which point he fell over. Then he’s back up on his feet: “You’re Des O’Connor man! Tha’s who you are; you’re Des O’Connor!” And he’s looking around the bar with this glassy-eyed stare like we’re all supposed to applaud. “Flattered I’m sure. Who are you?” and he says: “Asssl” and I said “Asssl? Sounds like something else where I come from. What kind of a name’s that?”

“AXEL Man! My name is Axel but I spell it without the ‘e’ ‘cos I gotta make a statement: or should that be statmnt!” at which point he started this sort of whinnying giggle and drifts off. Well, I’m looking for the chap from the telly company to get me out of this and you know what Fred? No blinking where to be seen; it’s just me and this drunk in a bandana and it’s God knows what time in the morning and I’m thinking how nice it would be to just go to the lift and go to bed when he comes back to life and jumps up and stares me straight in the face and says “Des you’re a star man; a real star. The way you’re breaking all those acts; Jay Leno, Jerry Seinfeld; you’re onto sump’n there man, I tell ya...” and he’s so close I can count his fillings, and he goes on: “ Des; you’re jus’ the man I need...” and he started giving me this funny look; very controlling, and now I’m getting nervous. “See, I’m kinda..stuck; know what I’m sayin? Stuck. Need some ‘vice. Sendin’ a car for you in the mornin’ man; you come to mine; we work it out!” and he’s shouting and no-one’s paying a blind bit of notice I mean, this is Hollywood so I suppose this is all grist to the mill for the staff but I’m finding it all a little, well, testing.

‘Des?’ I interrupted, ‘More sherry?’

‘Thanks Fred; don’t mind if I do’ He stopped to take a sip, some soap suds running off the rubber gloves and down the stem of the sherry glass, catching the light from the feeble strip lamp above the worktop. It was now pitch black outside, and I broke off from drying up to draw the curtains on their wire worms. A dead spider fell into the sink.

‘So next day I’m coming to in my room. Fabulous by the way Fred; fabulous; the sheets! The towels! The pot pourri! And the phone rings and the voice says; “Car’s there for you man. Get over here” and it’s this Axel fellow but with no ‘e’. So I’m in the car, it’s all very nice and there’s a girl there too and I’m thinking; crikey; don’t think so, bit early for all that but nice view all the same. Then we’re sweeping up the drive of this enormous house, porticos and everything, llamas on the lawn, some naked people wandering around with drinks and an ornamental pond that was more like a lake...’ Des paused, and took a draft of the all-too-easily quaffable Manzanilla.

‘So in I go, flunky shows me into the drawing room and in walks my new best mate. “Des!” he shouts, “Come here man, lemme see ya!” and throws his arms around me like we’ve known each other all our lives and leads me off to his studio.
‘Well; I’m stunned. You’ve never seen anything like it Fred. It’s fur lined for one thing, and there’s another llama..’ Des stopped suddenly; he’d spotted a bit of dried-on jam on the cake tin and attacked it with renewed zeal. ‘....could have been a yak. Anyway, it’s in amongst the mic stands like it’s the most normal thing in the world and I’m thinking this is a long way from the bar at Television Centre when suddenly the whole mood changes; he plays a tape and Axl’s concentrating, and staring at me hard. “Des, man. Listen to this. I wrote it for my fish“, and as the tape plays he starts crying: “Des, I love’em man, I love ‘em; they mean the world to me man, like you man! They don’t let you down man, not ever” and I’m hearing this fantastic number, a rock’n’roll anthem, thundering chords, stupendous vocals; the works, but poor old Axl’s unhappy; the song’s almost there but not quite; know what I mean? (I did but, not wanting to break the flow, remained silent save for a nod); Des continued.

”Axl” I said, and he gave me that funny look I’d seen in the bar the night before,

“’I can tell you like your wildlife, I mean, it jumps out at you when you pull up the drive, and I can see you love your fish”

“And?” he said.

“Well” I said. “This is brilliant but trust me, I reckon you could sell a lot more copies if you made it about a girl.” Suddenly he’s all ears, and bolt upright, and stone cold sober.

“How many people” I said “are going to buy a record called ‘Sweet Carp of Mine’, I mean, that’s just silly” and you know what Fred; it was like a light went on. “And”, I said “while we’re at it, if you’re asking my opinion, and I think you are, ditch the kaftan and get yourself a pair of tight black leather pants; you’re supposed to be a rock god after all.”

“Des! That’s why I love you man! You’re the real deal; you’re the full tomato; awesome, just awesome. Now, leave me be; I need some space. Gotta clear this thing up”. Then he snapped his fingers and the flunky reappeared and I’m back in the car and back at the hotel; all very odd.

