MONDAY 17 MARCH

SECRETS OF THE SEA
My dear listeners and friends - you have excelled yourselves. You have achieved something which ( - and I must be honest here - ) I thought was utterly impossible. Between you, you have written what I am claiming as the world’s very first communal, collective Romantic short story. You have contained, developed and concluded the narrative in a deeply satisfying way. You have shown startling originality, wit, turn of phrase and story-telling ability......

Singling out individual contributions would be unfair - in fact, it would be impossible. I loved all of it - from letters falling repeatedly to the floor (along with several of the story's protagonists) through the ingenious in-character dialogue, the carefully-wrought descriptions of rugs and dresses, the appalling double-entendres and the lightning-strike plot twists to the final breathtaking denouement.

Hey - what can I say? You’ve stunned me into awed silence yet again. You are truly capable of anything; there’s nothing that truckshunters can’t do. No, really. You’d better believe it.

As you can imagine, I thought about you often while I was on holiday in Hereford ( - and, yes, Maureen, we’ll be hearing from Sue again very soon). I wondered how, as a group, you would react to my opening chapter of Secrets and how your different personalities and world-views could possibly be reflected in any story you tried to write as a group; a group, moreover, whose members - as far as I know - have never met except as blogsters.

The result is awesome. My head and heart are positively bursting with pride. I know I’ve said it before but I want you to know how privileged I feel to be broadcasting to such a disparate, problematic, funny and intensely affectionate audience.

After the infamous Seventieth Posting I wanted to shout your achievements from the rooftops of the Pink Palace. This time I’m going to. If you can, listen in to Wednesday and Thursday morning’s Nightshifts for news of exactly what I intend to do.

I’ll be telling you about my lovely Herefordshire holiday tomorrow. Right now, I think I’d better shut up before you all start feeling big-headed - or before you begin to suspect that I doth protest your wonderfulness too much!

Well done - all of you.

ST CUTHBERT'S DAY
Yes, I know I got it wrong when I announced that today is St Patrick's Day. Apparently, it was moved forward to last Saturday so as not to clash with Holy Week. However, despite what the Church hierarchy might say, I hereby declare that Thursday, 20 March, really is St Cuthbert's Day, Holy Week or no Holy Week. If you have any thoughts for the Big Day - or any special requests - please get in touch.

CONTACT ME
Post comments on this blog or contact me in any one (or more) of these ways....
ian.robinson@bbc.co.uk
ianstuartrobinson@googlemail.com
text 07786 200954 (while the programme is on-air)
call (between about 0545 and 0630 Monday to Friday) 0191 232 6565
Ian Robinson, The Nightshift, BBC Radio Newcastle, Spital Tongues, Newcastle-upon-Tyne NE99 1RN

NOTE
Please bear in mind that the views expressed in this blog are my own and NOT the views of the BBC.

FRIDAY 7 MARCH

SECRETS OF THE SEA
A new novel of passion, pride and desire
By Victoria Garesfield and Clara Vale

It begins.....
------------------------

It was exactly the kind of day you would expect for an occasion like this. Even though it was mid-June in what had, up till recently, been a warm and gentle summer, today the rain was falling heavily, as it had done since her father died a week ago. It splashed fiercely on the leaves of the fine English oaks which lined the drive to the Hall and it wantonly drenched the flower-beds so carefully planned and planted by old Crockford and his son in the Spring. Even the blooms seemed to be bowing their heads in disappointment under the torrent.

Fenella stood at the upper window watching the guests depart below. There was Blunden, the solicitor who had read her father’s will to the assembled guests. He had known Sir Michael since they were at prep school together and reading his oldest friend’s testament had not been easy; Blunden had almost wept several times, especially at the mention of the small disbursement that had been awarded to himself and his sister.

As he got into his car, he looked up at the window and saw Fenella there. He waved weakly and looked at her not just sadly but also, she thought, with an expression of warning or even dread on his face.

Nearby, standing at the terrace wall waiting for his car, stood her Uncle James. Fenella thought it strange that he was smiling on such a day. Then again, he might well smile. He had just learned of an inheritance that had taken everyone by surprise. The shocked gasps had been clearly audible when Blunden announced that her father had left James almost half of the entire estate. Both of the hunting lodges - as well as the fishing rights and Eastwood Farm - now belonged to Uncle James, a brother who, everyone thought, had barely been on speaking terms with Sir Michael for many years.

