Watching The Detectives

175, INDEX 3 - Posts 152 to 174

2012-01-19T15:47:00.000-08:00

Akers, Rev. Graham: 161 Alibhai-Brown, Yasmin: 155, 166, 171, 173 Arbuckle, Roscoe ‘Fatty’: 167 Amstell, Simon: 155 Anderson, Pamela: 153 Armstrong, Alun: 156,158,159 A.S.P. 163 Assange, Julian: 159 Atwell, Hayley: 158 Aubre, Juliet: 152 Ax, Emanuel: 170 Bach, Johann Sebastian: 152 Baker, Hylda: 159 Baker, Matt: 159 Baker, Simon: 174 Banks, DCI: 171 Banks, Leslie: 164 Banksy: 170 Barnden, Dennis: 154,160 Barnden,Lilian:160 Barnden,Maureen:154,155,157,158,160
Barnden,Neil:158,160,161,172 Barnden, Pauline: 161,172 Barnden, Rosalind: 160 Barnden, William: 160,165 Barr, Genevieve: 153 Barry, John: 167 Bartholomew, George: 161 Bassey, Shirley: 167 Bean, Sean: 167 Beaton, M.C: 152,155,156,157,169 Beckham, David: 159 Beeny, Sarah and Graham: 173 Beesley, Max: 164 Bennett, Jan: 161 Bennett-Rice, Ava Rose: 161 Bennett-Rice, Theo 161 Biggles: 163 Bin Laden, Osama: 166 Blake, Sexton: 163 Blanc, Ernest: 152 Blethyn, Brenda: 166 Bocelli, Andrea: 152 Boe, Alfie: 161, 167 Boggess, Sierra: 154 Bolam, James: 156 Bonneville, Hugh: 153,156, 166 Bourne, Jason: 174 Bowker, Peter: 161 Boyd, William: 162 Bradley, David: 152 Brady, Nicholas: 163 Brahms: 170 Brand, Jo: 153 Brand, Russell: 173 Brandon, John G. 163 Britton, Fern: 173 Broadbent, Jim: 166 Brooks, Edwy Searles: 163 Brown, Gordon: 159 Brown, June: 170 Brown, Mrs: 164 Brown, William: 163 Bryson, Bill: 172,174 Buchan, Andrew: 158, 159 Buchan, John: 163 Burke, Matt: 162 Burrows, Edgar Rice: 163 Busby, Matt: 166 Butchard, Stephen: 152 Caine, Horatio: 171 Callaghan, Slim: 163 Cameron, David: 159 Capello, Fabio: 154 Cardby, Mick: 163 Caroline, 161 Carter, Jim: 156 Casey, Anna Jane: 154 Cassandra: 166 Castle: 168 Caution, Lemmy: 163 Chaplin, Ben: 164 Charpentier, Marc-Antoine: 152 Charteris, Leslie: 163 Chesney, Marion: 169 Cheyney, Peter: 163 Christie, Agatha: 161 Clarke, Roy: 154 Clarkson, Jeremy: 173 Coe. Sebastian 164 Cole, George: 154 Cole, Lily: 166 Cole, Martina: 167 Collins, Kevan: 152 Colman, Olivia: 152,166 Columbo, Lt. 168 Conquest, Norman: 163 Coward, Noel: 153 Crawford, Michael: 168 Creasey, John: 163,167 Criswell, Kim: 154 Crompton, Richmal: 163 Cruise, Tom: 165 Cryer, Barry: 166 Cryer, Sgt. Bob: 154 Cumberbatch, Benedict: 152,174 Cumming, Alan: 167 Damon, Matt: 165 David, Ziva: 168 Davies, Russell T. 171 Davis, Geena: 165 Davis, Warwick: 173 Dee, Simon:: 173 Dench, Judi: 162 Dick, Brian: 161 Dickens, Charles: 174 Dillow. Ian: 157,159,173,174 Dimbleby, David: 171 Divo, Il: 167 Dobby: 169 Doctor Who: 166,171 Dooley, Shaun: 166 Doyle, Conan: 152,174 Driver, Minnie: 154 Drummond, Bulldog: 163 Du Beke, Anton: 159 Duff, Blythe: 162 Durr, Jason: 161 East, John: 157 Eden, Anthony: 162 Eisenhower, General: 162 Elliott, Harold: 160 Elliott, Brian: 160 Ellis. Grandson (Little Boo): 158,159,160,161,165,172 Enfield, Harry: 156 EVE: 168 Eve, Trevor: 165 Ewing, Bobby: 162 Falk, Peter: 168 Faraday, DI Joe: 153, 155,162, 166 Farrar, David: 158 Faulks, Sebastian: 163 Fellowes, Julian: 156, 172 Felton, Tom: 169 Firth, Colin: 163 Firth, Peter: 163 Fishburne, Lawrence: 167 Follett, Ken: 158 Forlani, ClaireL 174 Forsyth, Bruce: 172 Fox, Uffa: 167 Fradgley, Keoth: 171 Fradgley, Tim: 171 Fraser, Hugh: 162 Fraser, Stuart: 162 Freeman, Martin: 152,174 Freeman, Morgan: 165 Frost, DI Jack: 166 Gadaffi, Colonel: 163, 170 Gatiss, Mark: 152,174 Gedda, Nicolai: 152 Gervais, Ricky: 173 Gibbs, Philip: 158 Gilbert, Rhod: 156 Giles, Edward: 156 Gilfry, Rod: 154 Gillen, Aidan: 153 Glenister, Philip: 164,172 Gok Wan: 162 Goldberg, Whoopi: 153 Goose, Claire: 166 Gordon, Ruth: 168 Grabol, Sofie: 174 Grant, Russell: 172 Graves, Rupert: 158,168 Gray, Berkeley: 163 Green, Robson: 155 Greenstreet, Sydney: 158 Greig, Tamsin: 162 Griffith, D.W: 167 Griffiths, Richard: 162 Grint, Rupert: 169 Gull, DCS Stewart: 152 Gunn, Victor: 163 Hackman, Gene: 165 Hague, William: 155 Haitink, Bernard: 170 Hall, Richard: 152 Hancock, Sheila: 169 Hannay, Richard: 163 Hari, Johann: 159 Harkness, Capt. Jack: 169 Hart, Ian: 152 Hart, Miranda: 159,161 Hastings, Capt. 162 Hawes, Keeley: 153 Head, Anthony: 155 Heath, Edward: 163 Heather, friend: 155 Helliwell, Arthur: 173 Henshall, Douglas: 153, 163 Henshaw, John: 163 Henson, Gavin: 159 Herdman, Josh: 169 Herman, Jerry: 168 Herriot, James: 174 Hickson, Joan: 161 Hill, Melanie: 155 Hinds. Ciaran: 161 Hollander, Tom: 152 Holmes, Sherlock: 152, 163,174 Hume, David: 163 Hunt, Linda: 174 Hurley, Graham: 153.154,155,157,158,161,162,166,169,170,171 Hurt, John: 155 Hutchings, Geoffrey: 155 Imrie, Celia: 153, 174 Jac, daughter: 156,160,171 Jackson, Michael: 161 Jackson, Philip: 162 Jacobi, Derek: 155 Jalil, M.M.A: 170 James, Bradley: 155 Jameson, Susan: 156 Jane, Patrick: 174 Japp, Inspector: 162 Jason, David: 166 Jenkins, Jim: 156 Jenkins, Kathleen: 173 Jess, granddaughter: 153,157,160,168 John, friend: 157 Johns, W.E. 163 Jolie, Angelina: 165 Jones, Alex: 153 Jones, Suranne: 168 Jordan, James: 159 Jupp, Miles: 152 Kate, Duchess of Cambridge: 166 Keith, Penelope: 173 Kernick, Simon: 172 King Robbo: 170 King, Simon: 157 Kingston, Alex: 166 Kirwan, Dervla: 153 Klass, Myleene: 167 Kunz, Charlie: 165 Kyle, Jeremy: 166 Lancashire, Sarah: 152 Langlais, Jean: 152 Langton, DCS James: 161 La Plante, Lynda: 161 Laurie, Hugh: 153 Lawless, Eamonn: 157,158 Lawless, Libby: 158 Lawrence of Arabia: 166 Lebedev, Evgeny: 157 LeBlanc, Matt: 162 Lee-Potts, Andrew: 161 Lemon, Miss: 162 Lewis, Matthew: 169 Li’l Abner: 169 Lincoln, Andrew: 165 Little, Mark: 166 Littlewood, Dominic: 155 Lockhart, Gilderoy: 162 London, Bishop of: 166 Lowthorpe, Philippa: 152 Lucas, Matt: 161 Lumley, Joanna: 172 Lund, Sarah: 164, 166, 174 Luther, DI John: 168 Lynch, Evanna: 169 Macfadyen, Matthew: 158 Mackenzie, Baz: 166 McAvoy, James: 165 McBurney, Simon: 152 McCallum, David: 164 McCarthy, Joe: 164 McCarthy, DI Patrick Aloysius: 163 McCredie, Colin: 162 McDonald, Trevor: 161 McGrath, Katie: 155 McIntyre, Michael: 161,162 Mack, Lee: 161 McKee. Gina: 153 McKenzie, Julia: 161 McKinnon, Gary: 159 McNeile, H.C. 163 McShane, Ian: 158 Madison, Rex: 163 Magnus, Dr. Walter 164 Mallard, Dr. Ducky: 164 Malone. Gareth: 173 Mandelson, Peter: 164 Manford, Jason: 153 Mangan, Stephen: 162 Marchant, Tony: 158 Marple, Miss Jane: 161 Marshall, Lyndsey: 158 Martin, Anna Maxwell: 163 Martin, George R.R: 167 Martin, Paul: 173 Maslen, Scott: 159 Matekoni, Mr. J.L.B.:168 Melling, Harry: 169 Merchant, Stephen: 173 Merlin: 155, 171 Merton, Paul: 167 Michie, John: 162 Miller, Ben: 161 Mitchell, Hugh: 169 Mo, friend: 174 Moffatt, Steven: 152 Moir, Jim: 161 Moran, Pauline: 162 Morecambe, Eric: 161 Morgan, Colin: 155 Morgan, Piers: 166 Morrissey, David: 163 Morton, Anthony: 163 Mountstuart, Logan: 162 Mouskouri, Nana: 172 Mubarak, Hosni: 162,163 Mugabe, Robert: 162 Murphy, Jimmy: 166 Murray, Devon: 169 Myers, David: 157 Nasser, Colonel: 162 Neeson, Liam: 165 Nesbitt, James: 153, 154 Newhart, Bob: 164 Newsome, Joel: 152 Nilsson, Harry: 152 Nixon, Richard: 166 Norton, Alex: 162 Oakes, Harry: 162 Obama, Barack: 166 O’Carroll, Brendan: 164 Ogden, John: 170 Orwell, George: 164 Ovenden, Julian: 154 Parkes, Shaun: 153 Parry, Bruce: 162 Paterson, Jennifer: 157 Patten, Chris: 164 Peake, Maxine: 164 Pearson, Richard: 154 Pennington, Rt. Hon. Arthur Stukely: 163 Penry-Jones, Rupert: 164 Pepperdine, Vicki: 153: Petersen, William: 167 Phelps. James; 169 Phelps, Oliver: 169 Plater, Alan: 155 Pope, William Arthur & Edith: 160 The Pope 155 Potter, Beatrix: 167 Potter, Harry: 152,158,159,165 ,168,169 Prince Philip: 155, 167 Prince William: 159,166 Pullman, Sandra: 169 Purcell, Henry: 152 Queen Elizabeth II: 155,171 Radcliffe, Daniel: 169 Raisin, Agatha: 152,153,155, 156, Ratner, Gerald: 164 Redman, Amanda: 156 Redmayne, Eddie: 158 Reeves, Vic: 161 Reid, Jackie: 162 Reilly, Kelly: 161 Richard, Eric: 154 Richardson, Ralph: 163 Rickman, Alan: 169 Rigby, Daniel: 161 Robinson, Anne: 163 Rodgers and Hammerstein: 154 Rogan, Rockfist: 163 Ross, Carlton: 163 Ross, Jonathan: 173 Ross, Robbie: 162 Rowling, J.K. 158,159,169,170 Roz, daughter: 161,168 Rush, Geoffrey: 163 Russell, Christine: 165 Russell, Christopher: 165 Russell, Jane: 163 Rutherford, Margaret: 156 Salmond, Alex: 172 Sam, fishing buddy: 153, 154 Sanders, George: 158 Sandon, Henry: 170 Sapper: 163 Scanlan, Joanna: 153 Sergeant, John: 153 Sell, Colin: 166 Severs, George: 171 Sewell, Rufus: 161 Sharp, Lesley: 168 Sheila, friend: 157 Shute, Nevil: 158 Simm, John: 164, 166 Simovic, Marija: 152 Smallbone, Adam: 152 Smith, Alexander McCall: 167,168 Smith, Dame Maggie: 156,169 Smith, Matt: 152 Snape, Prof. Severus, 169 Soward, Maureen: 166 Soward, Pat: 166 Spall, Timothy: 171 Spall, Shane: 171 Sparrow, Jack: 172 Spearritt, Hannah: 161 Spooks, 155 Stacher, Helmut: 161 Stanhope, DCI Vera: 166 Stanton, Andrew: 168 Steele, Tommy: 153 Stephenson, Pamela: 159 Stuke, Neil: 164, 166 Sutcliffe, Tom: 172, 173 Symons, Julian: 163 Taggart: 162, 166 Tara: 171 Tarzan: 163 Templar, Simon: 163 Tennant, David: 166 Terfel, Bryn: 152 The Baron: 163 The Saint: 163 The Toff: 163 Thompson, Emma: 153, 154 Tinker: 163 Titchmarsh, Alan: 167 Tointon, Kara: 159 Tompkinson, Stephen: 171 Travis, DI: 161 True-May, Brian: 164 Turner, Andrew: 156 Turner, J.V. 163 Vaughan, Malcolm: 156 Visnjic, Goran: 154 WALL-E: 168 Walliams, David: 161 Walters, Julie: 162 Warren, Marc: 164 Waterman, Dennis: 156 Watson, Emma: 169 Watson, Dr, John: 152,174 Waylett, Jamie: 169 Webb, Jack: 171 West, Timothy: 166 Whately, Kevin: 155. 165 Whicker, Alan: 161 Whitehouse, Paul: 156 Widdecombe, Ann: 159 Wilde, Oscar: 159 Wilkening, Anne: 152 Wilkening, Peter: 152 Willetts, Greg: 171 Williams, Olivia: 166 Wilson: 163 Wilson, John: 154 Wilson, Richard: 155 Wilton, Penelope: 156, 163 Windsor, Duke & Duchess : 162 Winstone, Jaime: 152 Winters, DC: 162 Wise, Ernie: 161 Wogan, Terry: 156 Wood, Victoria: 161 Woodvine, John: 155 Wright, Bonny: 169 Wright, Matthew: 166 Zailer, Charlie: 166 Zen, Aurelio: 161

174. When Wiki went AWOL

2012-01-18T08:56:00.000-08:00

HOME.
Searching for the net.
We’ve had a bundle of trouble contacting the internet over the past few weeks. Don’t know what we did to upset it but neither I, on my antiquated designer Dell, nor my Leader, on her trendy pale green laptop, was able to garner so much as a ‘hallo,’ ‘goodbye,’ or ‘kiss my connection’ for days at a time. I muttered imprecations and spent even more time watching television and tackling the concise crossword.
My Leader rang talktalk and talked talk about it. They finally concluded that it might be the filter. I wondered what the hell the filter was.
My Leader’s friend Mo, a good pal who knows about such things, said the filter plugs into the phone line and she had recently updated hers. My Leader then procured a modified replacement. It gave us three hours on the internet before zilch! I got a fit of the sighs and a slight twitch under the left eye. My Leader got in touch with the talktalk trouble hunters again. At the conclusion of a considerable confab they concluded it could be the router. I wondered what the hell the router was.
My Leader and her friend Mo both knew what the router was. It sits on my desk next to the 19” Hanns.G LCD monitor and it is fronted by a little line of lights which I have always blissfully ignored. One of them - the one labelled internet - was not working. Talktalk said they would send another router. The following day the failed light lit up. It’s fine right now. Won’t cancel the substitute, though; that might just be wholly reliable.*
And we’ve done quite enough searching for the net, thank you.
*New router arrived a couple of days later (much sooner than expected, bless ‘em)) and so far is working wonderfully well. Thanks, talk talk.
TELEVISION.
The Killing ll. (BBC4)