‘I wrote him a note; said how much I’d enjoyed my morning and hoped it had helped; that sort of thing. He sent a note straight back; would I like to come to the video shoot? Well would I ever? And that’s where the next extraordinary thing happened Fred.’ Des paused for dramatic effect, and, knowing perfectly well he had me hooked, took another slug of sherry before waving the empty glass under my nose for a refill. Outside some small waterborne creature, a coot probably, splashed its way back into the canal and paddled away into the night.

‘Do go on’ I ventured.

‘I arrive at the studio and they’re all in a right flap. There’s Axl, who looked terrific I must say; he’d got rid of the kaftan and had taken my hint about the leather pants, but he’s beside himself; running around, yelling and screaming.

“What’s up Ax me old mate?” says I.

“It’s Slash; he’s a no-show”. Now, I’d worked out who was who by this time, so I knew he was talking about their lead guitarist chappie. “And if we don’t get this shoot under way in five minutes the label’s gonna pull the whole Goddam’ thing and I need this video to work man.”

“Axl, where’s Wardrobe?” I said, seizing the initiative.

“Trailer’s in back Des; says ‘Costume’ on the door. Why man?”

“I’ve an idea..” and I left it at that. Well, I found the trailer, which was really a motor home, like a giant Dormobile, and had a rummage. I asked the girl if they had any wigs. “Sure Grandad” she says, and I gave her such a look Fred, I can tell you, before working my way methodically through a couple of boxes on the floor. Soon as I’d got what I wanted, I went straight back into the studio and picked up a guitar (I play a bit see Fred; don’t advertise it but I can pick out a tune).

“How do I look?” Axl looked stunned Fred; totally floored. Then he did that funny giggle he’d done the night I met him. “Des man; that is f****n’ A man, just f*****g A” (he used the f word a lot Fred; I’m leaving that out, I mean there’s no need).

“Now” I said “If this is going to work you’ve got to give me free reign with this thing” and I waved the guitar at him and the rest of the band.
“Des” says Axl “If you can pull off that costume I’ll swear you can play guitar; go right ahead. There’s a section in the middle needs rampin’ up a bit so just do what feels right”

‘This was all I needed to hear Fred. We shot the video in one take, and although I say so myself, I doubt I’d played as well before, and I won’t play as well as that ever again; the licks just seemed to pour out of me; I felt as if I was playing out of my skin. The rest is history; and if you don’t believe me just have a look; there’s a video on the internet*. There’s me in my thrown-together costume; sleeveless denim jacket, stovepipe hat and huge wig, which completely covered my face and stank of patchouli oil, knocking out the riff for all I was worth. It was marvellous Fred; marvellous. Course I’m uncredited; that was the whole point of the wig; no-one would want to know that the world’s greatest ever guitar solo was actually conjured up by me, Light Ents legend and seriously middle aged bloke, and I didn’t mind that, still don’t; just helping some fellow travellers Fred; you’d do the same.

‘Slash came to in a ditch somewhere and wandered in just as everyone was packing up. Axl gave him such a telling off!

“You lousy S*********h! Not only did you nearly screw up the band’s entire friggin’ future, you just missed the best bit of guitar playin’ anyone here’s ever heard and it’s all thanks to my good friend from London England Des O’Connor! Now you better sit down and drink a ton of coffee Man cos’ you got a new solo to learn and learn good before we take this thing on the road...”. I made my excuses and left, my work with Guns’n’Roses was done.’

‘Crikey Des’ I said ‘What happened next?’

‘Didn’t hear a thing for a couple of years. Then, out of the blue, my accountant rings and says “Des? You checked your Jersey No.2 account recently? Think you’d better have a look.” So I call them up and ask for a statement and blow me down if there isn’t all this extra cash, and every entry’s marked ‘G’N’R: THANKS DES’ and a date. You know what Fred; I made more money out of those two days with Axl and the band than in my entire career, which is a bit galling really, when you think of the years of blinkin’ slog I’ve put in, and Morecambe and Wise taking the Mick for a living for God knows how long. Still, good business is where you find it I suppose, and Axl’s a top bloke; still get the odd cheque, even now.’

Tale told, Des slumped back on the narrow sofa, the fold-out table having been neatly stowed when we were half way through the sherry; he looked tired, we probably both did. It was, by this time, very late. Our friend would have completed her set some time ago and would now surely be enjoying drinks and canapés with the rest of her pop star mates at Glastonbury; would she be thinking of us, moored up here in Warwickshire? Ah well, either she’ll come back or she won’t; we would have to wait and see.

Des was by now fast asleep where he sat, and I could feel my eyes beginning to droop too. I stood and tidied the gangway (Des would wake up with a start and make his way back to his own berth in no time; wouldn’t do to have him trip over the recycling bin) and wiped down the sink, placing the freshly rinsed J-cloth over the taps.

