2 (3) Those darned detectives.

FIRSTLY: ON THE BOX.

You can't shake them off, can you? Once you've started watching them there's no going back. Well, the chances are they're also watching you. So those discerning souls who kindly keep up with this (more or less) monthly session of scribble may have noticed that The Detectives have sneakily reappeared in the title. They're rife on the box, too. Banks, George Gently, Death in Paradise and True Detective are currently with us; mostly short series, but none the worse for that. NCIS is well into series 11 and may include the demise of Leroy Jethro Gibbs's father, Jackson, played by veteran actor Ralph Waite who died on 13^th February at the age of 85:

he is probably best remembered as the father of John Boy and siblings in The Waltons. 

A new Mentalist series will be starting shortly and there could be more of Lewis and Vera to come. Bring 'em on.

AND IN PRINT.

Robert Galbraith.

Thriller news of the month has to be Robert Galbraith's second Cormoran Strike offering, The Silkworm, which is due out in June. You can read about it on the net.

It seems unlikely that I shall obtain an exclusive interview with the writer, but I do have what I think is a blog first in this exclusive picture of him.

Well, I doubt you'll see it on the book cover.

J.K. Rowling.

The Harry Potter author has apparently said (in a recent interview with Emma Watson) that Hermione Grainger should not have married Ron Weasley. Hermione, she said, should have married Harry.

So what's new? In my experience, very few mothers think their daughter married the right bloke: they seldom think the bloke she will marry after that, or the one after the one after that, will be the right one either. For what it is worth, and that ain't much, I think both Harry and Hermione married well. Harry was orphaned as a baby and Hermione effectively became an orphan when she removed her parents' memories, so the two orphans needed the warmth and security of family life: and where in the wizarding world would they find a better family than the Weasleys? Anyway, Ginny Weasley was never going to get hitched to anybody but Harry – that was clear from the first moment she saw him – and Hermione was far too good a wizard to spend her life in the shadow of 'The Boy who Lived.' They were best mates and needed not invoke 'The Cure for Love' (see Robert Donat's 1949 film).

As for people who were made for each other, surely the most compatible pair to graduate from Hogwarts had to be Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood. To my mind, that really would have been a marriage made in Valhalla.

What? No, I don't give a Wrackspurt or Nargle what you think.

Alex Grecian.

Believe I mentioned that daughter Jac bought me three thrillers for Christmas or Dad's Day or suchlike and I had just finished the Rebus one: a good Scottish tourist guide. The other two were by Alex Grecian and I am about halfway through the first of them, The Yard. This is a well written and informed narrative set in Ripper times. I am enjoying it and will get back to you.

LASTLY: THE ODDS AND SODS.

How else to describe The House of Commons?

Refreshing to see, with a Scottish referendum and a national election creeping ever near, that this masterclass in Lord of the Flies antics is being besought to modify its childishness. About bloody time too. But a word in your ear: if you're expecting a drastic change on the part of politicians, don't hold your breath.

AND THAT'S ALL FOR NOW.

Short month, short post. But I believe the cat Shadow is loitering around with a poetry look about him. Ne'er mind. He can wait until next month.

2 (2) Celebrations and suchlike.

LAST SATURDAY.

The 1^st of February was our son Neil's 50th birthday (try saying that without feeling old) and the entire family, together with a goodly selection of friends, met at Pauline and Neil's coach house residence for posh party nosh and a few bevvies. Daughter Roz produced a splendid birthday cake in the shape of a Carmageddon car and the Stainless crew arrived in some force to help see it off: they are a good bunch, even if the "demented Banksy style" birthday present with which they adorned his car (it gave a whole new meaning to the description "car tool kit") did put him at minor odds with the law. 

Anyway, gawd bless coppers with a sense of humour.

Family, friends, workmates and car are all back to pristine normality now. 

I think everybody had a good time.

NEXT SATURDAY.

1,000th edition of i coming up.

Next Saturday the newspaper with the fastest growing circulation of them all, i, will be on news stands for the 1,000^th time. I really did buy the first edition and the lad in the newsagent's really did say: "There's not much in it," and I really did consider the reply: "Well you didn't expect tits for twenty pence, did you?" And that really does seem a very long time ago.

For a while I read The Independent every Monday and i for the rest of the week. This enabled me to take in Yasmin Alibhai-Brown's column and Tom Sutcliffe's TV review: they were both Independent on Monday people.I think Mr. Sutcliffe is now a BBC radio 4 broadcaster, but Yasmin A-B sometimes turns up in i to create bobsy-die (usually with the utmost justification) about something some dickhead (or bunch of dickheads) has or has not said or done. I would hesitate to disagree with her, even from 78 miles away. 