Sofie Gråbøl.
Back in our good old tuppence-a-book library days my father oft remarked that the writers of thrillers and cowboy yarns had but one original story in them; thereafter they just produced the same thing with a different title. That was 70 years ago. Nothing changes.
If you saw The Killing (Post 164 refers), The Killing 2 was decidedly déjà vu. In The Killing there was one decent local politician in Copenhagen trying to do the right thing and being constantly undermined by the treachery of those about him. A girl was killed. All hell broke loose. Enter Detective Inspector Sarah Lund (Sofie Gråbøl). In 2 there was one decent national politician in the whole of Denmark trying to do the right thing and being constantly undermined by the treachery of those about him.
Bring on the female corpse; bring back Sarah Lund and step up the treachery. Same meat, slightly different gravy. You know that Sarah will win and you know she will get no thanks.
Still dark. Still subtitled. Still loved it.
Young James Herriot (BBC1)
Now this was different. Forget tight-fisted Yorkshire farmers and dry-stone walls. This was a naïve but determined young man at a veterinary college in Glasgow in the early thirties. Frankly, it was pretty grim stuff. It was a short series. Don’t know if there will be another. Not sure that I care.
The Bleak Old Shop of Stuff.(BBC2)

A send-up of Dickens who can stand sending up. It was showbiz celebrities doing silly turns in a pantomime way. Celia Imrie (above) was good, but when isn’t she?
The Mentalist. (C5)

So Patrick Jane (Simon Baker) bumps off Red John, is put on trial for murder, talks the jury into finding him not guilty, realises he has not killed the real Red John and off we go again. At least he didn’t come out of the shower having dreamt it all. And he, together with the rest of the team, are still as gloriously unbelievable as ever.
Sherlock. (BBC1)

Another short, mostly enjoyable, series starring an actor with a name that sounds like something off a drug assembly line, Benedict Cumberbatch, and an actor with a name that sounds like a 20th century shoe manufacturer, Martin Freeman. They are perfectly cast as 21st century versions of Holmes and Watson and I imagine the episode entitled Reichenbach Fall has no more brought an end to writer Mark Gatiss’s modern version of the Baker Street sleuth than The Falls did to a disenchanted Conan Doyle’s original.
Series 3 is waiting in the wings.
NCIS (FX)
Series 9 started with a convoluted episode involving yet another sinister fringe agency within an agency so beloved of our more paranoid American cousins. Enough to say that Tony was shot - not dead - just enough to fall on his head and suffer the cliché loss of memory a hero routinely suffers whenever writers want to indulge in flashback storytelling. I think a sinister fringe agency may have been employed to bugger about with the storylines. Don’t know who they are but I wish they’d go away.
NCIS: Los Angeles, (Sky1)
Even with those fine actresses Linda Hunt and Claire Forlani on board, this doesn’t appeal to me. Never has. Oh, it might be Los Angeles but it ain’t NCIS, not now, not ever. Pity, because I’d like to like it.
The Bourne Identity - The True Story. (C5)
This documentary alleged that the CIA, as sinister an agency as any in the world, had brainwashed people into becoming Bourne-type assassins. If that is true - and it certainly came across that way - we have already sunk into Orwellian nightmare and need look no further than America to explain why. Mark you, we must have a fair number of former public schoolboys quite capable of dishing out similar treatment to any aggravating dissident or pleb in this country. We don’t extradite them all, do we?
FILM.
Race to Witch Mountain. (2009)
Why are kids films often better than those produced for adults? In this Disney film a tough cabbie becomes the unexpected protector of two stranded alien children who are trying to reach their rescue spacecraft before they are caught and taken for experimentation by evil American scientists.
It is daft, action-packed, and an easy way to spend 98 minutes of weekend viewing time.
READING.
Bill Bryson.
As mentioned in my last post, I have done no book reading of late, so it was with considerable pleasure that I started on The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid. Bill Bryson has long been one of the writers my family rely on as a safe gift to buy me for birthdays or at Christmas. His Dictionary of Troublesome Words (Penguin Reference, 1984) has been a guest on my desk for many years, but I had forgotten just how funny he can be. The Thunderbolt Kid has had me laughing aloud and I am seldom a mirthful reader. More if he ever grows up and I ever recover my composure.
Ian Dillow.
No, the former PRO of Wessex Regional Health Authority and editor of Link magazine has not, to my knowledge, written a book; though he could and should. Last month, however, in response to my name-dropping his name, (not my description, I thought you could only name-drop the famous) he emailed me his editorial judgment on my fleeting, long past, venture into journalism. It was a funny and extremely kind little note and it gave this old bloke a warm glow that had nothing to do with the Christmas cognac and lasted throughout the entire festive season. Thanks, famous person.
LAST WORD.
When Wiki went AWOL.
Bit late again this month, but at least this will give you, kindly reader, something to read on the day that Wikipedia went absent without leave. AWOL is a court martial offence, Wiki, but we miss you and understand your reasons.
So come back tomorrow and we’ll say no more about it, eh?

173. Another year, another muse.

2011-12-04T07:47:00.000-08:00

BETWEEN YOU AND ME.
The public sector strike.
I was a NHS employee for thirty two years. Member of two unions: NALGO and a smaller bunch representing Family Practitioner Committee employees. Neither of them ever did me much good, but I recognised that without them things would probably have been worse. They’re all UNISON now, so I suppose they finally twigged that their jealous little divisions made them an employer’s pushover.
I tolerated lousy pay, often antagonistic and unreasonable members of the professions, irate members of the public who believed that public servant was a shorthand term for public convenience and assorted ministers of state who felt it beheld them to keep moving the goalposts to their advantage. Seems none of that has changed.
I put up with it because I hoped that when I retired, the 6 % I paid into the pension fund from my gross salary every month, plus the 8% contributed by the employers would, when added to the scanty old age pension provided by the state, enable my wife and I to manage without state handouts throughout our declining years. It has done - just about - so the buggers at the Inland Revenue have continued to tax me, just in case I become too comfortable.
I never went on strike; back then the country was less crowded and the salaries of top officers in the social services were less bloated than those of today. My sympathy is with the lower paid. More years to work for a smaller reward? On their money? Christ!
The elusive muse.
Back in the days when everything I wrote was knocked out on an old Remington, each new venture would open with a waste paper basket full of false starts. A blank sheet of paper would glare at me from the typewriter and dare me to discover the muse. A tentative first muse would turn out to be counterfeit; a muse not fit to be mused. A second and third would be found wanting because they were too far from, or too close to, the editor’s notion of suitable copy. Eventually an approximation of the muse I sought would present itself and, with constant breaks to correct typing errors, I would set myself to producing a minor masterpiece. Well, you have to hope.
Nowadays two or three typewriters are stashed around the house and staying very quiet lest they go the way of many another surplus-to-requirements old reliable. In their place, the computer screen glares blankly at me, daring me to discover the muse. The wastepaper basket is empty and my editor is me. Never mind the muse, I should be able to cruise it.
But I have a sneaking feeling that a former editor of my acquaintance, who shall remain nameless (Ian Dillow), a man who spent fruitless years trying to persuade me to submit copy that even faintly suited the tenor of his award winning NHS magazine, would register mild disapproval if I became predictable now.
So sod the muse, what’s next? Ah yes…
Amusing interlude.
We were enjoying a leisurely breakfast. Sunday; no kids. Tele on as usual. Fern Britton interviewing singer Kathleen Jenkins. Serious business.
Fern exuding empathy: “And did you feel your voice was a gift from God?”
My Leader snorted. “Well she didn’t get it from bloody Tesco.”
Nearly fifty years of marriage and a laugh every day. Gawdblessyer, darlin.’
TELEVISION.
Gareth Malone.

Despite my frequently expressed dislike of reality television, this young bloke (born in 1975, for those who give a tinker’s cuss about such things) has rewritten the script on people programmes to the point where I have at last found a liking for televised amateur talent. He is an incorrigible creator of choirs. Indeed, when it comes to singing, he can transform people who are tone deaf and paralysed with stage fright into outgoing models of pitch perfect melody. A truly inspirational choirmaster, his successes so far have included persuading the shy, the reluctant, an entire town and two garrisons of army wives to embark on the quest for choral perfection. Right now there is a good chance that Paul Mealor’s song Wherever You Are, recorded by the army wives, will top the charts this Christmas.
In 2010 Gareth Malone was given the Freedom of the City of London.
I’d give him a knighthood.
Jeremy Clarkson.
Well ol’ Clarkson was asked what he thought about the one day strike action held by the public services, wasn’t he? It was on The One Show and he said the strike was great because you could drive around London with ease and it left plenty of room in restaurants. He then, because he was on a BBC show and should therefore ‘present a balanced view,’ said he would take out all the strikers and shoot them - in front of their families. This would surely have been accepted as an instance of his customary schoolboy humour had he not also remarked that he avoided travelling by rail because of all the hold-ups caused by people jumping off railway bridges to commit suicide.
Oh dear oh dear. Whether he was put up to saying it or not, what a twat!
The outcry about it has been out of all proportion, of course, but you’d think these media types would glean something from the likes of Ross and Brand and the late Simon Dee, wouldn’t you?
I’d give him a kick up the arse.
Whose idea?
Incidentally, is there a solitary producer, director or unsung programme maker in the whole of television blessed with a single original idea?
Latest carbon copy programme to appear is The Manor Reborn (BBC1), a house restoration documentary already done - very competently and almost to bloody death - by Sarah Beeny and her husband, Graham, in their two series of Beeny’s Restoration Nightmare (Channel 4).
The Manor Reborn features Penelope Keith (To The Manor Born) and Paul Martin (Flog It), two personable and proficient presenters. They’ve done their best to drum up some interest in the project, but, without the brooding malevolence of an East Yorkshire councillor contriving to scupper their plans, they really had no chance. Whose prosaic idea was this?
I’d give him (or her) the same treatment I’d give Clarkson.
Life’s Too Short. (BBC2)
Apparently Warwick Davis inspired this sitcom written by Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant. Looked in briefly but the title says it all.
READING.
Currently I am reading The Independent on Mondays and i for the rest of the week. I’m a bit careful about paying out more than that to skip through a few decent articles and do the concise crossword. Still enjoy Yasmin Alibhai-Brown having a go at just about everything and Tom Sutcliffe’s measured views on the television scene. My book reading is nil since the last post. Perhaps I need the same treatment I’d give Clarkson.
AND TO CONCLUDE…
The cat Shadow has taken to following me around. I don’t know where he gets it from, he was born long after Arthur Helliwell departed. It must be something to do with winter. I’m warmer than his box when the heating goes off so he lands on my lap at every opportunity. Trouble is, if I don’t adjust him he sends my legs to sleep and when I do adjust him he makes plain his displeasure. Sometimes I feel like giving him the same treatment I’d give Clarkson. He’s on the little table alongside my desk now, though. Curled up peacefully and sound asleep. Well at least there’s no poetry.
MEANTIME…
CHRISTMAS!
The greetings cards from lovely, efficient, organised people have started to arrive, I am in my customary state of festive goodwill and don’t-know-where-to-start panic and this could be my last post before the magic day or, for that matter, before the end of the year. So I take this opportunity to wish:
Whoever you are, dear reader, and of whatever persuasion you may be,
A HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND A PEACEFUL AND PROSPEROUS 2012!

172. Winter and Watching...

2011-11-08T08:32:00.000-08:00

HOME.
More about Watching...
Since blathering on about the format of Watching…(at the end of Post 170), my attempts at an alternative have come to naught. I have dabbled, but been unsuccessful, with a move to Google Chrome (it started to become too much of a palaver for a man who rings for a mechanic if the car doesn‘t start) and I was magically visited for a week by alOt, which intrigued me because I had no idea it was coming - or would so quickly go. It was quite nice while it lasted, though. The net result has not been entirely zilch. Somewhere along the way I managed to lose my blog picture. The solemn little snapshot eventually summoned up to replace it has me looking like a Parkhurst escapee, but it will have to do until son Neil’s happy holiday collection can be raided; he and Pauline have just moved house again so lord only knows when that will be.
Meantime…
It would seem the blog is still visited, for whatever reason, by somebody out there. Last week I received an email from a chap who wanted me to know how much he enjoyed barnden.blogspot.com/ in general and my last two posts in particular. I was pleased to learn that my meanderings continue to inhabit the ether and, initially, slightly flattered that a stranger should take the trouble to remark glowingly upon them.. However, it turned out he was another company rep seeking to involve me in some way with his business and when I cleared out my Outlook Express his message got lost. Pity, because I did mean to answer it. Gathered his company was based in Limassol, Cyprus. Never mind, if he had really read the blog he would know I don’t join things of which I know nothing. If I did I would have done it last year. Heck! I could have had a new pair of slippers then: gratis. No, I avoid any involvement outside my comfort zone. This chap did not offer any inducement, but timeo Danaos et dona ferentes. Nice email, though.
That bloody hour!
Yep, that bloody hour again. Autumn and the clocks went back. I am now waking up at six thinking it must be seven and dozing off halfway through QI because it comes on at 10 pm, which will remain 11 pm to me for at least another month. Is this really just for Scottish farmers? And if it is, will we still be governed by it when Alex Salmond gets self-rule for Scotland?
TELEVISION.
Hidden. (BBC1)
Philip Glenister apart, this convoluted four part conspiracy twaddle should have been kept hidden.
Joanna Lumley’s Greek Odyssey. (ITV1)

Lovely Joanna swans around Greece meeting fascinating people and being the most gracious ambassador at large England never had. Everybody and everything enchants her and everybody and everything is enchanted by her. Fortunately none of her outings (Aurora Borealis, Nile and now this) has lasted long enough to cloy. Short and sweet. Way a documentary series should be, It was nice to see Nana Mouskouri again, too: still singing and still, like Joanna, a quality act.
Strictly Come Dancing. (BBC1)
Nothing about this reality romp has changed (except the Sir before Bruce Forsyth’s name and I don’t count that). The professional dancers are still consummately professional, their choreography is still marvellous, the celebrity contestants are still increasingly difficult to choose between, the costumes are still stunning, the orchestra is still superb and the joker in the pack is still much in evidence: this year in the rotund shape of Russell Grant. We’ll watch it right through. Well, it’s a conversation piece, ain’t it.
Downton Abbey. (ITV1)
This came to the expected tear-stained conclusion: writer Julian Fellowes carefully rounded everything off with enough loose ends to ensure another series. That’s it, except to say that Tom Sutcliffe summed it up better and at greater length in The Independent on Monday 7th November. Worth a quid of anyone’s money.
As for the rest...
Y’know, I don’t much care about the rest right now. Whether it’s age, or winter depression, or just too much of a not too good thing, my television viewing has of late become desultory. Oh, I still enjoy QI and Have I Got News For You and Merlin and suchlike, but I do not hesitate to abandon most of the rest for more important things like filling the dishwasher or making a cup of tea.
Perhaps it is a prolonged sulk brought on by the inexplicable popularity (to me, anyway) of so much cheap-jack reality rubbish. This starts with a plethora of antique (which we used to call junk) dealer programmes, goes on to encompass the finding, buying, selling, inspection and repairing of houses by and for people I have neither met nor wish to meet, and is rounded off by an avalanche of cooks (calling themselves chefs) eager to instruct me in the art of cooking with panache and too much butter. There follows the constant line-up of publicity hungry masochists waiting to (1) show me they can eat crap in a jungle, (2) cook for - and cheerfully hate - each other in their own homes (while a loud-mouthed voice-over makes sarcastic comments); (3) enjoy a competition where a self-proclaimed ‘food nutritionist’ bellows that cooking does not get any harder (as if he knows) and shovels food into his mouth like a hungry gannet; (4) be patronised by a bunch of millionaires who may or may not wish to throw a sprat to catch a mackerel and (5) get themselves fired by a bullying little sod who badly needs a shave.
Anybody for a cuppa?
READING.
A backlist…
Perhaps it is age, or winter depression, or even just too much of a very good thing, but my reading has fallen behind, too. On my ‘just started’ list I have Simon Kernick’s The Crime Trade, and Bill Bryson’s The Life and Times of The Thunderbolt Kid, while on my bedside table resides a looked-at-the-first- page-or-two-may-never-get-any-further pile which includes Life of Pi, One Day and Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha. More on one or the other - or even all - of them if and when I ever find the inclination and the damned time.
FOOTNOTE.
Fellow feeling.
My Leader was recently sent a box from Amazon containing a small model of Jack Sparrow for Ellis. The box was big enough to hold the entire set of Pirates of the Caribbean and Jack was surrounded by enough wrapping paper to make a sizeable gap in one of the rainforests along the river after which Amazon is presumably named.
The cat Shadow, who over the years has disdainfully declined just about every designer cat bed known to man, decided that the box and its brown paper packaging was the ideal relaxation spot for a discerning moggy. He took it over. Now, when I am not in my armchair, he spends long days in it. Seems, though, that I am not the only one affected by dark day depression. Once I am settled in my chair he comes quietly and joins me. I don’t ask him why. Reckon it’s fellow feeling. We both get fed up in winter.