Then, checking everything was switched off save the night light, I sat down briefly before heading off to my own snug little cabin. Just as I turned the turnbuckle catch I became aware of a noise. A purposeful, rhythmic yet distant splashing; the sound of oars... and they were getting closer. Who on Earth could be out rowing up the canal in the middle of nowhere at this time of night? I froze, the better to hear; was that a voice? Yes! And Texan too; Beyoncé was coming back!
©Fred Fibonacci 2011
*Author’s note: that video; see for yourself.... http://youtu.be/oobDQ0vdm8M

The Narrow Boat Diaries: the visitors.

2011-08-10T02:52:00.007+02:00

THUD THUD THUD THUD THUDCHIOO CHIOOO CHIOOO CHIooo choo swishhh swisssshhhh hiissss.

Stop.

The helicopter landed; a door opened. Suddenly the field appeared to fill with very large men in inappropriate suits, curly bits of wire coming from their ears, marching purposefully to each corner of the field and scanning what little horizon they could see through their mirrored glasses (for goodness’ sake; it was almost dark and we were just outside Tamworth). I saw one of them sink up to his ankles in the patch of mud recently vacated by our terrified audience of Friesian cows.

An immaculately dressed Jay Z stepped gingerly from the Agusta AW139, a glimpse of its interior un-missable from our perch on the Kettleby Princess, the narrow-boat from another age and world entirely to that from which the cherry red helicopter had just arrived and which had just plonked itself down in the field before us.

Scanning the wet, soaking grass and the gulf of mud between him and the canal bank Jay (Mr Z?) barked: ‘Y’all comin’ or what?’

For whatever reason, I found myself becoming overwhelmingly protective and stepped forward. Beyoncé laid a hand on my arm; ‘S’ok Fred. He’s fine; pay no heed to him; he’s just jealous’ at which point she let out the filthiest laugh imaginable, doing a lot to break the ice.

True to form, at this precise moment the sprightly Des O’Connor stuck his head out of the saloon hatch, his walnut tan glowing through the damp evening air, and shouted: ‘Tea anyone? Come on Loves; you’ll need a brew before you get back to Glastonbury; switch that thing off properly and come aboard; I’ve knocked up some scones’ Well done Des; just the ticket. The whine of the gas turbines subsided and the field was silent save for the steady patter of rain, lighter than before but ever-present.

As you might imagine, getting all these giant men (there were only four but they were so big it seemed like many more) into the Princess’ cramped saloon took some organising; they had to go down the steps sideways, so ample was their girth, and it was clear they could make neither head nor tale of the barge herself.
Soon enough we were all wedged around the see-all, hear-all Formica-topped table, with Des pouring and me explaining the niceties of an English cream tea to our guests. Jay Z I could tell was distinctly underwhelmed by the set up, and glared whenever B laughed at one of my jokes. The Men (impossible to think of them without capital letters) sat very still, using small, decisive movements to load clotted cream and homemade gooseberry jam onto Des’s wonderfully tasty scones. If this is what they’re like eating a cream tea God knows what they must be like in the field of battle, I thought, gulping down a mouthful and beginning to wish they’d all just hurry up and go.

‘So’ said Jay, addressing Des but unreadable behind yet more mirror shades, ‘D’j’all call em’ scones or scones?’ He rhymed the first with dons, the second with tones.
Surprised, and momentarily thrown by this depth of knowledge Des answered: ‘Scones rhymes with Fonz’.

‘No man, wrong; it’s scones rhymes with cones.’ A pause; Des put his scone down and wiped a bit of cream from the corner of his mouth.

‘Well, I beg to differ Poppet’ he said ‘but it’s scones; short o’

‘Scones, long o,’ Jay Z’s eyes narrowed.

‘Scones Jay; scones’ Des wasn’t giving up without a fight.

‘Scones!’ A barely suppressed snarl behind the word.

‘Scones’ Countered Des, as calm as you like.

‘No Godammit; no, no, no, no, no; scones’

‘Scones’

‘Scones’

‘Scones’

‘Scones! Scones Man! Long friggin’ o. The word is scones rhymes wid’ loans, phones, zones, Capone’s, bones, saxophones...’

‘Y’all finished?’ Beyoncé cut across the pair of them, and not a moment too soon; our new star guest was getting a little shrill and Des, I could tell, was feeling increasingly foolish for rising to the bait.

‘S’tea is all, and real nice too; thank you Des’ and with that she turned and gave Mr O’Connor that full beam, full wattage Knowles’ smile. She then turned to Jay Z and gave him the polar opposite. Ah! Marriage!

Throughout this The Men sat motionless; one with vast hands placed on the Formica-topped table to either side of his willow-pattern plate, another with a scone half way between plate and mouth and the other two mid-munch. Everyone began to relax a little and then Jay did the most extraordinary thing; he stood, almost banging his head on the cabin roof, and then stooped into a full Shakespearean bow.