No wonder he was smiling, thought Fenella as she looked down from her window.

The Holmans - their nearest neighbours over at ‘The Big House’ - were clambering into their Bentley. As usual they seemed to be arguing about something. Fenella could not quite hear what Gregory Holman was saying to his wife, even though she opened the window slightly despite the rain. But the object of his bad-tempered tirade was obvious and surprised Fenella. For he was scowling darkly and looking directly over at young Crockford, who was standing by the willow copse, rake in hand, looking defiantly back at him.

Fenella wondered why the gardener’s son, now in his late 20s, could have been the focus of such irritability and obvious anger.

Glancing at young Crockford immediately reminded her of Dornford, her own brother, also in his late 20s by now. But where was he? Why had the family not heard from him for almost a year? Her mother and sister had both thought that Dornford’s disappearance on that hot July day last year had contributed to Sir Michael’s death; that he had died, at least partly, because of a broken heart at the ‘loss’ of his beloved only son.

At that moment, her mother walked unsteadily into the room. She looked pale and exhausted but there was also a touch of what Fenella could only describe as ‘panic’ on her face. She was carrying a letter in her hand.

‘Darling Fenny’ she said. ‘This arrived this morning. I think you should read it’.

----------------------------

THIS BLOG....
I am on leave until Monday 17 March, which is when the next posting is due. In the meantime, enjoy yourselves (!) and be nice to Nick Roberts. He says you always are!

CONTACT ME
Post comments on this blog or contact me in any one (or more) of these ways....
ian.robinson@bbc.co.uk
ianstuartrobinson@googlemail.com
text 07786 200954 (while the programme is on-air)
call (between about 0545 and 0630 Monday to Friday) 0191 232 6565
Ian Robinson, The Nightshift, BBC Radio Newcastle, Spital Tongues, Newcastle-upon-Tyne NE99 1RN

NOTE
Please bear in mind that the views expressed in this blog are my own and NOT the views of the BBC.

THURSDAY 6 MARCH

HISTORY IN THE MAKING
Yet another new trail is being blazed by The Nightshift and its listeners today. For the first time since the blog was started last November, it’s been written by a truckshunter rather than by the harmless drudge drafting this opening paragraph. The questionable honour of being the first in blog-posting history has - naturally - gone to Ratmaster Lawrence.

So....take a deep breath......

TRUCKSHUNTER BLOG: LAWRENCE
Hi and thank you Ian for allowing me to take the reins of this fine blog for this evening, although it’s taken quite a while to get writing as in many ways this is similar to the hardest set of articles I had to write for the Berwick Speedway programme of 1992 – no brief – freehand – just whatever I like and believe me that’s’ tough.

This is the first blog I’ve been involved with and I have to say it’s now become compulsive reading, with the vibrant gang on the comments really getting things moving.

We could do with a communal meeting over an Earl Grey some evening, or perhaps a glass or two of Old Peculiar, a very apt drink for Truckshunters as “Peculiar” as in the drink does not mean weird or odd, but in fact means “particular” as in a particularly quality ale, which it is, and as are the Truckshunters.

Real Ale is a passion of mine, but never over-indulged in. The ales of this land should be savoured, as Earl Grey tea. There was a time I was what the cask ale fans call a “ticker”, armed with my bulging booklet for carefully noting down each new ale tasted, and “ticked” off the list.

By the time I realised there was actually more pleasure in remembering which specific ales I adored most and going for repeat purchases of those I had ticked off over 2100 different ales, some of which were well departed from my pallet but had to be drunk as it was a new ale for my collection!

The brewers have a wild imagination at times with regard to naming their carefully constructed drinks although last week I had to take a deep breath at a local bar before saying to the bartender, “Can I have a “Long Willie” please young sir” that being the name of said ale. It was tasty but I tend to go for Dark Island or The Red McGregor from The Orkney Brewery if available although sometimes the more odd names catch the eye.

A brewery in Wyre Piddle brew several delicious ales with titles based on their home town hence bottles and pump clips adorned with titles such as “Piddle in the Hole” – a golfing ale, or “Piddle in the Snow” or “…in the Sun”, “…in the Wind” and “…in the Dark” . There’s also a beer called Miss Whiplash which turned my head – can’t think why.

