What a top weekend. My cousin got married on Saturday and it was a smashing wedding. They got the weather they needed and everything went like clockwork.
I was hungover for the occasion as the evening before I had hosted the latest Nerd Night, our bi-monthly gathering of radio types to eat, drink and swap gossip of mass destruction while also discussing jingles and prefade buttons in as crashingly a dull manner as it sounds. Hull welcomed these highly respected media professionals into its bosom for the evening and a fine time was had by all, as ever.
Charles Nove and I are in the pic, with Charles demonstrating the plastered-on smile that all practised celebs perfect in their opening weeks of notoriety.
Now, if you know Hull at all, you'll be aware that the city splits in half as far as nightlife choices are concerned. The new town has the trendy bars, pikeys in Ben Sherman shirts and by the night's close, many thousands of separate DNA samples floating along the road guttering in the form of vomit, blood and urine.
The old town is where the smarter, quieter and more sophisticated pubs and bars are housed, within the arcane buildings of our ancient city. This was, naturally, our destination for the evening's revelry, initally in a pub called the Manchester Arms and then on to a restaurant called Cooks Endeavour.
The arrival of the great Martin Kelner led to a conversation about Radio Aire in Leeds, the original line-up of which he was part when it launched in 1981. Only the fiercest of radio anoraks could duly rattle through the programme schedule of said station in said year. Now I like radio and am capable of mildly nerdish facts but the launch line-up of a radio station in a city where I didn't live (at a time when I was still at primary school) was not one of them. However, Simon Hirst was quick off the mark, going through every name, what they did next and the way their personal ID jingle sounded. It comes naturally to him. And yet he is three years younger than me and grew up in Barnsley, so should have heard (of) Radio Aire in 1981 at least as much (ie, as little) as I did.
Upon decamp to the restaurant, BBC Radio Tees breakfast host John Foster's mobile rang just as we were being shown to our table. His ringtone was the theme of Good Morning Britain, which led to long conversations about the merit (both as presenter and symbol of lust) of Kathy Tayler, a hostess in the later 80s on that settee whose woodenness with a camera was alleviated by her decorative qualities. Especially when she had just come back all tanned after a stint on Holiday '88.
From this, there was a discussion about whether Carol Dooley (TV-am weather person of sizeable specs from that era, having done the Mayo forecasts previously) preceded Sybil Ruscoe as the breakfast weather bintage for Mayo or succeeded her (it was the former), and this allowed us to then mention Ja(c)k(k)i(e) Brambles, Ruscoe's eventual successor. Are you keeping up? It was all a bit scattergun, but it eventually led to discussion of the differing ways Adrian John and Gary King would approach the 5am pips when on Radio 1 early show duty, in the days when the station was still closing down at night and re-opening the next morning (for what it's worth, one used to sing the jingle under the pips and the other used to wish the pips good morning). Inevitably, this finally led on to the discussion all semi-nerdish DJs have at some point in their careers; the thrill and enjoyment of waking up at 4.55am to listen to the station's daily launch with a stack of back-to-back jingles.
Ahhhhhhh. I know, this doesn't appear to be a thrill a minute. But to us, oooh... it is thrilling, exciting, mesmeric, mouthwatering stuff. This is why Alex labelled it Nerd Night on his show and the name stuck.
The food was excellent and then it was on to my favourite old town pub, Ye Olde Black Boy, for more ale and more discussion about anything relating to the industry, and perhaps just a little not relating so. Our pal Daryl Denham turned up at this point and before long was at the badly tuned piano and leading us all in a chorus of Ain't No Pleasing You. Naturally, only Hirsty knew the words.
Wandering the cobbled streets after the pub chucked out, we stopped at a burger van so that a handful of the more gluttonous partygoers could top up the meal and the liquor with a slab of circular flesh of dubious origin. As we walked, a local girl managed to get her heels stuck between the cobbles, making her lurch headlong into the arses of some our party who were walking in front of her. There was a brief pause as we wondered what to say about this evident bit of indecent assault on the male form, and also to check the inebriated lass was okay. Charles came up with the best line:
"It's okay. We're doctors!"
There was a pause while the alcohol-marinated brain of this female took in the information and she considered a droll and lucid response.
"Doctors my f**king arse!"
Charles was quick.
"Well, that's not my speciality, but...."
The voice of the balls had spoken, and when he speaks, millions listen. Or, in this case, fifteen laugh.
On we shall go, probably to Blackpool next. I'm then thinking of asking my good friend Callum, as frequent a contributor to this blog as anyone, to take us round Brighton at Christmas. He now has a chance to refuse in front of all of us...