‘Beyoncé my Darling you’re right. I took that a little far’ and promptly sat down. Unfortunately in so doing he caught the edge of his plate, flipping his heavily en-creamed and en-jammed scone straight onto his chin. The Jay Z chin, fashionably stubbled as it was, now had cream, gooseberry jam and scone clinging to it like Velcro. The largest of The Men went first, the tell-tale shoulder movement; up and down, up and down, accompanied by a peculiar rhythmic hissing as he tried hard to suppress a fit of giggles. To no avail; the giggles spread around the tiny table like a small but perfectly formed Mexican wave. Resistance was futile, and soon all of us, even Jay Z, rapper billionaire and fashion icon, were shaking with laughter, tears streaming down our faces and napkins flying hither and thither in an attempt to stem the flow; oh for a camera!

‘C’mon B; s’time to go;’ said Jay, now composed, ‘there’s a field full o’folk waitin’ ta hear you sing, an’ we ain’t about ta let ‘em down. Saddle up!’ At which point dutiful, beautiful Beyoncé walked to her cabin, emerging moments later in the most extraordinary costume I have ever seen (how? Where had she hidden it?), skipped up the companionway, jumped onto the only dry bit of canal bank to hand and stood, imperious, while The Men scuttled around her like so many worker bees. Two of them, unbidden, hoisted her aloft and squelched through the mud to the Agusta, now winding up its turbines in readiness for departure and beginning to heave and wrench against its muddy launch pad. Jay was soon on board, and then the last of The Men. The door slammed shut; the briefest of waves, and one last smile from Beyoncé before the noise increased. Des and I clung to both each other and the Princess’s tiller as the rotor wash threatened to blast the pair of us across the canal. More noise; deafening now, and then the helicopter broke free and soared, straight up like a lift, hovered briefly, spun on its axis to face the two of us, dipped its nose in salute to all that had just taken place, turned, accelerated, and was gone.

Silence returned to our little water borne world. Des and I, embarrassed, released the vice like grip in which we held each other, and stood at ease. We stayed like that for some time; I’ve really no idea how long, enjoying the peace of the damp Warwickshire evening, the cows slowly reclaiming their field, the sound of them chewing the long, wet grass the only noise to be heard.

‘Fred?’

‘Yes Des?’

‘Did I ever tell you about my time with Guns’n’Roses?’

‘No Des. Shall I put the kettle on?’

‘Think you’d better Fred’

To be continued...

The Narrow Boat Diary; rain and Flounders

2011-07-06T02:34:00.010+02:00

Crikey: where to begin? My last entry had the three of us in a state of near-perfect harmony; Beyonce fast asleep at the far end of the boat; Des, from the light showing under his cabin door, propped up in his bunk reading an old and very well-thumbed copy of 'What Hi-Fi' magazine that someone had left on board; and me sitting at the heart of the Kettleby Princess, her fold-out Formica-topped dining table, writing up the journal. Next day we were all three of us tested: we had weather, lots of it.

The rain came down in sheets; remorseless and surprisingly cold for June. Keen as everyone was to maintain the happy atmosphere all of us were taking our shared responsibilities seriously, with B getting better and better at steering the boat (tricky in high winds: 60' of narrow boat becomes 60' of uncontrollable timber and steel without keeping a close eye on the bow) and Des doing what he does best; endless pots of tea and funny stories. Your correspondent was on light chores on-board, heavy chores at the locks, Des having put his back out showing off at Foxton (no comment) and we were making good progress. I mention 'near-perfect'; one word hung over the Princess unspoken and affecting all three of us in different ways: Glastonbury.

At the outset Beyonce had promised Jay Z, Michael Eavis, the record company and of course her fans that, in spite of her commitment to our holiday (for which she, like myself and Des O'Connor CBE, had paid £450.00 plus share of food, and logs for the wood-burner) she would honour her contract and play the festival. After all, business is business and the girl has an album to promote; neither Des nor I would dream of standing in her way.

Well; that was then, this was now, and we were chugging through a sodden Warwickshire searching for a field big enough for Jay to land his wretched helicopter. We were soaking wet, running out of daylight and Des was, I could tell, fuming over having his last pot of Lapsang slighted by B, who was coming over all Sascha Fierce as she psyched herself up for her return to the real world: “Des? See this tea? S'cold” and with this she had given the lovely man the iciest of stares and proceeded to do the whole turning on her heels and walking away thing we'd seen the other day. Des and I shared a look; this was getting to be a habit; we needed to put a stop to it once and for all.

I walked the length of the boat; just as I was about to knock on her door and give her a piece of my mind I heard the unmistakable sound of crying coming from inside the cabin. Giving the gentlest of knocks I asked; "May I come in?" Silence; I knocked again; more sobbing; "Oh Fred, Fred, Fred!" she cried, the door still firmly closed "I am just so sorry. I just' gon'an' done it agin didn'ah? Me an' mah stoopid superstar temper. 'S jus’ I gotta prepare for some concert in a field to a bunch o'folk ah don'know, I love 'em mahnd, they mah fans and they what ah live for but, but ah’m havin’ so much Goddam fun out her widj’all I surely wish I didn’t have to go. An’ now I’m lashing out at Des, and you coming down here to make the peace, again” By now, the sobbing had turned to sniffles, accompanied by a low moan of anguish.