So these days I’m not a ticker, but I adore my real ale it’s only a pity some ales can no longer be found, most notably “Nutcracker” and another delightful brew called “Malting’s Anniversary Ale” ahhh where for art thou now??

It’s a busy week for me, not least as Grosvenor, our mascot, the most handsome of black rats is still languishing in his “air de celebritaire” as I, his manservant as he now refers to me – cheers Ian – has to bow before the fine beast and shake his little paw before he’ll leap onto my shoulder for a hug adding to his “free range” time out of the cage with his cage-mates JD, JB and Caffery, his new found pal, Ziggy and Guy.

He can’t actually meet the other 7 as they are all girly rats and he’s …um… intact, shall we say and I’m not a ratty breeder although people have called me things sounding remarkably similar to that over the years. So he may pine to meet the girls, but he can’t and is very jealous of Guy, as Guy was castrated as a kitten (yes rat babies are called kittens – ah the irony of it all) so Guy lives happily with 7 girls!

All 13 need time out of the cage to run about and play and they all need their evening meals of smoked salmon and char-grilled chicken prepared every day so it takes time to treat them correctly.

Busy too as this weekend it’s the return of Speedway racing for a new season at Berwick and Newcastle and I’ve been embroiled in the sport up here for what is now 36 years – and that’s about 14,500 individual races seen, and I have been described as insane incidentally.

I write for both club’s match magazines – some 3000 words a week, D.J. and control their respective presentations, as well as being Berwick Bandit’s press officer and Newcastle Diamond’s Press Associate and update the club’s information and results hotlines, and with both clubs having their press and practice days in the last 7 days and both opening their doors this weekend it’s been manic and much midnight oil has been turned into carbon emissions in order to make sure each required deadline is achieved so that once Saturday night arrives the public will roll in and all will be well, then we all collapse in a heap and sigh a huge sigh of relief.

I’ll not use this blog to plug speedway by giving details of meeting times prices etc as that I would feel a misuse of this privileged position and I don’t want to abuse things at all.

Excuse me while I pick myself up off the floor… Ian you’ve just talked about some bloke with a sexy young woman coming towards him as he tightens his lug-nuts…. Excuse me and as for her spike of pleasure and the hardened scars left by the wolves vicious bites I’ll just not go there.

Ah, back to reality, this piano tuning lark seems to surprise people, but there are a host of pianos in the North East, and getting out and about, even in stormy weather is an unrivalled pleasure.

The job itself is rewarding enough by making a ghastly sounding bucket of out of key clangers sound musical again, yes that’s job satisfaction, but the real “secret” pleasure is having no two days the same and ending up in every part of my North East as driving around Warkworth Castle, down the bank and over the bridge on the way to Alnmouth (a beautiful town). Or into Durham City, Thirsk, Norton, Great Thirkleby, Whittingham, Hexham, Haltwhistle, Wall, Rowlands Gill and Riding Mill or Minsterachres with it’s lane lined with massive trees.

I could have, as 90% of my old school mates seem to have done, migrate off to every corner of the UK and indeed the World but I’m rooted to this wonderful little corner of Britain. I’ll never want to leave here, why would I want to? It has magnificent coastlines and rural areas, gorgeous cities and everything in between and usually all within no more than an hour away. The North East is a region to celebrate and be vociferously proud of , which is why I feel so lucky to be in a position to see so much of it every working day of my life…. Heaven in a Ford Escort… it really is.

Hope this is okay as a blog entry Ian, never having done one before I just hope it fits the bill…. Thanks for allowing me onto its hallowed pages.

CONTACT ME
Post comments on this blog or contact me in any one (or more) of these ways....
ian.robinson@bbc.co.uk
ianstuartrobinson@googlemail.com
text 07786 200954 (while the programme is on-air)
call (between about 0545 and 0630 Monday to Friday) 0191 232 6565
Ian Robinson, The Nightshift, BBC Radio Newcastle, Spital Tongues, Newcastle-upon-Tyne NE99 1RN

NOTE
Please bear in mind that the views expressed in this blog are my own and NOT the views of the BBC.

Oh B****r!

WEDNESDAY 5 MARCH

One of the things that’s struck me about the comments you’ve all got into the habit of leaving is how revealing they are and how wonderfully open you’ve been with each other. I suspect that you feel the same way as I do about this; it’s been good finally to be able to ‘fill in the background’ to the sketches we had of each other before. Colour has been added, too, and - to extend the metaphor beyond what is reasonable - frames have even been added as well. The only person who hasn’t shared any intimate secrets is......me.

