Chuckle, Chuckle Vision. Chuckle Vision.

According to the BBC website, it is 20 years to the day since Chuckle Vision first aired on our screens. Strange, seeing as the Chuckle Brothers were my intended blog subject this week anyway; memories of their antics had been jogged earlier in the week, when I went to the Charter Theatre. Not because of any comical mishaps, misdemeanours, slips or falls in the show ('Half a Sixpence', don't you know), but because my previous visit to the Charter (you can drop the theatre if you've been more than once) was to see those chucklesome brothers.

Whether deliberately or not, I had completely forgotten about the experience, but now the memories came flooding back. Paul, moustache glistening in the spotlight, climbing up a precarious looking ladder with a tin of paint, Barry apparently unaware of an imminent dousing, crawling around on hands and knees beneath him. Needless to say, shrieks of laughter ensued. The Brothers Chuckle also threw in a bit of comedy gold for the elders in the audience; prodding a cucumber back and forth through a hole in a piece of wood (this seemed to amuse them no end, although Grandmother wasn't best pleased).

It was pleasant to be reminded of the Chuckle Brothers; they had, after all, been a favourite of my youth; up there alongside Sooty & Co (later Sooty & Friends) and Thomas the Tank Engine. Tempting here to put an unnecessarily emotional sentence ("Twenty years on, here's to..." and "Who would have thought, thirteen years later..." spring to mind) but that's unneccessary; they're still going strong, and besides, any claim to ownership I may have had over them has drifted to the next generation now. So I shall simply keep my personal memories of Barry and Paul, and look forward to seeing them in action in Aladdin, this Christmas. My money is on Barry for the monkey.

Owd Nells Tavern - Oyster Festival

We ventured out to the first night of the ever-popular oyster festival, held at Owd Nells in Bilsborrow. I had never consumed oysters before, but my father had visited for an all day 'oyster banquet' (read: 'knees up') in 2004 and his hazy recollections seemed promising.Despite my reservations over the faux authentic name and decor of Owd Nells Tavern, it is actually a very pleasant place to enjoy a few drinks.

Grandmother came along to accompany me and my ladyfriend, and we were soon tucking into pints of Stout, wondering where the oysters were. Several pints later, and still with no sign of any seafood sustenance, the mood dampened, when suddenly a swarthy looking waiter appeared, smugly holding an ostentatious silver platter of oysters.

Once I had made certain the oysters were free (which I did several times, eyes narrowed disbelievingly), I took a deep breath and emptied the slimy contents of the surprisingly robust shell down my throat. I had been told this was the way to do it by Gordon Ramsay (not personally; it was inbetween expletives on one of his televisual programmes), whereas to my surprise and amusement, ladyfriend was unaware of protocol, and had chewed the fish/seafood/crustation (what are they anyway? there's only so many times I can use the word oyster in this blog), leaving her unimpressed.

Despite the waiter's apparent efforts to hide behind a pillar, I managed to snatch more oysters, including one for Grandmother, who at the age of 78 tried her first oyster (she had to check her teeth were fixed down properly first) and declared it a roaring success. Ladyfriend learnt from her earlier mistake, and duly quaffed the oyster-blob down, whilst I, unaware of its toxicity, applied a liberal dosage of tabasco sauce. I necked the concoction, and immediately had to fight an impulsion to retch - upon further examination the oyster was still intact, attached to the shell.

I had merely drunk the equivalent of a shot-glass of tabasco.