Well, what’s a chap to do? Tiresome though this pattern of behaviour was, it appeared to be sincere, and, I reminded myself, Beyonce was a lot further from home than either Des or me. “Des will understand I’m quite sure.” I said, silently shelving my ‘We’re not at home to Mrs Angry’ speech. “Perhaps, when you’ve had a chance to compose yourself you might like to come and play Flounders. It’s getting dark; we can moor here for the night. I’ll send Jay a message and he can pick you up in the morning; I’m sure he’ll understand” Silence.

Des, I could see, was hopping from one foot to the other in the galley desperate for news, his novelty ‘Strippergram’ pinny giving off tiny electrical flashes as it brushed against the Velour covered cushions he’d used to ‘make it more homely’ (Des’s phrase)(and yes: I worry too). I held a finger to my lips; patience Des, patience. Still the rain beat down, drumming on the roof, the decks, the canal, the field; one could even hear it splashing out a leathery rhythm on the herd of cows that stood watching from the bank at which we had come to rest. At last the cabin door opened; “An’ jus’ what” she said, those extraordinary and now red-rimmed eyes staring balefully into mine “in all hell are Flounders?” “What is Flounders, B; singular; it’s a game. You play it with dice. You have to match up bits of cardboard fish. Each bit of fish has a number and you have to throw the dice to get the number and when your number matches the bit of fish then you can use it to make more” I paused, “of your fish”.

We stared at each other for what seemed like an age. At last a grin began to spread from ear to fabulous ear. “You mean” she yelped “we get to roll dice! Bring it on!” Then we heard it; the unmistakable sound of a helicopter, thudding towards us with all the inevitability of the school bus, the school bus you prayed would break down in the village before yours because you hadn’t done your French homework. Whop whop whop whOP WHOP WHOP WHOP; it was directly above us and preparing to land, the cows bolting in all directions. I had had no time to send the message! Flounders would have to wait...

The Narrow Boat Diary: bottle this.

2011-06-19T23:37:00.009+02:00

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

2011-06-15T03:14:00.018+02:00

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

2011-06-13T13:10:00.005+02:00

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

2011-06-13T12:59:00.007+02:00

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

What's inside a giant's head?

2009-04-30T00:06:00.016+02:00

Answer: not very much.

Shown here, backstage at Watford Palace Theatre, is a completely wonderful prop from our show, The BFG. Centre piece of ActII, this giant puppet is now a stately 18 years old, and still proving a wow with chidlers up and down the country. Given that he spends years at a time in a dark, draughty, warehouse with no other giants for company, I think he does pretty well. It falls to your correspondent keep to him in fettle.

Fortunately he's very low-tech, as you can see, and needs only the occasional tweak to keep him in shape. A major innovation for this tour is the inclusion of two 99p rubber balls to provide some suspension for his giant shoulders (inspired by production saloon-car racing techniques, no less) and swapping a few nuts and bolts for meatier items better suited to the rigours of ten shows a week.

He is operated by his human counterpart, who climbs up inside him during the second half of the show, straps himself in, and proceeds to walk away with a scene set in the ballroom at Buckingham Palace. The puppet's head, arms, legs and even his opening mouth, are all operated directly by the actor. As you may imagine, mucking about with stuff like this on a daily basis, for a living, with a bunch of exceptionally talented actors and technicians for company, is brilliant fun.

Hummous Du Jour

2009-02-14T00:28:00.005+01:00

Earlier this year; working in Beauchamp Place, Knightsbridge, London, England, one of the most expensive places on earth. Here we see vats of mayonnaise, hummous, falafel, tabouleh and Lord knows what else being delivered to the very popular 'Maroush' all-night Lebanese restaurant. Like me in the Fibonacci-mobile, the lad shifting all these Tupperware numbers is involved in a day-long battle of wits with parking attendants and their machine gun ticket dispensers. A minute over your time? Ticket. A foot over the bay? Ticket. Shirt not tucked in? Ticket. Whistling a jaunty tune whilst unloading your vehicle? Ticket. Soon after this job finished I moved on to my new life, which is really my old life re-made, all shiny and new for 2009. It involves far less contact with traffic wardens and is brilliant fun. More later, and thanks very much for checking in.

