182. Here, there and every(cat)where.

HEREABOUTS.
Isle of Wight Festival (Mud Bath).

Biffy Clyro
Roz, Nick, Jess and (for one day) Ellis went to this year‘s festival. My Leader and I stayed at home and watched it on the box as usual. It cost a fortune to get in: there was torrential rain, mud bath fields, chaotic traffic hold-ups, the stealing of tents, a lot of what is now regarded as good music, a little of what used to be regarded as good music, Bruce Springsteen as main attraction and, Biffy Clyro and Madness apart, very little for which I would have braved either the weather or the mismanagement.
Our lot enjoyed it, though, despite a couple of them picking up head colds along the way, and Ellis made £26 collecting and returning cups at 10p a cup.
That lad will go far in this world.
Isle of Wight Friends.
Throughout the forty four years we have lived on the island my Leader and I have been fortunate in making many good friends, most of them, I think, initiated as a result of Maureen’s warm and kindly spirit (left to myself I am a very limited friend maker).
High on our list of born-and-bred Islander friends are Sheila and John Appleton. Sheila and Maureen originally met through their joint interest in quilting; they soon became friends and, in the way that good friends do, eventually decided to risk all and introduce their husbands to each other.
It was quite a risk, too.
John, I quickly discovered, can spot the bogus a mile away and suffers fools not at all. I liked him immediately. I wonder why? We have been friends for a lot of years now. See each other seldom, but when we do it is as though we met only yesterday. His interests interest me and mine appear to interest him: gawdbless’im, his positive comments on Watching… could almost come from Anonymous John himself..
Mention of which: following my plaintive assertion in Post 181 that I seldom receive blog comments nowadays, Anonymous reacted in the way such nonsense deserves; his comment, if you missed it, was: “…with Faithful Mo and Anonymous John what more could any Author desire?"
What more indeed?
Thanks John, and thanks Anonymous John (whoever he may be).
Our best to you both and, of course, to Sheila.
THEREABOUTS.
European Football Championship.
“It’s Spain and Italy in the final then,” I said to the cat Shadow. “England cocked it up again. ”
“I hate those penalty finishes,” he muttered. “Lads play their hearts out for a couple of hours and then the game’s turned into a bloody lottery.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” I said. “But that won’t be changed now. Truth is, other nations are much better at taking penalties than we are.”
“They should be,“ he said sourly. “They get more practice. Put them anywhere near the penalty area and they become Olympic divers!”
I could see nothing positive in the conversation so I changed the subject to...
Wimbledon 2012.
“That Czech lad Lukas Rosol shook up the tennis ratings,” I said. “Rafael Nadal didn’t know what hit him,”
“Second round defeat wasn’t it?”
“It was,” I nodded. “But I thought you were asleep.”
How could anyone sleep with the row that crowd was making?. Wimbledon used to be better mannered…more restrained,” he said testily.
“You can be a right grouchy little sod sometimes,” I muttered.
“Join the club,” he said.
ON THE BOX.
NCIS. (FX) (Contains spoilers.)

Series 9 came to the sort of spectacular end beloved of television producers. To the best of my memory (not a particularly reliable signpost) something similar was used way back to conclude a series of CSI New York. At that time I thought it was CBS’s insurance against any of the actors seeking too big a pay rise for the next series. i.e. Get too greedy and you’ll get dead.
Who knows? Perhaps it was.
This time we were left with a massive explosion which appeared to destroy the entire NCIS department (a section never notable for its tight security). As a consequence we witnessed the apparent death of Dr. ‘Ducky’ Mallard (the estimable David McCallum) who had a heart attack and collapsed on a lonely beach: it was an acting performance so good it could have been given by a Premier League footballer.

