Dave Myers: The Hairy Biker who gave me the confidence to cook

When they first appeared on our TV screens, precisely 20 years ago, I wasn’t long out of university where my culinary catalogue stretched to beans on toast, the odd Pot Noodle and ready meals for one.

Today, I count myself as a keen amateur cook with a solid range of skills and knowledge that can get me through a dinner party without breaking sweat.

I know my beurre blancs from my béchamels, my mirepoix from my soffritos and over the years I have become quite an accomplished smoker of all things meat, usually, on a ceramic kamado that keeps me outdoors and out of the way for most of the spring and summer months.

And, do you know what, I don’t think I would have so much as picked up a wooden spoon were it not for those two lumps of charming, funny, witty, brilliant loveliness. And I’m not just saying that by way of tribute to Dave, who sadly passed away last night following a two-year fight with cancer. I’ve said it for a long time.

They opened the kitchen to blokes like me. People like me. Enthusiastic enough to want to cook but fearful enough to stick to the microwave.

With their big silly grins, beaming out through those trademark beards, I could almost feel their strong, dependable (hairy!) arms being reached out through the telly as they said to me: “Ha’way, bonnylad. Come and have a go, man!” in Si’s oh so familiar-to-me Geordie tones that have always made me feel safe and at home.

And have a go I did. Because they gave me the confidence to. They’d park up their bikes, whip out a trestle table, camping stove and a hodgepodge of pans and before you knew it, there was a beef bourguignon on the bubble.

The truth is, they could do just that because they are both skilful, talented chefs but there have been plenty of those on the telly that never connected with me in a way that gave me any semblance of confidence to pick up a knife and start chopping.

They stripped away the mystique and replaced it with merriment and joy. I feel like I’ve lost a friend. I dare say one or two of you do, too. If I could, I’d give his dear friend Si the biggest manhug I can muster and tell him things are going to be OK. And they will be OK. But they’ll never be the same without Dave Myers, 66.

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