So, in an effort to right this obvious wrong in the most self-effacing way ( - after all, I have no allotment, I can’t tune pianos and I’m useless as a teacher! - ) and inspired by Kev’s picture above - one of several he sent me, and all of which will appear in due course - I submit the following chastening account of....

MY MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT
You’d think that working in the high-pressure atmosphere of live broadcasting would present ample opportunity for embarrassing goofs and unforgettable ineptitude. Indeed, the BBC Radio Newcastle vaults are bursting at the seams with examples of Ian Robinson forgetting people’s names, asking the wrong questions of the wrong people, spoonerising (‘flat-twinning’ springs to mind here), corpsing, fumbling and almost passing out through sheer unforgivable technical ignorance.

The problem, however, is that ‘outtake’ broadcasting has become the norm. Everyone is so used to listening and/or watching the pratfalls of tv and radio people that they’re almost not funny any more. So instead, I’m going to go back to the salad days of my working life. I was 23, I was in London and I was a bus driver.

I loved the job, as many bus drivers did and still do. I’d been a conductor for two years - remember them? - on the same route I was now driving; the 52. From Victoria up behind Buckingham Palace, then left into Knightsbridge. From there, along to the Royal Albert Hall and Kensington High Street. A right turn to Notting Hill Gate then up through inner north-west London via Ladbroke Grove and Kensal Rise to Willesden. After that, you’re in the suburbs; Dollis Hill, Neasden, Kingsbury and Burnt Oak. Finally, you reach Mill Hill, where open countryside is only a couple of miles away. And all in a sublimely-designed Routemaster bus; smooth, powerful, hardworking - and utterly reliable. Except for one unfortunate evening.....

Picture it. It’s New Year’s Eve. I’m driving the last bus of the night. We leave Victoria at about 2330, picking up all the bar staff and waiters who’ve had such a heavy day so that everyone else could enjoy themselves and celebrate the arrival of 1972. They’re tired, fed up, overworked and underpaid. And they want to get home as soon as they can.

As we pull up to the stop in Chamberlayne Road, I happen to notice that midnight has just arrived. A New Year. A time for rejoicing and celebrating - even if you’re just the passengers and crew of an anonymous London bus. So, in a spirit of good-humoured humanity worthy of the occasion, I stop the engine, climb down from my cab, walk round to the bus platform, board the bus and shout ‘Happy New Year everyone!’ to the throng of bedraggled, exhausted Londoners.

They responded in kind, bless them. ‘Happy New Year, driver! And thankyou!’ There was even a few hugs and kisses and handshakings. It was like something from a schmaltzy Christmas film, it really was.

Full of the milk of my own warmth and spontaneous goodwill, I walked back to the cab and climbed in.

The engine wouldn’t start.

I tried it a dozen times. It just wouldn’t start. I had a bus half-full of expectant travellers; it was after midnight; it was very cold; it was starting to rain; a replacement bus would take at least 30 minutes to arrive. We were stranded. Stuck. And all because of me and my ludicrous and naive belief that good cheer conquers all. Well, it doesn’t.

I apologised to the passengers as fulsomely as I could but nothing - absolutely NOTHING - could prevent me feeling extraordinarily stupid. I knew then that this was never going to be one of those occasions you look back at and smile. I’ve looked back at it many times and have NEVER smiled once at the memory of it.

The engineers took almost an hour to get a replacement bus to us. A few of the passengers gave up and set out to walk home - this was the last bus, remember. There was no community singing of Auld Lang Syne; just an increasingly forlorn and irritable gaggle of fatigued Londoners who made it perfectly obvious that they wished the bus driver anything BUT a Happy New Year.

I’m not kidding. It was awful.

CONTACT ME
Post comments on this blog or contact me in any one (or more) of these ways....
ian.robinson@bbc.co.uk
ianstuartrobinson@googlemail.com
text 07786 200954 (while the programme is on-air)
call (between about 0545 and 0630 Monday to Friday) 0191 232 6565
Ian Robinson, The Nightshift, BBC Radio Newcastle, Spital Tongues, Newcastle-upon-Tyne NE99 1RN

NOTE
Please bear in mind that the views expressed in this blog are my own and NOT the views of the BBC.