171. Thank gawd I don't have a deadline.

2011-10-06T12:10:00.000-07:00

254 OBA Reunion 2011.

Last year this pleasant get-together of vintage Royal Signals boy soldiers, together with their wives and partners, was held at the Ramada Tamworth (Leics.) Hotel. (Post 156 refers) This year it was at the Aspect Hotel, Tamworth. Same place. I have no idea why the name was changed, but presume it may be, as Jack Webb said in Dragnet, to protect the innocent. Whatever: the nice young people (anyone under fifty is young to me) staffing the place were mostly courteous, concerned and competent. Less so in the kitchens where nobody seemed to know how to properly roast a potato or to have any intention of frying an egg;. Perhaps they were worried about the customers’ cholesterol levels; this is, after all, a nanny state.
We drove up to Oxford on Thursday 29^th September and stayed overnight with our daughter Jac. She took us to dinner at the renowned Magdalen Arms (a nice pub) and we basked again in the warmth of a daughterly welcome and the inexplicable magic that is the city of dreaming spires. On Friday we made it to Tamworth; a leisurely trip on mainly far from leisurely motorways. At the hotel we were given the keys to a room. Twin beds. I gently demurred. We have been married for forty nine years and understand not the concept of twin beds. A nice receptionist fixed it. The double room we were given in its place was situated directly behind the kitchens from whence came no roast potatoes or fried eggs but did come the incessant blast of a large fan. It was like having a tent on the hard shoulder of a motorway. We were not about to complain again. It was the hottest autumn week anyone could remember and we had to have the window open the entire four inches permitted by the burglar proof locks; but a nice lass had done her best to settle us in and we could ask no more than that.
On Saturday 1^st October there was an arranged coach trip to the National Memorial Arboretum in Staffordshire where a brief service was held hallowing and dedicating a bench and memorial tree to the OBA and, at the same time, remembering all long and recently departed members, especially founder member George Severs. The trip coincided with a visit by over 10,000 bikers to the arboretum. Seems they do the ride annually to show their support for the armed forces, and they give thousands of pounds to the arboretum and to the Royal British Legion. Lovely people.
We returned to the hotel for dinner and the opportunity to take in the latest version of old friends’ reminiscences. Funny, but even when you remember the incident concerned, your memory of it seldom matches that of the storyteller. Well, the police have difficulty finding a reliable witness among people asked to recall something that happened only minutes ago, so what the hell can you expect after 60+ years?
The sun continued to shine all the way back to the Island on Sunday 2^{nd Oct.} . I drove at what seems to be the normal motorway speed nowadays and we made it comfortably to Pompey in four hours. Far too much traffic and (though I know Yasmin Alibhai-Brown would not agree) far too many people. But I’ve said all that before.
HOME.
Floating to the dentist.

No, we weren’t on anything, we literally did float to the dentist. It all came about when, a few months ago, our old friend and long time family dentist, Keith Fradgley, retired from the Ventnor practice he shared with his son Tim and their associate, Greg Willetts. Word was that a replacement would be hard to find, not only because Keith was a vastly experienced dental surgeon, but also because he was one of a dwindling number on the Island still willing to provide decent treatment under NHS arrangements.
My Leader acted. She saw a notice in the local press that the University of Portsmouth Dental Academy was looking for volunteer patients prepared to submit themselves for treatment by suitably supervised dental students and she signed us on. Thus came about a succession of trips across the Solent to William Beatty Building in Hampshire Terrace, Portsmouth.
It has been a splendid and reassuring experience. Maureen has received treatment at the hands of several young trainees, all of them careful and gentle and likeable. She has two or three more sessions to go and is totally sanguine about them. I needed only the ministrations of a dental hygienist and she turned out to be the lovely Tara. Lucky old me. My course of treatment is now complete and we have word that Keith’s practice has at last found a successor prepared to brave the current bunch of NHS bureaucrats. Brave new dentist. So it is back to regular check-ups at Ventnor and goodbye to the forays afloat. My sincere thanks go to Portsmouth Dental Academy and all who staff it. A great team.
TELEVISION.

Timothy Spall Back at Sea. (BBC4)
Good ol’ Tim, accompanied by wife Shane, continues to chug around Britain in The Princess Matilda. He makes the odd mistake, gives way to the occasional string of profanity, is obviously popular wherever he goes, and we are all one hundred percent on his side.
So, it seems, is The Queen.
This was a short series. There has to be at least one more.
We and The Queen look forward to it.
Question Time (BBC1)
I ignored my better judgment and looked in on David Dimbleby’s programme again It was a special about 9/11. After half an hour of political people talking at, rather than to, each other, I gave up. My Leader is right. Their talk changes nothing: none of them ever listens.
It is also the case that my patience, long ago grown thin, grows perceptibly more so as time goes by.
Of course the nigh on 3,000 victims of that attack on America did not deserve to have their lives cut short: but neither did the 62,000+ civilians killed during the blitzing of Britain in the Second World War, or the “at least 132,000” civilians killed in Iraq and Afghanistan over the last ten years, or the millions of civilians slaughtered in conflict all over the world since our last war to end all wars came to an end.
Life is not fair. The scum will always rise to the top and the cavalry will never arrive on time. Politicians and profiteers are happy for it to stay that way. Why else would there be such carnage everywhere?
Get used to it. I cannot see it changing in my lifetime. Always hope it will before our grandchildren get to be my age, but doubt it.
The Secret World of Whitehall. (BBC2)
A fascinating glimpse into the world of faceless mandarins and special professional advisers (for none of whom have we voted) who unquestionably run this country.
Without them parliament really would become Lord of the Flies.
Doctor Who. (BBC1)
Another series over and the absence of the writer who created most of the characters has become ever more noticeable. That Torchwood crowd must be on cloud nine. Turns out the doctor had to die if he was not to die and that’s what he did. He then took off, suited and wearing a rather snazzy ten gallon hat. With any luck he’ll find Russell T. Davies before the next series is due to begin.
DCI Banks. (ITV1)
The reliable Stephen Tompkinson is back in another detective series. Not bad, but barely on a par with George Gently and way behind Foyle’s War.
Doctors. (BBC1)
This lunchtime soap is to general practice what the Asp was to Cleopatra. Current storylines - in which doctors and staff of The Mill Health Centre dodge in and out of the homes and lives of patients like demented stalkers - have included the sort of Agony Aunt counselling by a practice nurse that would not have been proffered by even the greenest nursing auxiliary, a burglar caught up in a wife’s retaliation when she discovers her husband’s infidelity and - running like an unmarked black van through it all - a rogue CSI man who commits murder, knows exactly how to clean up the crime scene, and has planted evidence to frame one of the doctors. It’s enough to make Horatio Caine forswear his sunglasses.
Merlin. (BBC1)

Never mind the departure of Doctor Who. Episode 1 of Merlin did not disappoint: there was sorcery, suspense, derring-do and a cliffhanger ending. Yep, he’s back! Hooray!
READING.
Graham Hurley.
Finished Permissible Limits still aware that I am unlikely to become a best selling thriller writer, but almost convinced I could fly a P-51 Mustang. Mr. Hurley can have that effect on you. You will have to buy the book to discover what I mean.
FOOTNOTE.
With the to-ing and fro-ing and an absence of prompting from the cat Shadow (who took advantage of the sunny weather to pose on the scooter in next door's front garden) I am late with this post. Thank gawd I don't have a deadline.

170. From Anarchy to Graffiti via J.K. and Manny.

2011-08-23T00:15:00.000-07:00

HOME.

The frightening face of anarchy.

Anarchists used to be depicted as comic figures who wore black hats and cloaks; they were wild-eyed and bearded and they carried a bomb atop of which was a lighted fuse. How things change.

A couple of weeks back anarchy hit the streets of London and, via social network messages, rapidly spread to other cities around the country. People were killed as mobs of thieving bastards indulged in frenzied rioting and looting. Shops were destroyed, property was burned, the defenceless were robbed and, for a terrifying while, mass violence ruled. When it was all over, government mouthpieces hastened to take credit for ending it. They didn’t. The police, badly managed and equipped though they were at the start, eventually did.

Now somebody will have to work out how to stop it happening again. This is too important to be left to any politician, whatever title he or she may boast, and it must certainly not be handed to some gun toting bullshitter from America.
We have plenty of sound coppers here quite capable of formulating the right plans to deal with future outbreaks of mass theft and thuggery. Make a respected (within the force) senior officer responsible for forming a national anti-anarchy team and let him get on with the job.
All we need then is for David, Nick, Theresa, Ed, Boris and the rest of the political forefronters to shut the hell up and keep the hell out of it.
Yeah…I know…pigs might fly.

Ludicrous sentencing.

I cannot believe, either, that respect for the law was much enhanced by the judge who sentenced a couple of idiot Facebook contributors to prison for four years for inciting riot. Apparently neither of the idiots managed to persuade other idiots to turn up at their proposed kick-off sites; neither of them attacked persons or property and neither managed to convince even their Facebook friends that they were anything other than type-happy online dickheads. A fine and a hefty helping of community service would surely have done for them. Instead, with our prisons already overcrowded, the judge chose a bloody great hammer to crack two very small nuts.
Rogue care workers who bully and cheat elderly people get less. This was ludicrous sentencing.
Oh well…say no more lest the police knock at my door.
ABROAD.
Libya.
As I write this Col. Gaddafi’s rule seems to be coming to an end. Whether he will be replaced by former justice minister Mustafa Mohammed Abdul Jalil, or by some faceless opportunist lurking in the background, will probably depend on who most appeals to the CIA.

TELEVISION.

A+ list celebrities.

With the riots taking up more and more viewing time and summer holidays in full swing, television programmers have resorted to the customary diet of popular repeats bolstered by a few new series, most of them tried and tested favourites.

In the past I have somewhat churlishly questioned how much it must cost an allegedly strapped BBC to ferry rich celebrities all over the world looking up their ancestors (something the cat Shadow manages to do, daily, without leaving the rug in the living room). Now Who Do You Think You Are is back on BBC1 and the first people searching into their past were June Brown and Jo Rowling (above), two rightly famous persons and very much A+ list celebrities.

I’m still not sure whether other people’s family histories are any of my business, but both ladies were articulate, sincere and unflinching in their quests. Many of their findings were, as is often the case when one probes the past, extremely moving,
Following each of them around was an education and a joy.

BBC Proms 2011.

This year the Proms came alive for me with the discovery of the concert pianist Emanuel Ax. I bow my head in shame at the admission, because Manny Ax has apparently been a welcome performer at the Proms for thirty five years and, in my musical ignorance, this year is the first that I have come across him.

I have to thank Brahms - not my favourite composer - for the discovery. Two successive evenings last week were given over to the composer’s music: the concerts, performed by The Chamber Orchestra of Europe conducted by Bernard Haitink, included Piano Concertos No. 1 and 2, with Emanuel Ax the soloist.

What a revelation! A pianoforte genius who is a cross between the much loved Henry Sandon of the Antiques Roadshow and the late, great John Ogdon (without the goatee). I hope maestro Ax would not be offended by that description, but doubt he will ever read this, so I shall not worry too much.

I was captivated by both his mastery of the keyboard and his generosity of spirit. The orchestra clearly loved him and he them. Brahms is still not my favourite composer, but I will listen to his work with a new ear from now on.
And I’ll listen with a great big smile on my face if Emanuel Ax is playing.

The graffiti craze.

Something else that came from America and makes me smile. Recent television programmes featuring Banksy and King Robbo have put a new slant on wall scribbling - something that used to be confined to public toilets - and show that not only are the worthies who write and draw on every spare wall in the country amazingly talented, they are also fiercely competitive and dogmatically territorial.
My admiration for them is tempered by the realisation that if I was a council boss I’d detest them; employ a full time team of painters to constantly erase every sweep of their spray cans and stroke of their brushes; prosecute them mercilessly when they were caught and hope they would find themselves in front of the sort of justice that sent down those two futile Facebook comics for four years.

But I’m just an ordinary man in the street and I love their fuck you, Jack fanaticism.

READING.

Graham Hurley.

I am halfway through Mr. Hurley’s Permissible Limits and becoming more and more aware why I am not a best selling thriller writer. He is so damn good.
More next time.

AND THE BLOG.

A need for modernisation?

For some time now I have been considering a change in the presentation of Watching…a notion that has become increasingly appealing each time it comes to the difficult (to me, anyway) task of editing and presenting a post. The blog reached 5 years of age last month, so perhaps the time is right for me to review it, or to consider creating another.

An aristocratic old parliamentarian once said something along the lines of: “No change, for whatever reason, is ever for the better,”

In complete contrast, a nice old boy I met while serving on a committee which has long since ceased to exist assured me: “The main thing I learned from a lifetime in business was that you either make changes or you die.”

Trouble is, change does not come easily to me. Most of the changes imposed by our infuriating national lords and masters, or their local pipsqueak counterparts, seem to be made for the sake of it. Seldom do they make sense. So I am wary, even when it is only the proposed modification of an old bloke’s occasional blog. I’m not in business and if it ain’t broke…
Back next month in one format or another.

169. News views and the last Potter.

2011-07-31T08:58:00.000-07:00

HOME.

What are they hiding this time?

Is it just me or does anybody else think this phone hacking furore is a load of twaddle? So far we have had an Australian billionaire and his son answering questions in parliament, a police chief out on his ear, sackings, resignations, the wrapping up of the Screws Of The World and a load of gutter press journalists cast into the wilderness wondering whether they still have that unwritten best seller left in them, Where will it all end? The House of Commons was jampacked when they discussed it. Far more members turned up than would dream of so doing to discuss a rise in the old age pension, a proposed reduction in the obscene profits made by privatised public utilities, or the discontinuation of our futile involvement in the Middle East.Sometimes it just makes you despair. What the hell are they all hiding this time? What is so secret in their paranoid political lives that nobody, but nobody, should know about it? Christ! Anybody can hack into my phone if they want to. (The mobile, too: it’s seldom switched on) I’ll cheerfully tell them in advance what they’ll hear on the house phone. They’ll hear innocuous conversations with family and friends and they’ll hear the odd sales guy from India being given short shrift because he has rung at mealtime again. They’ll hear top secret info regarding the dates and times of our dental and medical appointments and highly confidential conversations disclosing whether one or the other of us can collect our grandson from school. They’ll hear sisters and friends talking to my Leader and people talking to me who have rung up hoping to talk to my Leader. They may even intercept the needs to know news that the cat (codename Shadow) who worryingly failed to report for breakfast has now been seen sunbathing on next door’s kitchen roof. They’ll be brain numb in under a week and it will serve them bloody right! Phone hacking? Baloney! The most dreadful recent news has come from

ABROAD.

The Norway deaths.

Why this beautiful country, filled with peace loving people, should have become victim to a solitary man’s murderous craving for publicity is surely beyond the comprehension of any sane human being. Between seventy and eighty people died in his bomb and shooting attacks before, relying on the professional integrity of the lawmen who caught up with him, he yielded without resistance to avoid being justifiably executed on the spot. Now a nation mourns and the world awaits what will doubtless be a protracted, much publicised trial: precisely the outcome he was looking for. Norway abolished capital punishment in 1905, but I guess he will be given a life sentence. If it was left to me it would be a life sentence for every life he took and they would run consecutively. He would thereafter be made a non- person, unspoken of right up until he was eventually forgotten. Hell, the sad little misfit has had too much publicity already.

READING.