Evidence

2009-01-04T01:19:00.005+01:00

Just before the tree comes down, and the cards are binned, and 2009 is given a good hard stare, we see what Santa left under our tree. This is a Fly Classic Ford GT40 (Bucknum/Whitmore) slot racer, found on e-bay, arrived Christmas Eve. Fibonacci Minor assumed immediate control of this car, and quickly got its measure. It goes like stink. We have other cars in our collection, many of them. I think I'm supposed to keep them mint, boxed and un-raced but for what? Cars are meant to be driven, toys to be played with, and Fib Jnr and I raced good and hard throughout Christmas, the track taking up the entire living room floor. Few things are as painful under bare foot than a sharp, plastic, track support piece. Few things are as much fun as a 1/32nd battle fought and lost with your 11 year old son.

Hello sky, hello jet.

2008-12-09T00:34:00.010+01:00

A clear, cold Sunday; late afternoon in Chiswick. Although the sun had begun to set the sky was still dazzlingly blue, and this jet made its way to where I wonder? Moscow? Tokyo? I like the way the Moon appears to bend the plane to its will. All those people nodding off in front of a six-month old Vince Vaughan movie, a warm glass of champagne in a plastic cup and a cleverly packaged meal-like meal in front of them, and me 37,000 ft below, pruning a wisteria, not quite duty-free.

William Morris Minor

2008-12-04T00:42:00.007+01:00

Holland Park is just up the road. These are the leaves that fell on the pond in front of us, as we walked and talked, my son and I, two weeks ago, on a cold London Saturday with signs saying 'No cycling, no skating, no ball games, no smoking, no laughing, smiling, kissing, holding of hands, mirth, joy, light satire, heavy sarcasm, wit, greed envy or lust. Or sloth.'

They couldn't kill the beauty of these leaves 'though, so here they are.

Roast! Roast!

2008-11-01T01:28:00.013+01:00

This joint had been cluttering up the ice-box for months. Whilst visiting Ron Combo in his Grappa Hell the freezer went on the blink and I came home to a fridge full of warm gin and this handsome, but inadvertently thawed, hunk of meat. I had to cook it or chuck it.

Beef being such a rare treat at Chateau Fib I took time to read the blood-soaked label and then knocked a full hour off the recommended cooking time, figuring I could always cook it for a bit longer if absolutely necessary. It wasn't.

The mustard you see is the especially delicious 'Moutarde de Charroux', and comes from Clermont Ferrand via personal courier. The beef came from Sainsbury's going-off counter and kept me going for a week. The leftovers are now back in the freezer, awaiting the advent of a Spong National Mincer from Unmitigated England's General Stores and Provisions(Online)Plc.

Shepherd's Pie anyone?

Impala, not Husky

2008-10-24T12:42:00.012+02:00

Now here's a nice car to have sweeping past in the rush hour. The very first American car I ever saw was a Chevrolet Impala, parked next to the beach in Rock, Cornwall in 1964. It was a very pale yellow and absolutely vast, especially compared to our Morris Minor and the assorted Hillmans and Austins parked close by. Transfixed by the fabulously wide lateral fins, I stood and gazed in wonder. It was easily the coolest thing on wheels I had ever seen, aged seven. I wanted my Dad to buy one. He didn't, but he did buy me an ice-cream and carry me on his shoulders, which was almost as good.

Seeing this estate, looking just right on the Earl's Court Road, made me realise I still want one, perhaps even more.

Crane!

2008-10-17T21:09:00.006+02:00

I had been in Italy for the weekend, visiting Ron Combo's Grappa Hell. Ron had had about as much as he could stand by 08.30 Monday morning and forced me on to a train back to Genoa, alone. With hours and hours to kill I wandered aimlessly through the city's picturesque streets etc etc. Spotted this impressive crane. The chappie on the ground is piloting the whole thing with a little gadget like a Sony PSP, whatever that is. Diplomat, should he be reading, will know all about this. I, as a non-crane driver, was humbled. So humbled I turned right and walked down the hill towards the dock. Here I was astonished to find every doorway full of exotic ladies of the night. Except it was 10.30 in the morning, on a Monday. Hats off to the work ethic girls, but I think I'll pass. Nice to know Dickensian London is alive and well and living in Genoa.

Nothing But Blue Skies

2008-10-17T20:37:00.011+02:00

Took this shot on one of the many recent days when the earth stood still and Saint Gordon of Brown bailed out the known world with his secret stash of Nectar points and Green Shield Stamps. Something about the nature of the shiny, empty, lighter-than-air balloons, previously soaring, now snagged on an Earth-bound telly aerial, spoke far more eloquently about the individuals who have landed us in this mess than I ever could; so I pulled up sharp, leaned out the window (bloke) and snapped.

The Way Forward

2008-09-30T01:55:00.004+02:00

An announcement. As I am sure you are aware, we are, at the time of writing, going through a turbulent period in global finance. None of us is immune. Therefore I have today, after long and heartfelt discussions with our colleagues across the blogosphere, none of whom I've consulted, put together a rescue package that I firmly believe will lead us out of the darkness and back into the sunlit uplands of credibility, or even credulity.