Ryan's Angel

TUESDAY 4 MARCH

ER...
Hello.

I’ve been reading and re-reading your comments over the last week or so - since the Seventieth Posting, in fact. I actually printed them all off to give myself some bedtime reading but they kept me awake - all 48 pages of them! I’m not kidding - they’re AWESOME. Naturally, there are way too many points made, stories told, memories recalled, jokes, inside information, puzzles and games, questions and answers for me to respond to; suffice to say that there wasn’t enough margin left on the paper for me to scribble my notes on.

Your comments on the last blog were just the same - including the useful recipe Gilly has given us for Mud Pies. And all because of a US State Congressman who couldn’t possibly ever have imagined where his annual marigold proposal would end up!

I think there are two lessons to be learned from your comments subsequent to 15 February.

Firstly, drafting a posting for the blog will be on the same basis as making comments on it is now - it will always be entirely voluntary (except, of course, for my shameless invitation to The Ratmaster to get the ball rolling). No-one will EVER be ‘put on the spot’ to make a contribution if they don’t want to, or feel they can’t. Nor will they EVER be criticised for the decision they make.

So relax, Maureen. You will be as dear to our hearts in the future as you are now - whatever you decide.

And to those who’ve already decided to give blogpost-drafting a whirl, remember - we aren’t a critical bunch anyway. All I’ve ever noticed pass between you all is warmth and welcome.

Secondly, I found your comments about time constraints interesting. I’m sorry to ‘harp on’ about it ( - why ‘harp on’? - ) but The Nightshift has no separate researcher, producer, writer and presenter. They’re all li’l ol’ me. At times, I have to admit that the blog has threatened to take over whole days of reading and responding. So I’m glad that you, too, are beginning to see how the good company - the wit, wisdom and fellowship - can easily start to encroach on time that should be spent elsewhere doing other things!!

I’m not complaining. I’m just ‘relieved’.

So please keep the ball rolling in whichever direction you like. I love it. But please remember to keep me informed so I can join in! In the meantime, this blog will continue to appear with - starting on Thursday - occasional contributions from truckshunters.

Yes, Lawrence, I’ve received your draft. Be prepared, everybody - and be sure to set aside plenty of reading and responding time on Thursday!

One final point. I know perfectly well that a lot more truckshunters than the Magnificent Seven have been enthralled by recent developments on the blog. So who are you? Where are you? Speak a little LOUDER. We want to hear from you!

Speaking of which.....

RYAN
I’ve had an email from Ryan, who popped up on the blog last week. Remember him? He’s the guy who’s moving to Alton (in Hampshire) in a few days time. I hope he doesn’t mind if I reproduce some of it here.

'I thought I'd drop you a quick email with a pic attached, as I seem to remember you were interested in seeing pics we, the listeners, had taken. Anyway, despite lots of dramatic pictures available of the Angel of the North, I managed to bag myself a wonderful snap of the angel, just as the northeast was being enveloped in the soft white mitten of a snowstorm. You can barely see the ginger-cake colour of the angel, as the storm picks up.

I have been meaning to email to thank you for your wonderful Christmas Day show. I hadn't had a very good 2007, and was simply going through the motions of Christmas, without really enjoying any part of it. I tuned in to BBC Radio Newcastle on Christmas Day, which is what I do most days, as I love the station ever since I lived in Newcastle. It's a reminder of happier times, and a great comfort on occasions. And of course, when I tuned in, your show was about to start. I spent the following hours, doing very little other than drinking tea and smiling, as you and the people up there, lifted my spirits and gave me a great start to the day.

I spent the rest of the day at my sister’s, with her loving family surrounding me, and I enjoyed every moment of it. The best Christmas for a very long time.'

Aren’t ‘the soft white mitten of a snowstorm’ and ‘the ginger-cake colour of the Angel’ lovely images? And isn’t the picture itself a stunner, too?!

CONTACT ME
Post comments on this blog or contact me in any one (or more) of these ways....
ian.robinson@bbc.co.uk
text 07786 200954 (while the programme is on-air)
call (between about 0545 and 0630 Monday to Friday) 0191 232 6565
Ian Robinson, The Nightshift, BBC Radio Newcastle, Spital Tongues, Newcastle-upon-Tyne NE99 1RN

NOTE
Please bear in mind that the views expressed in this blog are my own and NOT the views of the BBC.