Reaper by Graham Hurley.

Reaper was first published in 1991 and entails events leading up to the 1982 Falklands conflict. It is a story involving love, betrayal, the lunatic antics of the IRA, the actions of a couple of Special Branch thugs and the machinations of an assortment of psychopaths masquerading as intelligence operatives. If you generally like Graham Hurley’s work you will like it. I did.

Our Lady of Pain by M.C.Beaton (MarionChesney).
I think Marion Chesney’s alter ego does better with the Agatha Raisin stories. This is an Edwardian pot boiler which features Lady Rose Summer and Captain Harry Cathcart with both of whom I quickly lost patience.If you generally like M..C. Beaton’s work you may like it. I didn’t.

TELEVISION.

New Tricks. (BBC1)

Another series well underway and, in Setting Out Your Stall, a rare appearance by Sheila Hancock as Sandra Pullman’s unpopular mother. Easy viewing.

The Hour. (BBC2)

Fifty nine minutes too long for me.

Torchwood: Miracle Day. (BBC1)

The fire quickly went out on this, too. There are now American connections.Everybody except the formerly immortal Captain Jack has found they are unable to die. He is dying and his could be the only funeral in the cemetery. Episode 3 of 10 has just been shown. I’ll try and relight the torch but I’m not optimistic.

50 Greatest Harry Potter Moments. (ITV1)

They might be the 50 Greatest if your tastes exactly match those of the programme compiler. Mine seldom do, so I invariably miss such gems as: 50 Most Shunned Heroes With Halitosis, 50 Most Bloodthirsty Origami Disasters, 50 Most Unconvincing Elvis Impersonators,etc. I also determinedly avoid anything that starts with the words The Very Best Of…or The Late Great…It’s not the subject that puts me off, it’s the presentation. I get heartily pissed off with that old guy, wearing Li’l Abner overalls and a straggly moustache, who cuts in every twenty seconds to tell you how he knew the star in the sixties but can’t remember anything about it because if you can remember the sixties you weren’t there. So I viewed this 50 Greatest with misgivings and they were justified. The contributions from those who acted in, or worked on, the films were fine; pertinent, interesting and often amusing. But I was at a loss to work out why anybody thought the views of non participants - comedians, pop singers, reality show winners et al - no matter how enthusiastically voiced, would be of any more interest to me than mine would to them. Oh well, I remain a Potter devotee. No PR sales doc will change that.

FILM.

Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows (Pt.2).

A super finish to a super series. All eight films have been moderately true to the seven books and all have been perfectly cast. The addition of a somewhat low key Deathly Hallows Pt.1 (which included the demise of Dobby) set the tone for this all action, occasionally tear-jerking, finale.

Nobody disappointed. The youngsters who have featured throughout the entire series: Daniel Radcliff (Harry), Rupert Grint (Ron), Emma Watson (Hermione), Harry Melling (Dudley), James and Oliver Phelps (Fred and George), Bonny Wright (Ginny), Tom Felton (Draco), Matthew Lewis (Neville), Josh Herdman (Goyle) and Devon Murray (Seamus), together with the slightly later additions, Hugh Mitchell (Colin) and Evanna Lynch (Luna), have become attractive young adults and fine actors.

They have provided hours of innocent pleasure to millions of enchanted filmgoers and there should be success for them far beyond Potter. I certainly hope that will be the case.

(I also hope that Jamie Waylett, who played Crabbe in the first six films and missed out on Deathly Hallows through drug charges, will stop being a silly young man before he ruins his life completely.)

As for the bevy of respected stage and screen stars who did not feel it beneath them to appear in a Potter film, none gave less than their impressive best. Lovely Maggie Smith, battling a couple of debilitating illnesses along the way, commanded attention whenever she appeared (hasn’t she always?) and splendid Alan Rickman’s Snape was surely the most insidious antihero of all time.

From beginning to end we have been spellbound by Hogwarts and all who spelled in her. Book and film. The spell is unbreakable so I care not for the opinions of detractors and begrudge not a single penny made by those involved in the franchise. We went as a family group to see Deathly Hallows Pt.2 and next year we shall take a family trip to Leavesden studios where this very British series has been filmed. Magic like that just lasts and lasts.

Well done, J.K. Rowling!

Good man, Professor Snape!

168. Goodbye Columbo. Hello WALL-E.

2011-07-09T03:45:00.000-07:00

IN APPRECIATION.

Peter Falk. (1927 - 2011)

Watching the Detectives would be a misnomer if I failed to lament the loss of Peter Falk who played the gloriously scruffy and deceptively clever Lt.Columbo, Los Angeles Police Department’s finest, from 1971 until 2003.
I dare say every Columbo follower has a favourite episode. Mine, and that of my daughter Jackie, was Try To Catch Me, made in 1977 and co-starring Ruth Gordon. The veteran actress and the likeable actor clearly relished every scene they played together. It was close to perfection.
For that matter, Columbo guest actors mostly did seem hugely at ease with a star who was the personification of technical competence and generosity of spirit.
Oh, just one more thing…
Peter Falk, actor, artist and chess enthusiast, died in Beverley Hills on the 23rd of June, 2011 at the age of 83.
He will long and fondly be remembered.

HOME.

Social Networking.
Every now and then a friend, relative or chance acquaintance has approached me to become a fellow traveller on one of the social networking websites.
I have always politely declined or simply ignored the offer.
In the first place, blogging takes up quite enough of my time; in the second, I could neither face up to Facebook nor witter on Twitter without quickly making plain my ingrained unsociability.
Why should anybody be interested in what I had for breakfast, whether my Leader or I cooked dinner, or what time I made my way to bed?
I know it has become the in thing to proffer up one’s private life for public scrutiny, but I am not celeb interviewee material; chat show hosts would not want to talk to me. Might be different if I had half a dozen mistresses fifty years my junior, had succeeded in grafting a new strain of orchid onto the dog rose in my courtyard, or had obtained a knighthood following years of flouting a modest talent to maximum effect before a stupefied audience.Might be different, too, if I was the sort of moron who just couldn’t wait to be seen doing bushtucker trials or getting himself fired by an arrogant little twat in need of a shave.
But such is not the case.
So I’m afraid someone else will have to chit chat with the social network dabblers: a good old gossip on the net is not for me, even if it is cheaper than the pub.
But thanks again for asking.
Giveaway headgear.
When I was young most men wore hats. A hat was an indication of the job, place on the corporate ladder, even the class, of the wearer. I seldom wore a hat after I parted company with the army: nearly twelve years of military headgear was quite enough. But a few weeks ago my Leader and I were over in Pompey, shopping at Gunwharf Quays, when I chanced upon baseball caps similar to those worn by the NCIS cast and, on a whim, bought one.
I donned it for the first time when I set out on an unpromising morning to collect my newspaper.
“I am actually an NCIS employee,” I told my Leader. “But I don’t have the letters on my cap because I’m working incognito.”
“Off you go then, Special Agent David,” she said.
Blew me cover completely.

TELEVISION.

Camelot. (C4)
The current craze is for depictions of the medieval to be downright manic. This series is no exception. It may well be the way things were back then.
Anyway, if I was around I don’t remember it; and thank whatever god for that.
Decent cast but, at ten episodes, too long.
Top Gear. (BBC2)
Yeah, they’re back again. Same overgrown schoolboys racing about in same (albeit latest model) cars. Wonder if any of them would know how to stop the air conditioning unit in my Hyundai i10 piddling all over the garage floor?
No?
Neither does my main dealer.
Scott & Bailey. (ITV1)
Lesley Sharp played DC Scott, Suranne Jones played DC Bailey and Rupert Graves played an arsehole barrister. Not much new there then.
It was a six part series. The girls will be back. He won’t.
The Shadow Line. (BBC2)
In this sombre seven parter nobody decent, or even half decent, came to a happy ending. Beautiful performances from a splendid cast which included Lesley Sharp again, this time playing an Alzheimer’s sufferer. Such a fine actress. Well deserves to be a Dame of the British Empire, though I guess my recommendation won't help her.
Luther. (BBC1)
Still not my cup of tea, but lasted only four episodes so I scarcely had time to ignore it.
It will be back.
Perhaps I’ll ignore it then.
Castle. (C5)
Could as easily have been called Murder He Wrote but wasn’t, presumably to avoid litigation.
I’m determined to give this a chance, even if it does at first come across as a desperate attempt to revamp The Mentalist by introducing a bit of family interest. The leading actors are pleasant and the stories so far are viewable standard fare. We’ll see.
The Killing. (C4)
Talking of revamps, this is an unashamed American remake of the immensely successful Danish crime series Forbrydelsen. I am again determined to give it a chance, but I cannot help being reminded of the English remake of Wallander which abysmally failed to match the excellence of its Swedish precursor.
Well it stands to reason, doesn‘t it?:
Portrayals of Scandinavia are best left to Scandinavians.

READING.

Alexander McCall Smith.
I finished The Full Cupboard of Life. (Abacus £6.99 or see Google for outlets with reduced prices.)
Mr. McCall Smith’s Botswana remains delightfully amusing and his characters charmingly predictable. Yet another success for No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.
So did Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni make the parachute jump?
That would be telling.
Heck, you can always buy the book.

FILM.

Add this animated gem by Pixar to my list of favourites. The world has long come to an end, buried under trillions of tons of waste, and the only moving things left are a small robot, WALL.E, and his friend Hal, a cockroach.
WALL-E is a Waste Allocation Load Lifter - Earth Class - the last of his kind - who ventures forth daily to transform acres of rubbish into cubes which he neatly stacks atop each other until they form compact mountains.
He is kind, industrious and a lover of the musical film Hallo Dolly, to which he hums and dances along. His enthusiasm, like Jerry Herman’s opening music, is infectious and my Leader and I have since been haunted by Michael Crawford’s rendition of Put On Your Sunday Clothes.
WALL-E’s lonely world is suddenly invaded by Extraterrestrial Vegetation Evaluator EVE, a Ziva David style robot (NCIS fans will comprehend) landed on earth to search for any sign of plant growth. WALL-E falls in love with her and, coincidentally, he has unearthed a seedling plant…
The film was released in 2008 and was directed by Andrew Stanton. If you have not seen it I suggest you look out for the next TV showing, or pick up a DVD somewhere.
For those who are interested there is an excellent article on Wikipedia,
My Leader has now bought me the CD and the DVD. Talk about spoilt.
Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows (Pt,2)
The big night for the stars is over and next week on the 15th we get to see the final film.
I believe daughter Roz has been persuaded to take granddaughter Jess to the 0001 hours Island premiere. They’ll love it. I’d go too, but I’m usually asleep at that time. (A snippet of info I shall not be divulging on Facebook or Twitter.
Oh, I shall go as soon as I can. And bollocks to the Potter haters.
Have a good whatever...

167. School‘s out.

2011-06-02T04:09:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Rediscovering school.
My Leader and I were recently involved in a family learning course held at Ellis’s school on Thursday mornings. We were accepted as student stand-ins for his working mother and we thoroughly enjoyed it.
The lessons included an outside search for interesting insects, an analysis of Goldilocks and The Three Bears and an in depth appreciation of the Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf.
Did you know that woodlice are crustaceans, not insects? Were you cognizant of the fact that they have fourteen jointed limbs, or that they do not pee but do eat their own poo?
Were you aware that worms have five hearts and no eyes?
Did you care? (No? Shame on you!)
The course ran for five weeks at the conclusion of which we each received a certificate of attendance. As my Leader cheerfully put it: “We have finally been certified.”

Ribald remarks will be ignored.

If there’s a next time, we’ll go again.

Traffic control: you have to admire the logic.
One of the recent forays into Never-Never Land taken by those responsible for controlling the traffic over here has been the imposition of a one-way traffic order on a road which took traffic from Sandown and Shanklin across the outskirts of Newport to the village of Carisbrooke and beyond. The road was perfectly adequate for two-way traffic throughout, but somebody - probably a councillor - saw a way of reducing the flow of vehicles past his house and that was that. The upshot has been the, now legally established, closure of that road to uphill traffic at a junction halfway along it, and a diversion taking said traffic back into Newport and out past two (one of them primary) schools. This, it seems, is what the planners (surely a contradiction in terms) call planning.
Waste of time writing to them I am reliably informed: they answer not.
Waste of time phoning them, too: they heed not.
Their maxim seems to be: ignore the buggers and they’ll go away.
You have to admire the logic, don’t you?

TELEVISION.

Game of Thrones. (Sky Atlantic)
Nobody plays tough but honourable better than Sean Bean. He was tough but honourable Richard Sharpe (a hero of the Napoleonic Wars) from 1993 to 2008 and here he is tough but honourable Ned Stark (hero of a medieval fantasy). It is clear that Ned can come to no good. A fair-minded man is at a distinct disadvantage when all about him are downright medieval.
There is a shortage of likeable characters in George R.R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire fantasies and heroes are killed off before you have chance to know them. It is bloodthirsty but compelling.
I might have found it disturbing, but I am old enough to remember John Creasey bumping off the heroes in his Department Z stories whenever he appeared to tire of them.
And that was before Mr. Martin was born.
There’s nothing new in the world of fiction.
Paul Merton’s Birth of Hollywood. (BBC2)
Paul Merton is a fan of old Hollywood and it shows in every reel of this short series.
As would be expected of a regular on HIGNFY he is quick and funny; he is also refreshingly outspoken at times. The film director D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation, which was largely responsible for the re-emergence of the Ku Klux Klan, gets a particularly sober mention, as does the public humiliation of Roscoe ‘Fatty’ Arbuckle.
We learned, we laughed, we pondered, we enjoyed.
Can’t ask more than that of a documentary.

Prince Philip at 90. (ITV1)
Alan Titchmarsh (still wearing his posh suit for RHS Chelsea Flower Show) made a further bid for the knighthood with this, suitably deferential, probe into the life of the longest-serving royal consort in British history.
Once, when she was about twelve years old, my future wife hurtled down Market Hill, Cowes, on a bicycle and screeched to a halt barely inches from HRH and his old friend Uffa Fox. Had the ground been wet (and it inevitably rains during Cowes Week) she would have brought down not only a promenading prince and his companion but probably the whole of Special Branch.
It was the closest either of us has ever been to royalty.
Prince Philip saw the funny side. Well, he was over fifty years younger then and no harm had been done.
Ol’ Titchy didn’t find out much more than we already know about the royal personage.
At his best the old boy charms attractive females who catch his eye and testily suffers unattractive males who walk on broken glass around him.
At his worst he is a pain in the arse.
Aren’t we all?
Classic Brit Awards (ITV1)
I usually avoid these fawning get-togethers, too, but this one was rather good. Myleene Klass’s presentation was faultless.
Il Divo opened the show in fine style: Alfie Boe and the cast of Les Miserables were absolute magic; a splendid selection of solo performers followed and, to round it all off, Dame Shirley Bassey took to the stage to perform John Barry’s Bond theme Goldfinger with the London Chamber Orchestra.
Nobody spent too long thanking their mother, father and the tortoise at the end of the garden,
Yes, it really was rather good.
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. (Series 11) (C5)
This, on the other hand, has become rather bad. A dreadful load of tosh.
I don’t know whether the actors are privy to future story lines, but would never be surprised the learn that William Petersen had some inkling of what the future held in store and bolted for freedom before the compulsory serial killer could be brought in to make a daft ’go it alone’ idiot of him. Lawrence Fishburne surely had no idea and has my sympathy.I suppose it is inevitable that a country where forty percent of the population own guns will have a neurotic fixation on mass murderers, but in America the serial killer has become as much a lazy scriptwriter’s plot stand-by as has the omnipresent turbaned terrorist.
How many writers contribute to this cliched crap?
No matter.
Just give it a rest, will you?
Martina Cole’s The Runaway. (Sky 1)
Recorded this and watched all six episodes over a couple of days.
Apart from the drag queens, led by Desrae (Alan Cumming) the characters made the Game of Thrones crowd look like something out of Beatrix Potter.
Medieval minds would know no better; but this was London in the sixties. Not for the faint hearted.
Made you proud not to be a Londoner.

READING.

Alexander McCall Smith.
The Full Cupboard of Life is Botswana’s No.1 Ladies’ Detective agency again.
Mma Ramotswe continues gently to wrestle with her own problems and with those of her clients. I have only reached chapter five and am totally hooked. Will Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni make the parachute jump?
More next time.