He ain’t dead of course. He’s already signed up for Series 10.
I imagine just who is or is not dead will be down to who is or is not regarded as dispensable by the suits upstairs. Unless, that is, the devastating effects of the explosion have been a major bluff pulled off by our heroes to draw the unsuspecting bad guy into the open.
I see it this way: With the exception of Ducky and Gibbs, all the familiar NCIS faces (suitably attired in funeral garb and ‘just managed to survive a bomb blast’ make-up) are gathered at Ducky’s graveside to bid him a final farewell, As the coffin is about to be lowered into the grave the lid flies open and Ducky sits up. He stares at the gathering and says: “Pleased with yourself, Mr. Dearing? Well, don’t hide away, come out and take a bow!” The group of mourners then parts to reveal, standing alone at the back, the demented Dearing. Our villain curses a prime-time curse and attempts to pull a cell phone from his pocket. Behind him a pistol carrying Gibbs appears, deftly removes the phone from his grasp, calls: “Tony! Ziva!” and stands back as the two agents smartly divest the snarling mastermind of his remaining weaponry.
“Gibbs! Gibbs! Is the cell phone safe?” cries Abby.
The phone rings. Gibbs speaks into it briefly.
“Safe enough now, Abbs,” he says. “The bomb was back there in his car. Our people have dealt with it.”
As Dearing is led away, struggling and swearing, he shouts over his shoulder: “Curse you, Ducky the devious!”
“Wrong cartoon,” says Director Vance.
[Phineas and Ferb fans will see the joke.]
Whatever happens, NCIS is not yet going the way of CSI Miami.

Poor old Horatio Caine (David Caruso and his acting sunglasses) has been axed. Apparently the show had better ratings than CSI New York, but Miami got the chop while NY was kept on. I guess the sunglasses upset somebody.
There’s no knowing with tele bigwigs, is there?
SEEN IN PRINT.
I am currently reading Gently Does It, by Alan Hunter, one of ten George Gently books obtained for me online by my Leader because I have enjoyed the television series in which Martin Shaw plays Gently (a sort of Fabian of the Yard figure - you have to be of an age to remember).
Concurrently I am enchanted by A Street Cat Named Bob, James Bowen’s tribute to the splendid ginger cat that adopted him and gave his wasted life a whole new meaning.

My Leader read it in two days. Couldn’t put it down. I begin to understand why.
But when it comes to splendid cats, I have a feeling the cat Shadow may be singularly scathing when he discovers that I have attempted to disguise the return to my old Post format by simply rewording the headings.
Ho hum.