My newsprint reading is now confined to i and The Radio Times. Well, RT still publishes cast lists for films and plays and i still has the former editor, Stefano Hatfield (now editorial director of London Live), contributing an article every Monday that (unlike ol' Fergie since his retirement at Man U) is happy and amiable and cheers me up no end.

I generally end up smiling, too, when the north countryman with a Welsh name, Owen Jones, takes off on one of his left wing outpourings. My grandfather was a proud member of the Bakers' Union and a staunch supporter of the old labour party; my mother's political outlook was red labour and I, at one time, was an active member of two (innocuous) unions simultaneously; so I'm with Owen, even if I do think nearly all politicians, of whatever ilk, are lying rapscallions.

I'm also laughingly with Mark Steel, politely in awe of Andreas Whittam Smith and constantly in accord with Simon Kelner, a damn good journalist.

Current editor Oliver Duff and sub editor Rhodri Jones cannot be other than on the ball. Look at the people who are keeping a (surely benevolent) eye on them.

I have just one question: now that i has become more successful than a critical news industry thought it could ever be, shouldn't it be joined by a Sunday i?

Perhaps one day I will write and suggest it.

DEAR OLD PAL ADVERTS.

It's the start of another year and time to receive the sort of Dear Dennis/Maureen letters that presume we have full pockets and empty heads and will be keen to: (1) test drive the latest model of our (rather elderly) car (2) replace our (now outdated) sewing machine and (3) spend a truly exciting fortnight's holiday on a deep sea fishing trawler in midwinter.

We appreciate that businesses have a living to make and it pays to advertise; we just wish they would show as much concern for the environment as they do to get their unwanted invitations printed and shoved through our letter box. Ah well, better that than...

THOSE GAS AND ELECTRICITY BILLS.

British Gas has just alerted us online to the state of our Gas and Electricity accounts and we are mightily in debt on both of them. Why is this? In common with anybody who can read, or who owns a working television, we are well aware that we have become sitting ducks in the telescopic sights of the nation's privatized profiteers (the last three governments of this country have a helluva lot to answer for) but we have been paying our bills by direct debit for years and find it intolerable and incomprehensible that British Gas could not bother even to guestimate the effect their enormous price hike would have on us (or indeed on anyone who pays by D/D) and advise an adjustment to our monthly payments.

One can only surmise, now, that public utilities - along with banks and the majority of the rail companies - are irretrievably in the hands of the greedy and incompetent. 

FILMS ON TELEVISION.

Did you see Hanna, a film about a robotic little girl who has been trained by her 'father' to become the ultimate soldier? It was another of those all-action films in the style of Bourne, Mission Impossible etc. Acting was good throughout and we particularly enjoyed the transformation of Rev (Tom Hollander) into a blonde hit man; wickedly polite. Don't ever lend him your biro.

The Thirteenth Tale.

This film had Vanessa Redgrave (as a dying author), Olivia Colman (as her biographer) and a convoluted plot with a twist in the tail. The director was James Kent.

It was worth the watching.

DETECTIVES ON TELEVISION.

Sherlock and Marple.

If Britain has shifted around a couple of degrees in the past few months it will be because Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle are revolving in their graves.

A recent episode of Marple had Julia McKenzie dodging in and out of woodland like an elderly yeti on speed. When she finally tackled the murderer she was alone and could (indeed, would) have been his next victim in the twist of a neck. He gave himself up. Would you believe it?

Sherlock (Benedict Cumberbatch) still, somehow, has his sidekick. The great detective is now subjected to visions that make clues sprout out of supporting cast members and any photogenic item of scenery. His eyes dart about and he gabbles in high speed gobbledegook. Nobody has had him committed. Well, not so far. But Martin Freeman as Dr. Watson (the friend who ought to have had him committed) has married and his new wife is, it turns out, some sort of hit woman. Would you believe it?

A-a-ah. It's easy viewing.

The Bridge.

I loved every sombre second of this second series in which there was never a doubt that Saga (Sofia Helin) and Martin (Kim Bodnia) were destined for the compulsory Scandinavian unhappy ending.

Wonderful, wonderful viewing. The cat Shadow slept through every episode.

DETECTIVES IN PRINT.

My Leader discovered a couple of Graham Hurley's Faraday and Winter yarns and it became difficult to get a word out of her: I don't know whether I should have been peeved or relieved. Anyway, she enjoyed them immensely. Told me he's a very good writer and well worth reading.

I said OK, I'll look at them later. 

Another world, ain't it?

Daughter Jac bought me three thrillers including Standing In Another Man's Grave, the latest from Ian Rankin, which I have just finished reading. John Rebus is back for a Cook's Tour of Scotland with some corpses thrown in. When it is adapted for television Ken Stott (below) will find it a doddle. Just sit him in a Saab, set him off from Edinburgh to Inverness via Pitlochry and leave him to it. He'll enjoy it and so will we.

I THINK THAT'S ABOUT ALL FOR NOW.