166. Trips near and far and Barry Cryer

2011-05-09T15:28:00.000-07:00

HOME

Finally sorted.
If you look up Hogwarts on Google you will be find a couple of Hogwarts Sorting Hat quizzes designed to tell you which school house you belong to.
I tried them both and each gave me the same result :- "Gryffindor!"
Yeah, I thought it would probably say that for everybody, too: but it doesn’t.
My Leader’s result said Ravenclaw. Would you believe it?
Go on. Be daft. Have a go!
Get Sorted By The Hogwarts Sorting Hat!
That wedding.
Were you carried along on the flood of publicity for the Kate and Wills nuptials? I may not have been, but there was no denying my Leader.
“It’s a woman’s thing,” she explained gently. “No woman can resist a good wedding.”
Well, I thought, it would be churlish and probably sexist to turn my back on it then. So I watched with her.
Good, wasn’t it?
Oh, I can understand if you are one of those who saw it only as a royal publicity stunt, a costly exercise in public manipulation at a time when thousands…millions even…of youngsters have a snowballs chance in hell of affording any sort of wedding, let alone the deposit on a small house. But, no matter how understandable your disenchantment, when it comes to the Kate and Wills wingding you will find yourself much in the minority.
Thing is, this country does pageantry better than any other country in the world. Nowadays, come to think of it, pageantry is probably the only bloody thing this country does do better than any other country in the world.
As a devout non-believer (in just about everything), to my surprise I quite enjoyed the wedding service, approved of the hymns and found myself solemnly agreeing with the Bishop of London’s homily.
They came across as a nice young couple and no matter how undesirable the idea of another hereditary king may be, the contention that the post would better be filled by some power-mad …king politician is just a nonsense.
Anyway, all the horses and carriages and smiling and waving and kisses on the balcony and mass adulation whilst a dear little girl held her hands over her ears was magically awful.
Christ knows what it has cost, but there is certainly no shortage of people wishing the pair all the best.
We’re among ‘em.

AWAY

Hogwarts and beyond.
A couple of weekends back the young family went on holiday to Florida for a fortnight to visit Disneyland and the world of Harry Potter. They returned just a few days ago. Enjoyed every moment of it. Didn’t want to come back. They plan to return in a couple of years when Boo is eight and big enough to go on all the rides.
My Leader and I enjoyed their enjoyment via phone calls, texts etc. Neither of us was keen to discover Disney, but I would quite like to have seen Hogwarts. Bit long in the tooth for all the traipsing around now, though, and the sight of a moving staircase would make me queasy.
Anyway, we quite enjoyed a selfish fortnight to ourselves.
More 254.
By way of a short break, on the day the young family went to America we returned to Botleigh Grange Hotel, Hedge End, Hants, for this year’s get-together of 254 OBA Southern Chapter (Posts 135 and 143 refer).
We travelled across on the Friday. this time the weather favoured us and our experience of last year made the trip that much easier. Indeed, the following day we motored around Hampshire finishing up at Alton - what a super little town - and drove back via the area where we lived when we were first married. Lord, in nearly fifty years how everything has changed!
Once again the service at Botleigh Grange Hotel was excellent and the accommodation first class.
Our thanks to Pat and Maureen Soward for the understated time and effort they always put into organizing the event and to all the OBA members, spouses and guests whose mutual affability is the making of it.

ABROAD

Death of Osama Bin Laden.
After nearly a decade, the alleged mastermind behind 9/11 has been killed by U.S. troops in Pakistan. The news was announced by President Barack Obama on 2nd May.
Given the American propensity for death by friendly fire, my first reaction was one of relief that Lawrence of Arabia died in a motor cycle accident in 1935.

TELEVISION.

Doctor Who. (BBC1)
I don’t quite know what this new series is all about. In the first two-part story President Richard Nixon figured prominently and that was enough to curdle my yoghurt.
River, played by Alex Kingston, cheered things up a bit, but the producers are apparently going for a darker approach this time. Could be good. We might even finish up in Copenhagen with DI Sarah Lund.
The second story took place in pirate land. Hugh Bonneville and Lily Cole were the guest stars and it all took place in a single episode which wickedly incorporated every cliché in the book (except Long John Silver’s parrot). Funnily enough, the one episode formula was more understandable. Perhaps condensing it simplified the plot.
Exile. (BBC1)
This was a three parter with a sterling cast which included Jim Broadbent, Olivia Colman, Shaun Dooley, Claire Goose, John Simm and Timothy West.
Tom Ronstadt, a drug-riddled journalist, returns to Lancashire determined to discover why his father, Sam, former deputy editor of the local newspaper and now an Alzheimer’s sufferer, had once beaten him so badly that he had left home intending never to return.
Tom’s investigation uncovers a Haut de la Garenne style scandal and a brutal truth about his background.
The story could as easily have been told in two parts, but the acting well compensated for any feeling that it took its time and, as is often the way with a good drama, there was the occasional line of dialogue that particularly appealed to me.
Tom’s father - in a rare lucid moment - said of a former boss:
“He couldn’t write fuck on a dusty blind.”
God bless cantankerous old journalists!
Vera. (ITV1)
Shades of Sarah Lund, the goggle-eyed crime fiction fan cannot help but feel a sense of déjà vu whenever a new British cop show is aired.
DCI Vera Stanhope, played by Brenda Blethyn as a cranky, menopausal matriarch, is another addition to the let’s-doff-our-hats-to-Denmark school.
I have been a Brenda Blethyn admirer since the days of Chance in a Million and Outside Edge, so feel sorry that I cannot see Vera as the next Jack Frost.
Not that I’m an expert: when I first saw Frost I thought David Jason was miscast and way too small for a copper.
Didn’t take into account the size of the talent, did I?
Case Sensitive. (ITV1)
Detective Sergeant Charlie Zailer (Olivia Williams), the second female sleuth to appear on ITV in as many days, turned out to be a personal life disaster in charge of a complicated murder enquiry. Her problems were compounded by a slim DC sidekick who was probably in love with her and a fat overbearing boss who definitely was not.
She and her sidekick solved the case and, in so doing, doubtless saved the fat boss from a quick walk into early retirement. Well, unless he was looking to end his career, no head of a police department would put a lowly sergeant in charge of a high profile murder investigation. Not bloody likely.
Poetic licence?
Do come on.
United. (BBC2)
The Busby Babes and the Munich air tragedy.
We watched, close to tears, as David Tennant (playing coach Jimmy Murphy) and the remainder of an excellent cast, took us back to the BEA Elizabethan plane crash that resulted in the dreadful depletion of Matt Busby’s brilliant young Manchester United football team in February 1958.
United is back at the top again this year.
Whatever you may think, it belongs there.
The Wright Stuff. (C5)
When I have nothing else to do, which is seldom, I look in on Matthew Wright, an ex Mirror journalist (Piers Morgan was his editor. Cassandra must have been spinning at the speed of light!) who has a weekday morning show where he tolerates a small studio audience and accepts a few phone-ins from people prepared to chance his mood of the moment.
To like the show you have to like Matthew Wright; or simply thank God he’s not Jeremy Kyle. I fall into the latter category.
It helps, too, if you like the (mostly media) people invited along as guests for the week. I usually do.
Last week Yasmin Alibhai-Brown and Neil Stuke were the permanent guests and Claire Goose turned up one morning to talk about her part in Exile. It was a change to see Mrs. A-B without the unwell-wishers who seem to dog her every public appearance and the panellista were generally lively and candid without being unnecessarily aggressive.
This week Mark Little is on the panel: another excellent contributor. The host, though, will be away undergoing an operation on his lower back.
I wish him good luck and hope he will be back soon (cue for song).
Well, The Wright Stuff without Wright would never run on like Taggart has.

READING.

Graham Hurley.
In No Lovelier Death (Orion) a teenage party at a judge’s house in the posh Southsea district of Craneswater is advertised on Facebook, attracts scores of kids from contrasting backgrounds, and culminates in riot and murder.
There are two corpses alongside the swimming pool of the holidaying judge’s next door neighbour and one of them is the party giver, Rachel, the judge’s daughter.
To add to DI Faraday's problems, he and his colleagues are not alone in their pursuit of the murderer. The judge’s next door neighbour is Baz Mackenzie, a former drug baron and semi-reformed hard case who had promised to keep an eye on things while the judge was away. Baz feels he has a personal score to settle…
This is Graham Hurley on top form.

THEATRE.

Barry Cryer.
We enjoyed a rare evening out recently when Pauline and Neil (the Ventnor Barndens) asked us if we would like to see Barry Cryer at Shanklin Theatre with them and a bunch of friends. We would and we did.
Ol’ Baz, accompanied by I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue pianist Colin Sell, coasted through the evening like a cyclist on a long downhill run.
Using the alphabet method to introduce his topics he cruised through just about every email joke doing the rounds in the past five years (he probably wrote most of them), performed a couple of songs, indulged in a little Flanders and Swann banter with pianist Colin, dropped a few famous names without making us cringe and concluded his act (with an encore) to warm applause.
Well you have to admire a man who not only can remember all those email jokes at the age of 76, but is brave enough to wear a bright red waistcoat.
Lovely evening, Mr. Cryer.
Thanks again, Paul and S.J.

165. A gentle stroll through time..

2011-04-14T15:08:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Ellis‘s time.
End of last week was end of school term and time for the Easter fair at grandson Ellis’s school. Children, teachers and parents combined to make a happy after-school occasion of it and little Boo, a pupil when I took him to school in the morning, was a tiger by the time he got home in the evening.
Ain’t education great nowadays?
My time.
I hated school for much of my young life. Bully boys formed bullyboy gangs and too many of the staff were superannuated sadists.
At one of the seven schools I went to between the age of five and thirteen I recollect Mr. Supercilious, a wartime schoolteacher venting his ire at being excluded from uniformed combat by launching a zero tolerance campaign against the kids in his charge.
“If you ever have to rely on arithmetic for your living, boy,” he thundered at me on one occasion, “you’ll finish up a dustman!”
He had two approaches, the bellowing and the sarcastic, which he often combined. I cannot remember him ever laughing, smiling. or showing the slightest hint of humour.
I don’t know how he finished up..
Careers adviser, perhaps.
What? Oh, I finished up an administrator and finance officer in the NHS.
My father‘s time.
My father went to St. Luke’s school in Portsmouth where he learned the three R’s and how to fight. His father (one of the first warrant officers in the RN) died when dad was nine and he left school to take up an apprenticeship as a carpenter and joiner at the age of fourteen.
I remember less of him than I would have liked. He died at the age of fifty four; that was over fifty years ago, three years after I left the army and three before my marriage to Maureen, who never met him.
He was Portsmouth born and bred. Dark, short (only five foot six and a half - he insisted on the half), thickset, shrewd, a self-taught pianist in the mode of Charlie Kunz, a loyal family man and a dry humorist.
In my early teens I once stood with him at the top of Portsdown Hill looking out across Portsmouth. It was a clear day and for no good reason my teenage imagination ran riot. “I bet they could build a bridge from here all the way to France,“ I said.
Just the trace of a smile flickered across his face.
“Yeah,” he said. “With lifts down to the Isle of Wight.”
For many years he was chairman of Southsea Liberal Club (‘No political or religious talk in the club, please.’) and once told me he owed his regular re-election to never becoming involved in excitable squabbles.
“I’m phlegmatic; I wear ‘em down.”
His views on people were pithy but not venomous.
On a large, likeable woman: “Stout party; heart of gold.”
On a pompous man: “He rates himself a bit.”
On any entertainer he liked: “Good turn that one.”
On a seemingly innocuous snooker player. “Never play him for money.”
And on anyone he considered to be mental: “A bit touched I reckon.”
As a young man he played football, Portsmouth League, for the Dockyard Recorders. He played in goal, though he was never a dockyard employee and well below average height for a goalkeeper. His only connection with 'The Yard' was via his brother-in-law, Bill, who was a recorder and also in the team. The two were good friends, so I guess a sort of ‘on loan’ scheme went on, even back then. Anyway, uncle Bill rated him as a ‘keeper and you worked every fiddle you could to be top of the league, even back then.
In the course of his working life Dad went from carpenter to building firm manager, to costings clerk in the Portsmouth City Architect department, a post he held until his death.
My most abiding memory is of an immensely competent man. Lord knows what he could have achieved had he been given the luxury of a university education.

TELEVISION.

Waking the dead. (BBC1)
It’s all over. Dead and buried.
DS Peter Boyd (Trevor Eve) has yelled his last yell, broken his last rule and neatly arranged for the assassination of the assassin of the person assigned to his team to assassinate his career.
Don’t get it?
Don’t matter.
The Walking Dead. (C5)
Yep, another doom-laden title. Andrew Lincoln (him who was Egg in This Life), turns up in America with a sheriff’s badge and a credible accent to fight incredible zombies played by an incredible army of incredibly awful looking extras.
Totally barmy.
Lewis. (ITV1)
The murder count has surely risen since dear ol’ Kev Whately took up the reins in Oxford. Any one of a host of talented actors could have been the murderer in the episode shown last Sunday.
It was a bit Midsomer with dreaming spires, but we enjoyed every minute.

FILMS.

Taken.
Liam Neeson starred in this all action thriller. He played a retired CIA agent who went after the white slave captors of his daughter. If you saw Geena Davis in The Long Kiss Goodnight, Tom Cruise in the Mission: Impossible films, Matt Damon in The Bourne Identity or Gene Hackman in Target you will get the idea.
At a time when there is so much dross on television, Taken was a welcome change. Liam Neeson sitting in a chair reading a newspaper would be more watchable than many another actor delivering Hamlet‘s soliloquy and the catalogue of continuity goofs to be found on Google went by my Leader and I unnoticed. We were too busy enjoying the film to be sidetracked by trivia.
Wanted.
James McAvoy, Morgan Freeman and Angelina Jolie were the stars of this dip into mayhem. Based on a comic book limited series, its lineage was all too apparent, Decent plot twist and fun to watch, though.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Pt 1. (DVD)
The DVD is out just in time to be relished before the release of the final part in July.
I do not intend writing more about it here; Potter followers can find excellent Amazon reviews on the net.
We purchased the double disc set from them. Good price, too.

READING.

Christine and Christopher Russell.
My Leader was looking for a particular book in Waterstone's when we chanced upon this nice couple signing copies of their first two Warrior Sheep books The Quest of the Warrior Sheep and The Warrior Sheep go West (published by Egmont).
Intrigued, we bought them for me to read to Boo when he is a little older.
Meant I had to read them first. Any excuse.
So will he enjoy them when he is a little older?
I think he will.
And have I enjoyed them?
Ohmygrass yes!

164. Not bad here - think I'll stay.

2011-03-22T03:35:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Shake-up at the BBC.
Chris Patten, or Lord Patten of Barnes if you want to be formal, is one of those done-all-right-thank-you political figures (like Lord Coe, Lord Mandelson and many another Lord Elpus) whose charmed career proves it ain‘t what you know, it‘s who you know.
He has just been made Chairman of the BBC Trust.
It seems he doesn’t watch much TV but does have the right connections.
So now, to top up the £30,000 a year he is guesstimated to obtain as a paid advisor to BP (one assumes his advice was never sought as far away as the Gulf of Mexico) he has fallen into every OAP’s dream pension: £110.000 a year to sit his arse in at two or three meetings a week.
One can only assume the government is banking on him finding time between his advisories, honorary fellowships and position as Chancellor of Oxford University, to act as a Brit Joe McCarthy, rooting out all those involved in the notorious BBC left-wing conspiracy.
Expect heads to roll. Expect creepers to keep climbing. Expect no good to come of it. Political dabbling spells disaster.
(If in doubt see Police, Education and the NHS.)
And at ITV.
If George Orwell had written Nineteen Eighty-Four in 1984 it might have contained the Political Correctness Police, for surely PC is the present day version of his Thought Police.
Latest to fall foul of this insidious cult is the Midsomer Murders producer Brian True-May. He dared exercise his right to free speech with the revelation that ethnic minorities do not appear in his Midsomer villages because he is trying to present something that appeals to a certain audience, it seems to have succeeded (for 15 years) and he doesn’t want to change it.
Now he is in hot water.
For what? Telling the truth?
Shades of Gerald Ratner, are we still punishing people for that?
I don’t think there was any racist intent on the man’s mind. I’ve watched his programme since its inception and have honestly never noticed an absence of ethnic minorities. Why would I? The nineteen thirties England where I was brought up had no such thing. Proves his point really, doesn’t it?
Racism is ignorant lunacy and should be firmly discouraged, but political correctness is not the answer and only a tabloid mind would imagine it is.
People from abroad do play a crucial role in this country today, but surely they don’t have to appear in every act to prove the point.
After all, it isn’t as if every episode of Midsomer ended with a song by the Black and White Minstrels. Now that really would be something for the PC brigade..
If the law has been broken, act on it. If it hasn’t, drop it!
And re-instate Mr. True-May.