From 0900 GMT Tuesday 30th September 2008 this blog, formerly 'Out The Window Bloke', will merge seamlessly, and with no loss of jobs, with both 'My Grappa Hell' and 'Jeep Rebuild' to create a new, dynamic, lean, fit for purpose Blog: 'My Jeep's Window's Hell To Clean With Grappa'. Could be catchier, I admit, but we must move with the times.

It can only be a matter of time before other notable Blogs are compelled to join forces or risk being swallowed up by some previously unheard-of Blogging combine from the Far East. 'Unmitigated Steam' anyone? All suggestions gratefully received. Please forward to Mr A Darling, 'I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue', BBC Radio4 , Portland Place, London W1.

Cooking With Fred

2008-09-12T20:29:00.010+02:00

Here we see a current Fibonacci favourite under way in the kitchens. My imaginary cook allowed me in to take this picture before shooing me out of the door. I had asked her to prepare something nutritious yet frugal, and quick; particularly if she wanted to keep her imaginary job. She has come up with this, which I must say works rather well.

To eat like Fred you will need: an onion, two courgettes, big fresh field mushrooms, two stalks celery, a red, yellow and green pepper, eight peppercorns, two cloves garlic, sea salt, two or three of Ron Combo's Patent Dried Chilies, tablespoon olive oil, three drops hot chili sauce with indecipherable label from the Syrian deli at the other end of the block, sunflower seeds (optional), anything from the back of the fridge that you should have chucked out days ago but found yourself incapacitated with guilt at the waste, My God The Waste! but not that dodgy cream bun. Pasta.

Get the pasta going. Heat the oil (yes of course in a different pan). Chop the onion, garlic and two chilies into wafer thin slivers. Chop up the rest of the veg into quite large chunks. Add the onion, garlic and chilies and cook until soft and sugary. According to Cook, the garlic and chilies will burn the moment you turn round to prepare your second Plymouth Gin and tonic so stay alert. Add the peppercorns and let them go for a couple of minutes. Turn up the heat before adding the roughly chopped veg, the third chili and the optional sunflower seeds. The extra heat should add a bit of colour to the veg before turning it back down to cook. Wait until all this is as al dente or overcooked as you like; drain pasta, add the above, eat. Chicken or prawns also work very well with this, the chicken should be cubed, the prawns can go in whole. They should go in after you've softened the onions. If it all looks a bit lost chuck in a tin of chopped tomatoes. If you do this be sure to let them simmer a bit; they'll lose that 'just opened' look and reduce to a satisfyingly rich sauce in no time at all.

Time taken, start to finish: equivalent of one and a half large gin and tonics from first chopped vegetable to sitting down at the table, which should be properly set, with crisply folded linen. (Have Mary the maid do this, if you haven't already let her go.) To accompany the dish; a crisp white, any will do. Good luck, and do let me know if it works as well for you as it does for me.

Yours ever

Fred

A Trillionth Of A Second. Ish.

2008-09-10T17:37:00.015+02:00

Somewhere in a dusty suburb of New Delhi a phone is ringing:

Brrrr brrr. Brrr brrr. Click. "Good afternoon Sir, thank you for calling CERN24, my name is Vijay and I am here to help you. May I ask who is calling? Thank you.. Hadrian? Adron? Adrian? Forgive me Sir, first of all please Mr Adrian, are you happy with me to call you Adrian? Good, thank you, I'm not sure what you mean by "that will have to do, you haven't got all night" now, yes, I see Adrian yes, you say your Particle Accelerator is giving trouble. Yes, yes, I see, I see. Yes Sir Mr Adrian, I know it has cost a lot of money, please Sir there is no need for that kind of language. Or tone. Thank you, I can understand your frustration Sir, yes. I am sure if you explain the nature of the problem we will have it fixed in a jiffy. Now, please to tell me Adrian, do the Large Particle Accelerator's lights come on when you are switching it on? They do? Good. I beg your pardon? You say you're worried about the eerie glowing one is that right? You say you don't remember it looking like that this morning? Hmmm, you don't say? And you say the walls and floors are, I beg your pardon Sir, war ping? How are you spelling 'war ping' Sir? Oh, I see, one word. No, no I understand. Yes, no, no that's good Sir, I'm sure that's fine and nothing to worry about at all, they all do that. Now, Adrian, please can you now tell me; when you fire the Proton Beam, yes, with the big button, the one on the right underneath the word 'oblivion'. Oh, hah hah! For sure it's good to keep a sense of humour about these things yes Sir, I agree, hah. Now, do you have the 'Caps Lock' key depressed? You do? Well, please I must ask you Adrian to bear with me for just a little longer, I think I have a solution. Please press down and release this key once more, good, you've done that Sir yes? Good, very good, now please and to press "ctrl, alt, delete". This should bring your Large Hadron Collider back online in no time at all - I beg your pardon Adrian? You're saying "My God it's full of stairs." Is that right? Hello? Hello? He....................................

