“So the thing is, err Bumble, you see, um, would you be kind enough, I mean would you mind awfully, having a photo with me. Please. My dad’s a big fan, my sister-in-law thinks you’re brill…”

“Shoooot ooopp.”

“Right oh. Sorry, very sorry.”

Gareth, good on ‘im, takes the photo.

David ‘Bumble’ Lloyd. The man who’s done everything in the game, county and international cricketer, first class umpire, county and international coach, author. All with varying degrees of success yet it is in his current role as commentator where he is best known. Cult hero, legend, national treasure.
Take your pick of the apt accolades. Bumble’s distinctive Lancastrian accent has enhanced many a cricket match down the years, his infectious enthusiasm for the sport he has served so well spilling out into his commentaries along with his brilliant and bewildering bons mots.

I hold the gentleman in the highest esteem. I was nervous about meeting him. Which is why I couldn’t stop gibbering away like an idiot when I bumped into him on Saturday night.

You know that verbal diarrhoea you instantly develop when you see a jaw-droppingly good looking lass across the room and tumble ill-advisedly into conversation with when your turn to get the round in coincides. Granted I’d had one or two, but, by now, I was rabbiting for England.

You know when the verbal diarrhoea you’re experiencing looks like it could become terminal? Yeah, that happened too.

“So, um, Mr Lloyd, Bumble, err, let me tell you my theory that it is Bedfordshire and not Yorkshire or indeed that fine Red Rose county across the Pennines that is the cradle of English cricket….”

“Shoooot ooopp.”

Thankfully, Gareth or Barney or the band’s new song filled in the hole that was opening up in front of me.

“Brown Sugar by the Rooollin’ Stooones. Ah looov that. Get ’em to do Brown Sugar.”

I volunteered to persuade the band to do it. Alas they didn’t really know it. Or Angie.

“Roooobbish!”

I was having a ‘mare. So espying some charming sort out of the corner of my eye, I sensed my chance to make a break from my self imposed cast-iron cage of embarrassment. I followed her to the dance floor where I promptly proceeded to rip it up in that giraffe-tripping-acid crossed with Stephen Merchant with-his-spine-recently-removed way that sadly for me (and comically for everyone else) befalls someone of my lanky stature when faced with the trials and tribulations of disco dancing. She was loving it. I was loving it.

So, apparently, was Bumble. Stood crouching like Arthur Fagg in his pomp and tapping away like a young Lonnie Donegan, the great man had made his way towards the edge of the dance floor and was hollering and barracking my efforts, that characteristic love of life writ large across those famously dour-or-delighted features.

They say you should never meet your heroes. Roooobbish!

David Lloyd. Thank you. Top man.

At Dances With Chazzwazzers, it’s always gratifying to receive feedback from you, my esteemed readers. Here’s some correspondence on the latest article I would like to share with you verbatim.

“Burger? That’s not a burger. Liking the latest blog fella, only I think my effort last weekend (The Devastator!!!!) pisses all over your ‘Big Al’.

Feel free to use photo on your blog….”

Thank you, I will. That is quite a monster. But as I said to the last Mrs W, it’s what you do with it that counts.

Mind you, that was a long time ago now.

Thanks very much indeed brother (To those of you who don’t know the devastator of the Devastator is Will, Alfie’s Dad). Good to see sibling rivalry is alive and well despite us being hemispheres apart.

Two wonderful things have come into my life recently. Firstly there’s this wee fella;

Little Al.

Alfie, my nephew.

And today, a completely different kind of wonderful.

Big Al.

“Good luck” chirped the server at Ferg’s as the lunchtime queue, featuring the usual suspects, incognito England cricketers and tanned Teutonic tourists, began to build up. The words carried the same weighty resonance as when uttered by the sleuthing German soldier in The Great Escape. Nervously acknowledging the man, Lucky Paul and I hurriedly made our way out of the gathering storm and to Queenstown’s beachfront, Marine Parade.

Good luck? Whatever did he mean?

Got it. Big Al. It’s a whole lot of burger.

I contemplated the tasty task ahead of me and as I did so a cherished memory from my visit to the Cheers Bar in Boston popped into my head. The bartender back then complimented me on my efforts at conquering their famous Norm Burger, dubbing me The Thinking Man’s Over Eater, a title I was determined to live up to here.