ABROAD.

Living here's not so bad.
Earthquake in New Zealand. Tsunami killing thousands and causing nuclear power leakages in Japan, trouble throughout the Middle East, civil war in Libya leading to air strike intervention.
Not so bad living here after all, is it?
Think I'll stay.

TELEVISION.

Mad Dogs. (Sky1)
It was a cast to die for; or at least to take out an extra mortgage for.
Max Beesley, Ben Chaplin, Philip Glenister, John Simm and Marc Warren, all in the same show. I’d have been very happy with 10% of their combined wages bill.
What? I wouldn’t buy a house in Majorca, I’d buy Majorca.
Ben Chaplin apart (anybody as unpleasant as Alvo, the character he played, had to be erased early on) the remaining protagonists were present throughout the entire four part series. It must have cost their paymasters a fortune. Needless to say they were worth every penny.
Strange ending, though. Very, very strange ending.
Marchlands. (ITV1)
The story behind little Alice’s sad death was revealed in the fourth and final episode. This was a welcome relief to the remainder of the cast, particularly those who had lived in the haunted house and especially to the woman who, right until the last moment, dogmatically refused to believe in ghosts.
Never mind spoilers, Alice turned out to be a nice little girl and everyone but the surviving members of her family lived happily ever after.
Outcasts. (BBC1)
Short titles, sci-fi and futuristic drama being all the vogue, Outcasts had a familiar feel to it.
What we had here was The Survivors evacuated from an uninhabitable or disappearing world (your guess is as good as mine) to a far from friendly planet five years’ space ride away.
In the real world a drop in viewing figures resulted in the programme being rescheduled from prime time on Mondays and Tuesdays to late night on Sundays. I missed an episode or two. Didn’t realise. Thought it was just bad continuity. By the time I cottoned on it was too late. Then the news leaked through. There will not be another series; not even to sort out the bevy of loose ends. So I shall forever wonder why, in a culture which could produce a shield powerful enough to protect the entire planet, people were living in a shanty town.
Ah well, ne’er mind.
Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is. (BBC2)
The format has been tried in various ways but this series puts two dealers in competition, using their own money, to find which of them can make the most money buying and selling antiques over the course of a week, profits to go to the individual‘s chosen charity.
I have no objection to the dealers (though many of the people with whom they do business will surely not welcome them so kindly after the programme has been aired): but I do object to the idiot voice-over and the ludicrous use of nicknames to describe them. The Fox? Knocker? The Hit Man? Makes them sound like a bunch of all-in wrestlers. I thought only snooker introductions had become that silly.
On the subject of idiot voice-overs, though…
Come Dine with Me. (C4)
I still avoid this puerile time-waster. My Leader watches it: she‘s the people person here. I not only lack patience with the backstabbing participants, I invariably finish up wanting to butcher and cook the mouthy twat who does the background commentary.
Slow roast on a spit, perhaps?
The Killing. (BBC4)
This dark Danish mystery is literally that: dark.
It’s the old CSI syndrome. Nobody seems to know how to switch a light on so they all shine torches everywhere. We have now reached episode 19 of the 20 part series and have had maybe half a dozen glimpses of Copenhagen in daylight throughout the lot.
Detective Inspector Sarah Lund has been in the dark so long she has become a life-risking fatalist: in pitch black conditions she ventures to obvious danger spots, leaves her gun in the car, advertises her location to any possible assailant by loudly enquiring whether anybody is there, waves her torch to no useful effect and constantly becomes separated from the colleague with whom she was initially instructed to collaborate. She was supposed to be transferring to Sweden. Believe it when it happens.
Don’t care about the dark. Don’t care about the subtitles.
Love it.
Silk. (BBC1)
Oh gawd, I thought, another bloody barrister thing. Good actors (Maxine Peake, Rupert Penry-Jones, Neil Stuke), but another bloody barrister thing?
I shouldn’t have prejudged.
Even more soap opera than the real thing, but very watchable.
Rather like it.
NCIS. (FX)
Despite its increasing resemblance to 1940s b/w English propaganda films (think Leslie Banks in Went the Day Well and Cottage to Let), we are still watching this delightful War On Terror twaddle. We were hooked long ago. If nothing else holds us, the chemistry between Gibbs and Abby never fails.
In recent series the scare-mongering Us versus Them storylines have been lightened by sideline stories, the latest of which featured Bob Newhart as Dr. Walter Magnus, former Chief Medical Officer of the department and an Alzheimer’s sufferer. His scenes with ‘Ducky’ Mallard (David McCallum) were excellent.
Mrs. Brown’s Boys. (BBC1)
Written by and starring Brendan O’Carroll and recorded in front of a live audience. They feckin’ laughed. We feckiin’ laughed. The PC are doubtless havin’ feckin’ apoplexy and the critics feckin’ hated it.
Has to be a huge feckin’ success.

163. Not Booker but very readable.

2011-03-01T03:33:00.000-08:00

HOME.

A bright morning.
Sitting in my cubbyhole, computer room, study (think modesty, realism or Hyacinth Bucket), listening to old classics on the ancient Aiwa and looking out at the familiar back-of-house scene bathed in wintry sunshine, I was at peace with the world until…
A gloomy forecast.
I picked up on news that the Isle of Wight would probably be saddled with two members of parliament instead of one following the next election (due in 2015).
My first reaction probably gets it about right: if this government has agreed to two for one it will only be because it expects another diehard Tory to be elected. Two wet planks wearing blue rosettes are as likely to win as one over here. Oh, following the Bembridge Harbour scandal there were a couple of nods in the direction of orange, but orange is this year’s blue isn‘t it?
Rest assured, whatever colour the pair start out as they will quickly prove to be chocolate fire-guards, the public will be burdened with yet another set of questionable expenses claims, and the Island will have gained nothing

AND ABROAD.

The Middle East.
Churlish really to complain about parliamentarians in this country.
Frequent bloody protest continues in Egypt, despite the removal of President Mubarak.
Hundreds have been killed by Gaddafi’s - allegedly mercenary - army in Libya.
Tunisia seems set to boil over.
We should keep out of it. We should never have been there anyway.
And that’s been my opinion since the nineteen forties.
New Zealand.
The earthquake at Christchurch has taken lives and demolished buildings. The Kiwis have never failed to support us in times of trouble. We should do everything in our power to help them now.
Never could understand why Heath chose to cut them dead and take up with Europe. His French was lousy anyway.

TELEVISION.

Faulks on Fiction. (BBC2)
Somebody at the BBC decided it was time to adorn a prime-time Saturday night spot with a touch of culture and, to the joy of booksellers I’m sure, commissioned Sebastian Faulks to chat about literary heroes, heroines, snobs and villains.
He is an urbane chap, decently educated, and he says little with which even an old-fashioned elementary schoolboy would disagree. Such is the range of his subject, however, that much is overlooked or ignored.
(At this point I think the subject becomes more reading than television and I courteously invite the reader to take it up again further on.)
My Life in Books. (BBC2)
This is another opportunity for familiar faces to impress us with their versatility.
Seems if they’re not skating, dancing or performing silly tasks in an imitation jungle for a couple of overpaid Geordies, they are (as I am sure their agents would confirm) dedicated bookworms.
I would have to be more than desperate for publicity before I agreed to appear on any programme fronted by Anne Robinson, but a couple of otherwise intelligent people now turn up each evening, presumably under the misguided impression they will simply be sought to talk about the books that have shaped their lives.
They really should know better.
'Rita Skeeter' Robinson cannot resist digging the dirt. Artfully choosing her moment she transforms the interview into a prurient quiz session.
Why does she do it?
Most likely answer: “It’s good tele, innit.”
Well, not for me it isn’t. I simply don’t care whether the person she’s talking to is gay, or a reformed cokehead, or a presenter who has been sought out by a dozen illegitimate children. It‘s none of my flaming business. Or hers.
Oh. I shall continue to watch the programme, but only in the hope that one of her victims will tell her where to shove her magic quill. And walk out.
South Riding. (BBC1)
I think I saw the cinema version. Must have been a hundred years ago. Ralph Richardson was in it. Upstaging rascal he was. Always liked him.
Anyway, it’s costume drama on Sunday night again. David Morrissey, Anna Maxwell Martin, Penelope Wilton and a barely recognisable Peter Firth are in it. Nobody upstages them. Douglas Henshall and John Henshaw are along for good measure.
I am fascinated by the closed little world depicted, but not surprised. I’m old enough to remember 'means testing.' From what my seniors told me, if concentration camps had been set up in this country back then there would have been no shortage of volunteers to run them.
Mean little race we can be.
Marchlands. (ITV1)
Three families living in the same house at separate times: 1968, 1987 and 2010. The story dodges about a bit, but basically comes down to the mystery of how and why little Alice drowned in 1967. It is a creepily cliched ghost yarn, but very watchable. Only one episode left, so this week Alice will probably tell us what did happen to her; or at least tell the woman who refuses to believe ghosts exist.
Mad Dogs. (Sky 1)
Taped - and have just watched - the first three episodes of this four parter. The last part will be shown on the same night as Marchlands.
Four blokes go to Majorca to visit an ostensibly wealthy mate who nobody with any sense would cross the road to meet.
So far things have gone from bad to worse.
More next time.

READING.

Footnote to Faulks on Fiction.
I cannot agree with Faulks’s contention that, after Sherlock Holmes, there were no heroes between the two world wars.
My boyhood was packed with heroes from our local twopence-a-book-a-week lending library, (two detectives and a western or two westerns and a detective chosen every Friday to be read over the weekend and returned on Monday).
Sadly, purists like Mr. Faulks and the late Julian Symons in his book Bloody Murder, chose to ignore, or sniffily dismiss as unreadable, most of the popular thrillers favoured by we tuppence-a-week bookworms back in the thirties and early forties.
Bulldog Drummond, the creation of ‘Sapper,’ H.C. McNeile, was a hero of that time, so was John G. Brandon’s A.S.P. (the Rt.Hon. Arthur Stukely Pennington would you believe?) and D.I. Patrick Aloysious McCarthy, a loose cannon cop before his time.
The phenomenal John Creasey’s The Toff and The Baron (written under the pseudonym Anthony Morton): Leslie Charteris’s Simon Templar (The Saint) and Berkeley Gray’s Norman Conquest, each cast in the same mould, were gloriously unstoppable amateur crime fighters.
Most of the writers had several pen names (Berkeley Gray - real name Edwy Searles Brooks - was also Victor Gunn, Rex Madison and Carlton Ross) and nearly all of them boosted their earnings by writing Sexton Blake stories.
Blake, with his assistant Tinker - a young man who lived with him without attracting adverse comment in more innocent (even blinkered?) times - was a hero of such likeness to Sherlock Holmes that he must have been a cousin from the other side of the tracks.
Many detectives combined brains with brawn. J.V. Turner, who wrote as Nicholas Brady and also, under his more famous pseudonym, David Hume, produced the Mick Cardby stories. Cardby was a two-fisted private eye with a police inspector father who kept an eye on him. Peter Cheyney wrote about Lemmy Caution and Slim Callaghan, both of them tough private eyes with nobody to keep an eye on them. All were infallible and charming.
Back then most heroes were tough but decent, even our boyhood ones: Rockfist Rogan (Champion) and Wilson (The Wizard) were comic book winners and the likes of Biggles (W.E Johns) William Brown (Richmal Crompton), Richard Hannay (John Buchan) and Tarzan (Edgar Rice Burrows) were champions in hardback.
Yes, fiction was crowded with heroes between the wars.
They may not have been up to Booker Prize standard, but they did exist..

FILM.

The King’s Speech.
It seems I am the only one in the world who has not seen it, so my Leader has persuaded me to accompany her today - she has already seen it but says it is worth a second viewing. Shan’t write about it next time. The awards have already said everything there is to say, though I am told Geoffrey Rush was brilliant and should really have won the Oscar for best supporting actor.
Nice that the best actor Oscar went to Colin Firth, though. Nice, too, that he did not start his acceptance speech by thanking his mother, father, wife, sons, agent, manager, pet cat and the tortoise at the end of the garden.
It’s all so bloody luvvie, isn’t it.
Jane Russell.
News this morning that this beautiful woman has died at the age of 89.
She may not have been the greatest actress in the world, but any lad who saw her debut in The Outlaw and did not madly envy Billy the Kid had to have had something wrong with him.

(Must finish now or the indexing of this will take longer than it took to write it.)

162. With scant resolve but much belief.

2011-02-14T07:03:00.000-08:00

HOME.

Lacking resolution.
I avoid New Year resolutions. So does my Leader. So does the cat Shadow.
In my case, the first month of the year has always gone before I take in that Christmas is no longer with us.
Anyway, I long ago resolved that resolution keeping requires too much willpower.
In my Leader’s case, she is too involved with family, friends and staying upright (a lifelong teetotaller, she is frighteningly prone to tripping over) to go making sudden lifestyle changes.
Furthermore, she recently took up pilates and has joined the W.I., so that‘s change enough, thank you.
As for the cat Shadow, he just says: “Me? Change? Na-a-ah. Why try to improve on perfection?” and scoots off through the cat flap ahead of my coarse one word reply.
Lacking credibility.
Are you as pissed off as I am by the constant “this has all been left to us by the left” whine of coalition mouthpieces every time another political balls-up comes to light?
They never learn, do they? This lot blames the last lot and the last lot blamed the lot before them.
If they put as much time into doing their best for the country as they do into scoring political points, promoting themselves on chat shows and writing Gilderoy Lockhart style books, we’d all be living in Shangri-La.

AND ABROAD.

Egypt.
I have been in Egypt twice. Each occasion was brief, but not brief enough, I was in the army and the visits involved incarceration in a transit camp at Port Fouad. Neither time was a particularly pleasant experience and my lasting impression of the country was that it bred some of the world’s most talented thieves.
Now public pressure has finally unseated President Hosni Mubarak, a dictator who, like Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe, refused to relinquish power.
Thousands of Egyptians, watched by the world and an army that had vowed not to fire upon them, turned out to peacefully protest his continued presence. In no time at all the cowardly bully boys who support him were attacking the protesters: hundreds were killed and thousands injured.
What will happen now is anybody’s guess. Mine is that if the current army administration ever steps aside it will only be to make way for another undesirable approved by the Oil Grabbing Club of America.
And that is the most thought I have given to Egypt since the Suez crisis postponed my departure from the army until the end of 1956.
I shall not repeat what I said about Eden, Nasser and Eisenhower at that time; they are all dead now and they were never on my Christmas card list anyway.

TELEVISION.

