I came across something that makes me happy every day. It’s a figurine of a cheery chef chap holding up a menu board in one hand and giving a big thumbs up with the other. I found it in a reclamation yard in Old Hill in the Black Country. It’s run by a bloke called Bert, who’s very funny in a bone-dry kind of way. The first time I met him he told me he was also a West Brom fan and asked me about our poor season. I told him I couldn’t face discussing them. Half an hour later, as I was negotiating a price for something, I asked him if there was a discount for West Brom fans. He looked at me and said, “You didn’t want to talk about them a minute ago.” There was no discount.

Anyway, I decided to name my chef statue after him. Technically I suppose it’s more of a statuette but that’s a bit feminine-sounding for Bert. I was charmed by Bert – both Berts, actually, but here I refer to the statue – the moment I saw him but, as is the way of these things, I didn’t buy him because, you know, where do you put such an object? A week or two passed, though, and his cheeky little face kept coming to mind. So I went back to buy Bert from Bert and he was mine. And mine he will remain until death doth us part.

He gives me a little lift every time I look at him. I haven’t felt this way about an artefact since I bought a cuckoo clock. That too perked me up on the hour every hour for a year or more, until one day it caught me at the wrong moment. I swore terribly, switched off the cuckooing function, and it’s not cuckooed since. Shallow of me, I know, but with Bert it’s different. With Bert it’s for life.

I’ve heard that great art can have this effect on people; it’s nice to experience it properly for myself. Look, I know he’s hardly a Rodin but beauty is in the eye of the beholder. By the way, speaking of Rodin, I was startled to find out, at the Gwen John exhibition in Cardiff, that the two of them had a tempestuous affair, which left poor Gwen heartbroken. Disappointing. I digress. Back to Bert. What is it about him that stirs me? Stroking my chin as I might do at the V&A, if I ever went there, I consider this question.

We must start with the eyes, and the guileless good humour and bonhomie they convey. And yet I see something else going on with those eyes. At first glance he seems merely to be caught mid-wink, but there’s also the suggestion of bleariness, as if this Black Country chef might not long have woken up after a late night. I also enjoy his portliness. A chef should look like he enjoys his food – I’ve no truck with skinny cooks; I want them high on their supply. In a similar vein, a chef’s garb shouldn’t be entirely pristine; it needs to look like it’s had plenty of kitchen time and been through many a washing cycle.

That said, Bert’s gear could do with a bit of a freshen-up and, as for his hands, if I don’t give those crevices between his fingers a deep clean I’ll need to buy a companion statue, of an environmental health officer clutching a clipboard.

Turning our attention to the board Bert’s holding, in not specifying a particular offering or price thereof, it’s pleasingly timeless. The mention of beer implies Bert plies his trade in the kitchen of a pub, a fine-sounding establishment wherein not only the beer, but also the food and the people, are most excellent. For that is the meaning of “bostin”, an adjective widely used in the West Midlands but one that hasn’t travelled. It doesn’t work, for some reason, if you use it outside the region – in the same way that the Greek wine you so enjoyed on your holidays tastes rather unpleasant if you should bring any home. Also, nobody knows what it means, which is another reason for me to love my Bert, as he’s an excellent conversation starter for visitors. Their second question, after they’ve asked, “What on earth is that thing?” is, “What does ‘bostin’ mean?” Well, now you know. Excellent, ace, great, superb, wonderful etc. I assume there should be a “g” on the end of it, or at least an apostrophe in its absence, but I’ve never known anyone bother with that. Oh yes, going back to his face, one more thing about him: upon close inspection he does appear to be wearing a dash of lipstick, and this suggestion of metrosexuality makes me love him all the more.

But, something odd happened that rather undermined our whole relationship, certainly in his eyes. A photo popped up on my phone of me, three years ago, in Croatia, outside a restaurant, making flirty with an almost identical, if much bigger, statue. It felt as if a photo had emerged of an ex-girlfriend I’d forgotten about who strongly resembled my wife. Disloyal, wrong, unsettling. OK, the eyes on the Croatian are a bit demonic, but otherwise the similarity is unmistakable. It turns out that these statues, statuettes, whatever, are a thing, described in various places (well, ChatGPT) as being “typical of mid-century decor” in the “retro European ‘chef mascot’ tradition”, and often known as “Italian chef statues”. Italian, my arse. Bert is Black Country through and through.

None of this has diminished my love for him, although it does feel a bit as if I’ve unearthed a Roman coin buried in my garden only to find they’re ten a penny. Unique poor Bert certainly isn’t. Disappearing down an image-searching rabbit hole, I’ve found he has countless relatives all over the place. Perhaps I should spend my retirement as a harmless eccentric obsessed with collecting these things, assembling a regiment of them, terracotta army-style. What a gift that would be to leave to my children, and my children’s children. A bostin legacy, and no mistake.

Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist

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