181. Another chat with the cat.

BACK TO THE BLOG FRONT.
“All I can say is fuck the formulaic; fiddle with the format!” advised the cat Shadow.
“Avoid alliteration, “ I said sternly. ”It’s practically as pathetic as punning.”
O.K…basic English…scrap the HOME/AWAY/TELEVISION/ READING routine; go for something completely different.”
I eyed him narrowly: “Completely different? How completely different?”
“Well…interesting would do for a start.”
“And when did you last proffer paw to pen?” I queried querulously.
“Now you’re being alliterative,” he said. “And petulant.”
I sighed. Seeking his opinion invites a masterclass in cat candour. Clearly this could become another of those lose-lose conversations to which I have become accustomed over the years.
“Might not the nice people who read me like the format?” I ventured.
“How many actually do read you?” he countered.
To avoid repetition I stifled another sigh and replaced it with a shrug.
Exactly,” he said, “You have no idea, have you? So how many blog comments do you get?”
I shrugged again; well you can’t avoid repetition all the time.
The long and the short of it is that I am not a Stephen Fry or a Dominic Holland. I seek not public applause and I appear not on television, twitter, facebook or the stage. I do not have a novel to flog and the last published comment on any of my blog posts came from old friend Anonymous John (oh, way back at Post 160, just after the death of my mother). I hope nice people are still reading my stuff, but am not aware if they do. I know my Leader does; but she, bless her, is a captive audience. I don’t think our children bother much; a prophet is never accepted in his own country and, whether I like it or not, the world moves on.
“Most comments come directly to me by email,” I said blandly.
“Good job you’re not Pinocchio,” he said, “or your nose would knock me off this chair.”
I risked another sigh. “All right, nowadays they don’t comment very often. Can we change the subject now?”
“Will you change the format?”
“And do what? Bullshit about my experiences at the Edinburgh fringe? Or my week on The Wright Stuff? Or my fellow panellists on QI? Or maybe plug the pantomime I shall be appearing in at the end of the year?”
“Now you’re being daft.”
“Nicely observed. So can we change the subject?”
“Bit of a surprise ol’ Harry Redknapp losing the Tottenham job.” he said.
“Well that really is a change of subject,” I murmured appreciatively. “Not very much of a surprise though, surely? He’s football through and through. A top manager. But it’s a dicey business and these are dicey times. I think he’s become a victim of his own success. Popular with the supporters, respected by the players and a tad too demanding of the owners, that has to be a farewell formula in today‘s climate.”
“Now you’re not being daft,” he remarked, without so much as a hint of sarcasm. “How about Roy Hodgson? Word on the roof says success.”
“Hmm. What do you think?”
“My heart likes the word on the roof but my head counsels caution.”
“Follow your heart but heed your head.”
He blinked and looked puzzled, evidently pondering from where such unlikely wisdom had come. I didn’t know and hoped he wouldn’t ask.
The moment passed.
“Had any thoughts on the tele scene lately?” he enquired casually.
“Only that many current American cop series are reaching their end and seem determined to outdo each other‘s turbans under the bed story lines.”
“You’re not much for that besieged by terrorists stuff, are you?”
“Propaganda bred of paranoia,” I grunted. “A lethal combination. Christ knows what their writers would have made of the blitzes here throughout World War Two or the bombing of Dresden in February 1945.”
“They wouldn’t. It didn’t happen in America,” he said wryly.
“Too right. Anyway, I have become increasingly disenchanted with the international conspiracy to overthrow the greatest democracy ever to chew gum or drink coke. I don’t care whether the perceived villains are based in the Middle East, Russia, China, North Korea, Chile, Mexico or Heligoland, I just don’t believe they exist. Nor do I believe that doctors, scientists and police persons, even in America, tidily talk one after the other and leave the last word to the star of the show. It’s assembly line chit-chat, it’s not human.
“And when it comes to not human, there was a time when most fantasy was B picture material. That was before the film and television world joined the magic circle and special effects went into overdrive. Now screens big and small are seething with Grimm stories, fairytale tales, zombie epics, dragon sagas and dark age legends. It’s Shangri-La for spirits.”
“I thought you liked it…well…most of it.”
“I do, I do. But even phantom kill can become overkill if it’s overdone.”
“You could start watching the cookery programmes,” he said, “there’s more than enough of them still about. Or you could give up viewing and get yourself onto a reality show“
“Now you’re being daft,” I said.
“Touche,” he said. “So what’s on the menu?”
“Well, food is the word, little pal,” I said. “I’m thinking I might take a crash course in cookery, dress up as a ghost and appear on the box as the gourmet ghoul. What do you think?”
“I think it would be a sure-fire success and I think you’re joking,” he said.
“It probably would be and I am,” I replied.
He adroitly changed the subject.
“How did Neil’s Kickstarter campaign for Carmageddon go?” he asked in a purr that suggested he knew the answer.
“It went brilliantly,” I said. “Though I guess he’d rather it was thought of as the Stainless Team’s campaign. But yes, they reached their target, and more, thanks to loads of lovely well-wishers.“
“Great,” he said. “I saw the Hobbes video. You’d have seen me off sharply if I’d acted like that, wouldn‘t you?”
“I would,” I said. “And you wouldn’t.”
He nodded sagely. (How does he do that?)
“Anyway, it’s Ascot now and then it will be Wimbledon,” he said. “I expect to be snoozing for England soon.
“Join the club,” I said.
“Indoors or garden?”
“Wherever…Now…About this changing the format…
“I think you have, buddy,” he said gently. “I think you have…”