Silent Witness. (BBC1)
I hope this isn’t a spoiler, but Harry was bumped off and reincarnated in a way that made mockery of Bobby Ewing’s return to Dallas all those years ago. Series 14 is now over.
Do we need any more?.
Lark Rise to Candleford. (BBC1)
A good final series with misty-eyed Dorcas and dizzy housemaid Minnie finally getting their men; the postman‘s wife falling pregnant; Queenie sensing the grim future; Gabriel’s newfangled seed sowing machine a success and the return of Alf’s hopeless mother, convict Caroline.
Would have been nice if Emma’s husband could have made it, too, but even Ruraltania can’t have everything.
Any Human Heart. (C4)
I taped the four episodes of William Boyd’s fascinating drama and watched them recently. The actors who played different ages of the leading character, Logan Mountstuart, were so good I even stopped laughing at his name and the pair cast as the awful Duke and Duchess of Windsor were so convincing I badly wanted to slap them.
The murder of Sir Harry Oakes at the time the duke was governor of the Bahamas provided an interesting plot strand and the author’s article on the subject (published in The Guardian last year) can be found on Google under the title The real-life murder case behind Any Human Heart.
Arctic with Bruce Parry. (BBC2)
He has captivated desert tribes and charmed arctic tribes with equal ease. How does he do it? Well, he’s an obviously nice bloke who will have a go at anything and he doesn‘t mind being laughed at. Invariably he finishes up liked and respected. I have never met Bruce Parry but he is well up on my list of people who are good value.
Episodes. (BBC2)
In this barbed little comedy, television writers Bev (Tamsin Greig) and Sean (Stephen Mangan) have accepted an invitation to take their successful English sitcom across the Atlantic to be buggered about by the Americans.
So far every indignity imaginable has been heaped upon them including the introduction of Matt LeBlanc, played by Matt LeBlanc, as replacement for their own - Royal Shakespeare Company - leading actor (Richard Griffiths).
If you liked Friends you will probably like it: I didn’t so I don’t.
Gok’s Clothes Roadshow. (C4)
Of whom was Michael Buerk thinking when (in an outspoken few words about the ageism furore at the Beeb) he mentioned “mincingly camp” television presenters?
I have no idea, so don‘t ask me.
Oh, Gok Wan is back. Same protagonists. Same format. Same feel-good affectation. Same compulsive viewing. We’ll watch the lot.
He doesn’t hurt anyone, ol’ Gok.
Taggart. (ITV1)
With a blog title like Watching the Detectives you would be failing in your remit were you not still watching this unlovely bunch.
Jackie Reid (Blythe Duff), Robbie Ross (John Michie) and Matt Burke (Alex Norton) are still solving every mur-r-rder in Glasgow with practised ease and without so much as a mention of Stuart Fraser (Colin McCredie).
We missed the seemingly unmissed Stuart and, unlike his detective colleagues, went in search of him. Our enquiries revealed that Colin McCredie was simply telephoned one afternoon (by some woman in London) and told he was no longer in the show.
I imagine much the same thing happened to Hugh Fraser (Hastings), Philip Jackson (Japp) and Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) when Agatha Christie’s Poirot was apparently taken over by bloody accountants.
Strange and frequently cruel business, show business.

READING.

Michael McIntyre.
Readers of Life and Laughing who anticipate 300 bouncing pages of sheer hilarity are going to be disappointed. It falls short by 5 pages,
It also turns out to contain rather more life than laughter and to be a down-to-earth reminder that there is no such thing as overnight success in this world.
Michael McIntyre clearly deserves his excellent reputation.
Anyone who wants to be a stand-up should read him…and think on.
Judi Dench.
And Furthermore is another pleasant memoir by another pleasant actress.
I happened upon it by chance among my Leader’s ‘to read’ pile and read it through in a couple of days. It revealed little a fan of Dame Judi’s did not already know.
In the end I can only refer to my piece on Julie Walters (Post 120).
Graham Hurley.
Blood and Honey starts with a headless body washed up beneath cliffs on the Isle of Wight. The torso cannot be identified and DI Joe Faraday is soon embroiled in a seemingly no win investigation involving a nursing home owner with Bosnian connections.
DC Winter, in the meantime, has problems enough with his own head, a beautiful, sympathetic call girl and a ruthless businessman.
If I didn’t know better I would swear Graham Hurley was a policeman.

161. A warm, warm welcome and a last farewell.

2011-01-14T08:24:00.000-08:00

HOME
A warm. warm welcome…

To Ava Rose Bennett-Rice, daughter and first child of our step-grandson Theo and his lovely partner Caroline.
Ava was born on the 10^th January and weighed 6lb 1oz. Mother and daughter are doing well and T (who was born on the same day as me, but 45 years later) has already been inducted into the magic of nappy changing.
Congratulations to the parents and to new grandparents Neil and Pauline.
Gosh! Maureen and I are now great grandparents!
Look at her, though.
Ain’t she gorgeous?
A last farewell.
My mother’s funeral took place at the Isle of Wight Crematorium on Friday last. The service was conducted by her former vicar and friend of many years, Rev. Graham Akers, and was well attended by family, friends from Arreton C/E and Newport Congregational churches, the managers and several of the staff from Cornelia Manor Care Home where she had been a resident for the better part of the last ten years, and by several worthy individuals who braved the elements late in the afternoon on a bleak day simply to pay their last respects.
We thank them and may their god bless them.
Thanks also to those who expressed their condolences by e-mail or post. There was the published comment from Anonymous John, and there were longer, unpublished but saved, messages of sympathy from mainland relatives, and a pleasantly nostalgic one from Helmut Stacher in Austria.
She would have been extremely pleased.
A fitting last comment…
We gladly accepted the customary invitation to dine at daughter Roz’s place on Christmas Day.
Lunch was barely underway when grandson Ellis brightly inquired of me:
“How is G.G., Boo?”
Suddenly I had to break solemn news to a little boy.
“I’m afraid she died three nights ago, Boo,” I said. “She’ll have gone to heaven now.”
He considered this briefly before asking:
“Will they let her in?”
Any reply I might have made was forestalled by his own, swiftly delivered, coup de grâce.
“They let Michael Jackson in.”

FILM.

What American Movies Have Taught Us.
(Comical but true observations forwarded by friend Jan Bennett)
1) All bombs are fitted with electronic timing devices which have large red read-outs to tell you exactly when they will go off.
2) Should you need to pass yourself off as a German officer it will not be necessary to speak the language, a convincing accent will do.
3) All apartments in Paris overlook the Eiffel tower.
4) Most lap top computers are powerful enough to override a bank security system or the communication system of an invading alien civilization.
5) Every single person in martial arts film has a black belt in karate.
6) When staying in a haunted house, women investigating strange noises should be wearing their most revealing underwear.
7) 1 man shooting at 20 men has more chance of hitting them than 20 men shooting at 1 man if he is the hero.
8) During a police investigation it will be necessary to visit a strip joint at least once.
9) Large studio-type apartments in big cities are affordable by single people with a low wage.
10) The entire British population lives in London.
11) It doesn't matter if you are heavily outnumbered in a martial arts fight; your enemies will attack you one at a time while the others dance around you menacingly.
12) In musicals everyone you meet in the street will know all the words to the songs and the steps to the dances.
13) When a hero is captured by evil international terrorists, guns are not necessary to defeat them, sarcasm and wisecracks are the best weapons.
(And to round the number up, here are a few of my own)
14) If there is something nasty in the woodshed it will have been put there by Al-Qaida.
15) In thrillers the biggest name guest star will be the murderer.
16) In whodunits the very nicest character will be the murderer.
17) All the problems faced by people in musicals can be overcome by ‘putting on a show.’
18) There is no such thing as a secure law enforcement office.
19) Anyone who says: “Thar ain’t no injuns within miles o’ here” will immediately be struck by an arrow.
20) Films given a lukewarm reception in the thirties, forties and fifties will today be lauded as art house, film noir or classic.

TELEVISION.

Eric and Ernie. (BBC2)
Daniel Rigby was superb as the young Eric Morecambe and Bryan Dick excellent as little Ernie Wise, slogging their way around the variety circuits before being ‘discovered’ by television.
Victoria Wood and Jim Moir (aka Vic Reeves) were entirely convincing as Eric’s supportive mum Sadie and down-to-earth dad, George Bartholomew.
The brainchild of Victoria Wood and beautifully written by Peter Bowker, this delightful drama should win awards galore.
Incidentally, I well remember the appalling early shows that nearly scuttled their television future. Remember thinking: these lads are too funny for this crap…what the hell are they playing at?
Turns out they weren’t playing at anything - a dickhead BBC producer was.
If you missed the New Year‘s Day transmission, watch out for a repeat.
They really do not make ‘em like Eric and Ern anymore.
Primeval. (ITV1)
They’re back! Blundering prehistoric creatures lolloping through vortices in pursuit of screaming extras.
Connor (Andrew Lee-Potts) and Abby (Hannah Spearritt) are still in more danger of being destroyed by predatory bureaucrats than by any of the man-eating monsters on show. Lester (Ben Miller) is touchingly supportive of them in face of the ominously dictatorial new management team.
It’s to be in seven parts and we are already hooked.
Zen. (BBC1)
Rufus Sewell as Aurelio Zen, an Italian detective working in and around Rome, looks so much like a cousin of mine who I always greatly respected and liked that I would have watched this short series even if it was not all that good.
It is good and I hope there will be more to follow.
Agatha Christie’s Marple. (ITV1)
I presume the Agatha Christie’s this-and-that titles are the bright idea of a dickhead ITV producer. There must be a bunch of them on every channel.
Anyway, it was Julia McKenzie…arguably the best Miss Marple since Joan Hickson… again and the wholly improbable plot of The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side…again.
So we enjoyed it…again.
Silent Witness. (BBC1)
I’m still not sure about this ghoulish hardy annual, The technique of mixing background comment with sudden close-ups of horrendous happenings and/or sullied corpses is too imitation CSI for my taste.
Everybody acts well even when their character is required to react to an unbelievable situation in a bizarre way.
Maybe I just need a break from television violence.
Above Suspicion: Deadly Intent. (ITV1)
I’ve seen Lynda La Plante a few times on chat shows. Comes across as a thoroughly nice woman, so I always feel rather bad when I don’t like one of her stories or find myself detesting her coppers. Way back (in Post 115) I said Ms. Reilly and Mr. Hinds were fine as the detective duo in a yarn featuring Jason Durr. The two actors are still fine, but…
In this three-part offering, Ciarán Hinds’s DCS James Langton comes across as the nastiest, most self-serving, least competent piece of work to bedevil any police station anywhere and Kelly Reilly’s DI Travis as an unbelievably masochistic ninny who has fallen in love with him.
I watched it to the end and wondered why.
The Secret Mediterranean with Trevor McDonald. (ITV1)
Good ol’ Sir Trev. traipses around every posh spot and stays at every plush hotel along the Med.
He’s like Alan Whicker on speed.
Very nice, but I’m glad it’s not being funded with BBC licence money.
Come Fly With Me. (BBC1)
Was never a Lucas and Walliams fan; thought they were a bit something and nothing. Then I saw Matt Lucas’s Les Miserables appearance with Alfie Boe and was impressed with the little bloke’s determination and sense of the ridiculous.
Consequently I have watched this airport mockumentary with more kindly eyes and it has been great fun.
All Heathrow and Stansted is there!
Not Going Out. (BBC1)
Lee Mack and Co are back without Miranda Hart who has risen above the part-time cleaning job.
Painlessly sees off half an hour if you‘re not going out.

READING.

Halfway through a Graham Hurley and a third of the way through Michael McIntyre’s autobiography. Loads still to read.
More next time.

Happy New Year!

160. A Century Plus

2010-12-31T06:54:00.000-08:00

IN MEMORIAM.

Lilian Florence Barnden.
Lilian was born in Portsmouth shortly before midnight on the last day of December 1907, the third of the four daughter family of William Arthur Pope, a foreman baker and his wife Edith who, when he met her, was a cook at Charterhouse School.
Lilian often joked that had she been born a few minutes later she would have been a year younger. By the same token, she would have been 103 today had she not departed - as she arrived - a little early (22. 12. 2010).
In a life which saw two world wars, the early years of the aeroplane, radio, the telephone and television and the fall of the British Empire, she had a secure childhood, strictly disciplined by her mother and gently indulged by a father who, though absent during WW1, was one of those who fortunately survived the conflict. When he returned, “Ginny” (his pet name for her in reference to her beautiful golden hair) would have nothing to do with him until he shaved off the ‘military’ moustache he had grown during the war.
She always did know her own mind.
From early childhood Lilian was an entertainer. She danced, sang, acted, played the violin and once won a talent competition (a ten shilling note) in a Portsmouth theatre, for whistling. Unfortunately she had neglected to seek her mother’s permission beforehand so her triumph was short-lived. Her ears were boxed, her prize was thrown on the fire, and she was told: “A whistling woman and a crowing hen are neither fit for God nor men.”
They taught tough lessons, the Victorians.
By the time she reached her early twenties, Lilian’s dream of a career as a ballet dancer was over. She had suffered an injury to the base of her spine that was to trouble her on and off for the rest of her life.
In June 1929 she married William who worked for his uncles‘ building firm, They lived in and around Portsmouth, where they were members of the Portsmouth Choral Society and Will sang bass in Portsmouth Male Voice Choir.
In 1930 Lilian gave birth to son Dennis, coming close to death in the process. A year or two later (little was ever said of it) twin boys were stillborn and it was advised that the pair should discontinue trying for children. They responded by fostering Harold and Brian, the sons of their next door neighbour, when his marriage broke up.
After the blitzes on Portsmouth, the family - including the two lads - moved to a large house in Bognor Regis. The boys continued to be part of the family until their father remarried and they rejoined him. They forever remained kind and loyal honorary sons of “Aunty Barnden.”
Lilian and Will moved back to Portsmouth while the buzz bombs were still falling and settled in a flat in Southsea where they remained until the early fifties: they then moved out of town to Widley, on the side of Portsdown Hill. It was to be their final move; Will died suddenly at the age of 54.
Lilian continued to run a weekly old time dance in Portsmouth (she danced to Gold Medal standard) and obtained a job in Widley sub post office.
Dennis, not long out of the army, married Maureen and Lilian’s first two grandchildren, Neil and Jacqueline, were born in 1964 and 65 respectively.
In 1968 Dennis and Maureen moved to the Isle of Wight and bought a house at Wootton Bridge. Their daughter Rosalind was born there a couple of years later.
In 1973 Lilian moved across to be closer to the family. Initially she lived at Cowes, then came an eight years spell at Wootton, then two quite lengthy periods in flats at Newport. During this time, Roz gave birth to Lilian’s great granddaughter, Jessica, who was later to nickname her great grandmother G.G. Jess is now 15. Some ten years ago it became apparent that Lilian was in need of permanent assistance and she moved to Rosebury, now Cornelia Manor Care Home, where she has since remained.
For as long as she could see, hear and physically manage, she maintained an independent attitude to looking after herself, watching and feeding the birds outside her window, following events on her radio and television, and taking in news of the family, particularly her grandchildren and great grandchildren (Jess was joined by little brother Ellis five years ago and he was an instant favourite).
Lilian was a devout Christian, an unapologetic fault-finder, a good friend, an unrelenting enemy and, basically, a well-meaning human being for whom not that much ever went truly right.
God won’t find too much wrong in her. He kept her waiting far longer than she wished. If it comes to finger pointing, He won’t stand a chance.

159. Seasonal Greetings and all that...

2010-12-08T12:25:00.000-08:00

HOME.

Weather warning.
This lovely Fw email came from friend Ian Dillow.
There has been a weather warning advising that we could be getting two feet of snow.

So take care!
Snow and ice.
I sometimes wonder whether we Brits are not citizens of the silliest little nation in the world. Where else does the entire bang-shoot suffer an ignominious shutdown because of the weather?
Do Canadians, Russians, Scandinavians, find it necessary to close their airports? I think not. Do their trains cease to run and their major roads become impassable? Not so far as one hears.
We never are, and never have been, ready for difficult conditions. Penny-pinching administration, local and national, fails to purchase the necessary machinery or employ sufficient manpower to deal with major changes in the elements. Everything has been farmed out to sub-contractors who cut costs by cutting corners; the slightest crisis finds us wanting.
On the Isle of Wight we have been lucky this time. We had an overnight four to six inches of snow which lasted two days before being washed away by overnight rain. Our kids only lost a couple of school days.
Sorry kids, I know snowballs and sledges are more fun than the classroom..
But at my age one simply counts one’s blessings.

AND AWAY.

It’s only footie.
To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, only a man with a heart of stone could read the death of England’s 2018 World Cup bid without laughing.
Prince William and Cameron and Becks, presumably all expenses paid, were wasting their time when they ventured into enemy territory.. They might as well have been bidding to win the Eurovision Song Contest. What chance was there when newspapers in this country were declaiming (no doubt rightly) that certain FIFA officials are unashamedly corrupt? Did they think the little tossers would turn the other cheek?
Oh, don’t confuse me with someone who gives a shit: I don’t.
It’s only footie.
WikiLeaks.
And when it comes to little tossers who will never turn the other cheek…
The claim by WikiLeaks that former PM Gordon Brown sought to nullify the extradition of computer hacker Gary McKinnon to America (unsuccessfully of course), shows the silly asses running the US defence system to be every bit as meanly vengeful as are their buffoon counterparts the world over.
Now there are establishment lackeys in hot pursuit of WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange. How true the rape and suchlike allegations made against him in Sweden may be only he and his accusers will know.
But, stones and glasshouses notwithstanding, the word payback springs to mind.
At least, to my mind it does.