With pit lane mechanic precision I went straight to the bright green curly lettuce, sliced tomatoes and generous beetroot portions, stripping them from the mayonnaise laden bottom bunk of the bun and plopping them un-fussily into my mouth. Contented the remaining ingredients would sit comfortably between the bread without slipping out, I set about the main project.

Joyous. Absolutely, amazingly, outstandingly joyous. The expertly grilled burgers, with a tinge of rare to their colour, were just superb. The bacon, egg, cheese and sauces helped make this five of the most gloriously indulgent minutes of dining I’ve ever experienced.

It was well worth the wait.

There’s nothing else for it. As I prepare to bid a fond farewell to Queenstown, I’ll have to come back here again for more.

Good luck trying to stop me.

“They’ll print anything these days.” After shrugging off another brush with death, his latest adversity sent to the Pearly Gates via a printing press, Pierce Brosnan’s James Bond dusts himself off, leaving this Droghedan drawled, suave one liner hanging in the air.

Editors of New Zealand newspapers live by this rule. For the most part, very little happens here. Witness this offering from the Otago Daily Times, Queenstown Times pullout section.

Left to right; Ollie, Gemma, me, Keith, Greg, Jackie and Charlie. If it looks like I’m grimacing, you try looking enthusiastic holding the People’s Front Of Cornwall flag in one hand and a coarsely defaced ‘Essex Innit’ on a St.George’s flag in the other.

Yes, I did say that last bit. A role in the UN Diplomatic Corps awaits surely?

Or Shameless?

Today began with a balcony view of the valleys. The fresh mountain air added to the feel. Ah, St. David’s Day. I could almost smell the daffodils and hear the close harmony singing of Men of Harlech behind an Eddie Butler voiceover reverberating from beyond the early morning hillside shadow.
I’d earmarked the venue for my Friday fix as soon as I landed in Queenstown last weekend. The Ferg Bakery, the off shoot of the celebrated Ferg Burger on Shotover Street. I’ve deliberately stayed away from the renowned burger joint out of deference to Lucky Paul’s arrival in New Zealand tomorrow. The bakery is still very much on limits however.

En route to meet Charlie, Greg and Jackie before setting off to day three of England’s warm up against the New Zealand XI, I popped into the junior partner of the Ferg fast food empire for a spot of breakfast. A homely looking establishment bedecked in bakery brown, beige and cream, packed to the rafters with breads, cakes, pies and pastries. The traditional and the fanciful, staffed by un-typically Kiwi yet apparently, typically non-committal Queenstownian staff, their faces half lit with insincerity.

“We’re reasonably pleased to see you, we’re absolutely delighted your stomaching the local tourist-taxing price hike. Please make your purchase and leave so we can get the next mug. Have a nice day. Please come back and spend more money soon.”

“Are you still here sir?”

In keeping with the date, I decided to swap the Kiwi Classic for something more, um, Welsh. There’s Lamb Shank pie for you boyo, isn’t it?
I thought the last Glamorgan intoned sentence but declined to utter it out loud, lest it throw the pretty North American server completely off track and cause her to malfunction.

An imprint of the South Island was stamped on the straw coloured pie top. Such typical Queenstownian showmanship, no wonder New Zealanders hold this part of their country in something approaching suspicion.
The first bite released great swathes of delicious rosemary tinted flavours on to my taste buds. The next two follow up bites produced more of the same. A flood of unstoppable Burnt Siena gravy carrying diced vegetables in its wake, the wispy, crispy puff pastry completely futile as a flood barrier.
All very nice, but where’s Larry? Three morsels from the end I finally hit upon the succulent, overnight braised lamb the description boasts of.
And, again, it’s all very nice. There’s, sadly, nowhere near enough of it.

Today’s pie does rather sum Queenstown up.
It’s a case of wherever you turn, style comfortably beats substance. Don’t misinterpret me, it is beautiful here, it really is. It’s just a little galling from the consumer’s point of view to see the local trades and industries cashing in on the town and surrounding area’s appeal.

Enough carping and moaning from me though. Maybe today’s date is rubbing off on me a little. I’ll be laughing at Max Boyce gags and drinking Brains Bitter next.

Hapus af davids dydd pawb.