On The Beach Bloke

2008-09-08T17:07:00.011+02:00

Me and bike on the beach at St Jacut-de-la-Mer, Brittany. Having borrowed the bike, I rode from Dinan, on a day made for cycling, early last summer. It was a fantastic ride and probably the furthest I'd been on a push-bike for years. My reward was this beach. The tide was out and me and my trusty steed are a long way from land in the pic. The tube sticking out of the bracket on the handlebars is a rolled up map, cleverly arranged so that I could navigate without stopping to unfold it every half hour. Very Mille Miglia, very DSJ. Not shown are the acres of mussel beds that lie here. Hundreds of them, tall and inky black, row upon row of growing mussels. Oh, for a primus and saucepan. I cycled back along empty roads, only stopping to get out of the way of enormous tractors that tore up the lanes from time to time, all of them driven by spotty lads. Who needs a Porsche when the farmer lets you out on his Steyr 9000mt? Thanks for the loan of the bike John.

Froggy Went A Stonton

2008-08-26T00:46:00.013+02:00

Seen here in the passenger seat of his Austin-Healey Sprite, as we bounced back to Stontonbury Fields earlier this summer, is my little nephew Will. My other little nephew Matt (1943 Jeep Rebuild) is close behind in Toby's 1948 Land-Rover. The Land-Rover is being driven by my very little nephew Ted. To Matt goes the credit for this shot. That's me in the hat.

I had only driven a Frog once before, about thirty years ago; a dreadful heap that a 'collector' was trying to flog near Melton Mowbray. He had a droopy moustache and, in his office, a ridiculous, red leather, deep buttoned swivel chair. The house, all of five years old, had far too many faux Georgian windows with wildly inappropriate bottle glass. He kept banging on about 'the collection'. Pushing him further, this turned out to be a Triumph Herald and a rusty V12 E Type on stands. His Frogeye drove like a bag of spanners. Stepping out of the Sprite, and back into my heavy, comfortable, quiet, Sunbeam Alpine was an enormous relief.

Will has done a much better job on the Sprite shown here. It felt fantastically direct and sorted. Like all Healeys it is also tiny; so tiny, we later calculated, that were the Fibonacci Peugeot Boxer van not full of my kit, I could have driven it straight in and taken it home. The thought certainly crossed my mind.

'Gamecock', The Hammersmith Queen

2008-08-24T14:01:00.016+02:00

As I write, the Olympics are drawing to their close in Beijing, Lewis Hamilton is chasing Felipe Massa around the brand new Valencia GP circuit and, as it's Sunday, this lovely boat should be taking a well-earned break from whatever it is she does on the river.

I took this photo in July, I am standing less than two miles from the Bristol showroom. The city's capacity to surprise is without limit.

In The Window Bloke

2008-08-24T00:40:00.018+02:00

Moved by recent posts on Peter Ashley's 'Unmitigated England' site, I thought I'd go and get some live shots of Bristol's wonderful Kensington showroom. So here you are. There are five cars just waiting to be bought; two Fighters, a Beaufighter, a Blenheim and the 408 shown here. I'll let the photo-copied 'Sales Literature' do the rest of the talking.

Wakey, wakey, Father Thames.

2008-08-21T00:23:00.005+02:00

Another watery shot, remarkable at least for your reporter being around at this time of day. This is the Thames, taken from the corner of Oil Mill Lane and Lord Napier Place in Hammersmith. It's just before seven, and before the clocks went forward. It's still London Winter Time. I love the sense of anticipation; soon those benches will fill up with resting joggers, that bin will fill up with discarded sweetie wrappers and the yacht club look-out will fill up with earnest and super-fit sailing types, barking instructions at their charges out on the river. I make no apologies for the rough and ready nature of the shot: it's Mr Nokia's camera and he does what he can.

Chapman Spool

2008-08-19T01:06:00.011+02:00

In Dorset with Fibonacci The Younger, two weeks ago. A view across Chapman's Pool. Getting to it is less easy than some other beaches, but worth it. Hardly any people, even on a day as glorious as the one coming to its close in the photograph. Just us and two other families; it felt like we had the place to ourselves. Couldn't find Colin Chapman's headstone anywhere; or a fraying Lotus Elite in a boat shed. The light was never less than fabulous. It really did turn to pewter as we walked back up the path. A swallow caught a moth four feet from my nose.

Later, at The Square and Compass, we had a pint, a pie and a Coca-Cola. In upended glasses, and with all his new best mates, Fibonacci Minor trapped dozy wasps. A girl turned up with a ferret peeping out of her blouse. She went inside to play in the band. Don't know what happened to the ferret.