TELEVISION.

Strictly Come Dancing. (BBC1)
Strictly from a dancing point of view, the judges’ current favourite is Pamela Stephenson. She, celebrating her 61st birthday, danced the perfect tango with partner James Jordan.
Matt Baker, Scott Maslen and Kara Tointon continued to impress.
Gavin Henson still looked like a lost rugby player in search of a scrum and Ann Widdecombe looked more and more like the reason why Anton Du Beke should be awarded a medal for conspicuous gallantry.
Merlin. (BBC1)
Series conclusion: King Uther finally discovered that Morgana hated him. Thick Arthur still did not twig that Merlin was a wizard (let alone the greatest wizard in the world) and a bevy of photogenic actors were conscripted to be knights of the round table in the next series.
How could anyone not enjoy it?
Garrow’s Law. (BBC1)
The end of another series here, too. Fine speeches from Southouse (Alun Armstrong) and Garrow (Andrew Buchan) and a reasonable conclusion to the adultery case brought against our hero.
There’s loads of mileage left in this one.
Miranda. (BBC2)
Miranda Hart is funny in the same way that Hylda Baker was funny. You find yourself laughing even when you are not sure why.
If current popularity is the benchmark, she will eventually appear in a Christmas special. She has the right qualifications. She is funnier the second - and even third - time around.
And, make no mistake about it, the repeats could run for years.

READING.

J.K. Rowling.
I read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows right through with only a brief pause (in the middle) to see the film. This being J.K. Rowling, it was no less enchanting the second time around.
If you’re too grown up for Potter I’m sorry for you. You have missed out.

FILM.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Part 1).
Four of us went to see this. Little Boo didn’t come because he had seen the trailer on television and thought it ‘didn’t look suitable for a five year old.’
Unlike the Independent columnist Johann Hari, who found it insufferably boring, we all found it very enjoyable. But we had seen every one of the previous films and read the books. It helps.
Incidentally, my rereading of Hallows had reached exactly the spot where the film ended.
Part 2 should be an absolute cracker!

AND FINALLY (In case I don’t get back beforehand)

A Happy Christmas, Dear Reader, and
All the Very Best for the New Year.

158. More BBC than ITV.

2010-11-23T15:25:00.000-08:00

HOME.

What’s in an hour?
They did it again a week or so ago, Back went the hour.
“You’ll get an extra hour’s sleep,” said the Saturday night news reader.
No I bloody won’t. I thought: and I didn’t. I just got up at six o’clock instead of seven and took an hour longer drinking the morning cup of tea.
Now there are rumblings from British business people that they suffer huge losses because our time does not match that of the rest of Europe. Good. If enough of them scream poverty perhaps the silly sods in the House of Commons will see sense next year and finally set us at one time for all time
What’s in an hour? Weeks of readjustment, that’s what. And I can’t be having with it.
Neither, for that matter, can I be having with…
Autumn leaves.
Front garden and rear courtyard full of them. Not mine, as I repeat yearly; I have no trees. No, it’s the annual batch of religious leaves from the church along the way and educated leaves from the school across the road.
Well, I’m too old to get elected to the school governors now - anyway, the school across the road is to disappear in 2012 under the more-change-for-the-sake-of-it plans to abolish Island middle schools - so there’s no way I’m going to be able to arrange for the convenient erection of tall tennis fencing to confine falling leaves within the school, or even to convince fellow governors that I think the trees constitute a threat to kiddy winkies and should be removed lest they fall down during playtime.
As for the church…it has a boundary bordered by the tallest, healthiest, most leaf-abundant oak and poplar ever to shed russet recrimination on the irreligious: and we have apparently been chosen to take the rap for all the disbelievers in the terrace. Doesn’t seem fair, but what does?
More sweeping and swearing pending.
Lateral thinking?
Mo had a birthday party this month. She didn’t intend to, but grandson Ellis (who will never relinquish the opportunity for ‘pass the parcel’ and a piece of birthday cake) readjusted his busy social calendar to accommodate it. The coercive power of a five year old with tunnel vision is awesome.
The family assembled.
In the break between parcel passing and birthday cake scoffing I mentioned to son Neil that I have just finished reading a novel by Graham Hurley and hope to re-read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows before the film is generally released; this will mean quite a big read for me, I concluded; six hundred pages in less than a fortnight.
“But you only need read three hundred of them before the first film,” he said, “you’ll have until July next year to read the rest.”
Now that has to be common sense.
Or even lateral thinking?
A Trialist’s language.
Talking to friend Libby Lawless recently, we asked how husband Eamonn had fared in a recent invitation sheep dog trial in Belgium. Apparently it was a mini international event with teams from Holland, France, Belgium and the UK competing. To the best of their knowledge, the Trialists from the UK were the first ever to compete on the continent. Eamonn came a very creditable third.
“Good result after going all that way” I said to Libby. “Does Eamonn speak French or Flemish?”
She smiled: “No…he just whistles.”
Ever find yourself thinking: I wish I’d said that ?
A sort of cold canvassing.
Last week I received an e-mail from a lass with a double-barrelled Christian name (warning enough) telling me that a blog team of which I had never heard was currently reviewing retirement blogs and had included among them a review of my blog, complete with the wizard hat photo.
I read the little review, thought it quite charming and e-mailed back my thanks, along with the comment that I had not realised there were so many of us old buggers clogging up the web.
Almost by return of blog I was sought to write a review of wares they were selling, and/or include an advertising puff, in return for the free sample they would send me to keep.
I shall not take them up on it. I never have, nor ever will, write to order. Anyway, mine is more a BBC blog than an ITV blog.
I don’t carry advertisements.

TELEVISION.

The Pillars of the Earth.
This series, based on a Ken Follett book, starred Ian McShane as the sort of dastardly character he has been playing ever since he left loveable Lovejoy in England and swanned off to join the mighty list of Brits who have become scurvy knaves for American heroes to vanquish. Goes way back to when the likes of Sydney Greenstreet, George Sanders and David Farrar departed these shores.
The Pillars of the Earth struck the right note for those seeking a horribly bloodthirsty alternative to Cadfael.
Matthew Macfadyen was a priest with a divine mission. Eddie Redmayne and Hayley Atwell were attractive juvenile leads and the entire cast basked in the OTT mayhem of 12th Century England.
We enjoyed it.
Garrow’s Law.
Alun Armstrong, Andrew Buchan, Rupert Graves and Lyndsey Marshall have reconvened for this prize period tosh, beautifully written by Tony Marchant. .
Upright hero. Faultless heroine. Villainous villains on both sides of the law. Sunday evenings remain good for the goggle eyed.
Love it.
NCIS.
Every now and then the strain of churning out multiple series of this show (we are now on Series 8) becomes somewhat noticeable.
In a recent episode, Royals and Loyals, a major in the British marines turned up dressed like a character from The Student Prince. Where did they get the uniform from? The car park attendant? I expected him to burst into “Drink! Drink! Drink!” at any moment.
The lad who played the part was straight out of Murder She Wrote via ‘Gawdblessyer, Mary Poppinsh!’ and any commanding officer I ever met would have have had him drummed out of the service immediately for impersonating a brigadier - very badly!
Strictly Come Dancing.
The competition hots up. Felicity’s gone. The most painfully self-conscious rugby player on any dance floor anywhere is still there, and the least capable dancer in Strictly history is voted back every week; just for a laugh.
At the risk of being a pompous twit, I do hope public love of the ridiculous will not later result in the removal of talented performers; just for a laugh.

READING.

Graham Hurley.
I have now finished Nocturne. Cannot remember reading such a straightforward, no-nonsense, novel since way back in the days of Philip Gibbs (Thine Enemy) and Nevil Shute (No Highway).
Intriguing and disturbing and ultimately heartening.
Great to enjoy a damn good read again.
J.K. Rowling.
Only had to start reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows again to be caught up in the spell cast by J.K. Rowling throughout the entire Potter saga. I care not what any patronising nit-picker may say, she’s magic.
Can’t leave the book now.
Words on the film next time.

157. Halloween 2010

2010-10-31T13:22:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Potter time again!
On the 19th November the last Potter story, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1, will be released worldwide: Part 2 will come along next July. The success of the films will be governed by good acting, compelling presentation and imaginative direction. One can only hope all will show more inspiration than does the hackneyed addition of Part 1 and Part 2 to the title.

i.
As mentioned elsewhere within these posts, my preferred newspaper is The Independent. It carries a variety of opinion, is well written and, in common with the newspaper I dreamt of writing for in my youth, the News Chronicle, will quite likely end up in the hands of the right wing Daily Mail.
The decision by proprietor Evgeny Lebedev to launch i, a precis Inde priced at only 20p, is either far-sighted or desperate (depends on your viewpoint): it is certainly a brave venture.
I have purchased the new daily since its inception and it is very readable. True it contains a load of advertisements, but they obviously offset the reduced price and they do include Hyundai which, since we bought the i10, is fine by me.
The boy behind the counter in our paper shop muttered ‘There’s not much in it,’ when I cheerfully remarked that I thought it good value.
Age forestalled a quick response. Had it not I would have said: “Well, you didn’t expect tits for twenty pence did you?”
Don’t think quickly enough nowadays.
Visitors.
One morning last week friends Anonymous John and Sheila came in for elevenses. The cat Shadow (apparently determined to live up to the Brat Cat nickname bestowed upon him by granddaughter Jess) chose the occasion to indulge in some of his more irksome behaviour.
He prowled morosely through every downstairs room, declined an invitation to sit on the windowsill - he is not comfortable with the secondary double glazing - and made clear his displeasure that the customary human population of his home had doubled in one morning.
“I don’t know what’s come over him,” said Maureen, “He’s not usually like this.”
“Perhaps he’s wrestling with the last line of a poem,” suggested John, gently.

TELEVISION

The Hairy Bikers’ Cook Off. (BBC2)
This pair have been reinventing themselves since way back in the days when David Myers was a make-up artist and Simon King a location manager. Lord only knows how they landed those jobs but no doubt they were good at them.
They then became television cooks, clearly taking the opportunity of a gap in the market when the death of Jennifer Paterson brought an end to The Two Fat Ladies. Hairy Bikers was obviously a better soubriquet than Two Fat Blokes would have been, but the programme was an unashamed rip-off - as have been subsequent variants.
Now increasingly popular, and affectionately known as Dave and Si, they are hosting this recycled Ready Steady Cook/Master Chef crap with all the aplomb you might expect of two such experienced television performers.
They are not foul-mouthed footballers calling themselves chefs, or market place greengrocers masquerading as nutritionists, they are a couple of seasoned opportunists from Tyne and Wear who know how to woo a television audience - and that includes simply calling themselves cooks.
I loathe reality television.
But, perhaps against my better judgment, I still like the Hairy Bikers.
Strictly Come Dancing. (BBC1)

As anticipated, all the really good dancers, plus the joke entrant, are still in.

READING.

M.C. Beaton.
Returned from an enjoyable stroll with Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dibley and am now half way through Nocturne by

Graham Hurley.
Nocturne is told in the first person, by young media graduate Julie Emerson, and is such a departure from the Faraday stories that one cannot but wonder at the sheer versatility of the writer. More later.
In the meantime, my mention of Mr. Hurley (Posts 153 - 155) brought an interesting email from former Wessex Regional Health Authority PRO and editor of the award winning NHS magazine Link
Ian Dillow.
It seems that Ian and Graham Hurley have been friends for nigh on 40 years. Back in the early seventies the pair of them, together with the now departed John East (former Head of Addictions - drugs, alcohol and gambling - for Hampshire County Council), set up a charity film group called Project Icarus with a view to ‘bringing people down to earth about drugs.’
Their first film, “Better dead?” shocked the three of them by winning the Chicago Film Festival. It became required viewing for recruits to Britain’s armed forces and was shown in secondary schools throughout the country.
With money coming in they turned Icarus into a registered charity and went on to produce films on such topics as LSD, burn injuries, mental handicap etc. They had offices on the outskirts of Portsmouth and only wound down about six years ago. That’s it…and pretty much the way ol’ Dillow tells it.
Some people really are good value.

ENDPIECE.

Eamonn Lawless.
Eamonn regularly forwards funny and appropriate emails to us. This gem is a reminder that we were enjoying the dance long before 'strictly' came along.

Whoever put this music video together is an editing genius !!!....Speakers ON !!!!!!!!!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYL3j27sSH8

156. Not much change here then

2010-10-17T10:41:00.000-07:00

HOME.

When is an e-mail an eye-opener?
In an exchange of e-mails leaked - what a meaningful word that is nowadays - to the County Press, Isle of Wight MP Andrew Turner has been accused by Tory Councillor Edward Giles of lying and stirring trouble in his handling of issues involving the Isle of Wight Council.
In previous posts I have expressed my opinion of the Tory MP; it has not been flattering and it has not altered. If, however, he has somehow publicised the fact that Island bus fares are appallingly high, Island highways are appallingly ill-kept and Island administration is an appalling shambles, he will have told nothing but the truth: a rarity in any politician.
As for Mr. Giles…Cabinet member for environment, transport and corporate services? Where the hell does he think he’s coming from?
For that matter, where the hell do any of these little upstarts think they’re coming from? And which bright spark first suggested it would be a good idea to adorn them with mock-parliamentary titles?
Surely all of us would be better served if they remembered they are simply local councillors, dropped the pretence of being something more - they’re not - and refrained from throwing their toys out of the pram at the slightest hint of criticism, from whatever source.
The Council and Tory group leader (don’t ask, but I think that used to be the chairman)) was reported as saying: “Clr Giles was articulating the administration’s view,” by which I take it he meant saying what we wanted him to say.
Mr. Turner might live to regret upsetting such sensitive party pigmies.
I wouldn’t let it bother me.
They are there to serve, not rule.
And if they don’t know the difference they should get the hell out of it.
When is a poem not…?
Poetry Week 2010 has come and gone but the 2010 National Poetry Competition is still open for entries; closing date 31st October.
Just in passing I mentioned it to the cat Shadow.
“You’re a bit of a poet,” I said. “Might suit you,”
His demeanour suggested a shrug. (How does he do that?)
“No way, mate,” he said. “I’ve read the spring 2010 issue of Poetry Review and I wouldn’t stand a chance. My poems rhyme.”
Know what he means.
But I thought it was worth a try.
The Flu Jab Club.
Lord how fast a year passes! We have just held the Flu Jab Club AGM again. No minutes. No agenda. Simply four friends strolling from the surgery to a popular local tea shop for light refreshment and an hour of small town gossip while they recover from the non-ordeal of a two second flu jab.
There is talk that next year the jab could be replaced by a patch.
The Flu Jab Club will then become The Flu Patch Club.
We shan’t vote on the change of name.

AND AWAY.

254 OBA Reunion 2010.
This year the reunion was held at Ramada Tamworth Hotel and was quite well supported considering the hotel is a ten mile, £30, taxi journey from Tamworth railway station.
We journeyed up by car on Friday 1st. October and it rained heavily throughout the entire trip. At times spray from fast moving cars and large vehicles blinded following traffic in all three lanes and every direction sign on the motorway was obscured. The lion’s share of our driving was undertaken by friend Jim Jenkins who drove us from his home near Salisbury. I only had to get our car to his place and that was enough for me.
It was good to see many familiar faces again, though a couple of my closest boyhood friends did not make it: one of them has all but given up driving now and the other’s wife was indisposed. Age catches up and eventually overtakes us all.
The Ramada Tamworth is far out in the country, half a mile from Appleby Magna (a village so charming and English I half expected to see Margaret Rutherford riding through it on a tricycle), so anybody without wheels will not even get there. But our room was comfortable, the meals were good and friendly staff provided an excellent service throughout our stay.
Bad weather also blighted the return journey, but a stop-off at Oxford, for lunch with daughter Jac, considerably sweetened the pill.
We arrived home swearing - there was a definite blue haze around me - never to undertake such a journey in such weather again and convinced (no matter what the earnest advocates of Open The Nation’s Doors To All may preach to the contrary) that England is now far too full of people and its roads are a bloody nightmare.

TELEVISION.

New Tricks. (BBC1)
They’re back again. Just as welcome and homely and reliable.
Dennis Waterman still comes across as your typical bloke next door, James Bolam remains that reserved chap who carefully makes up his mind before he accepts you and Alun Armstrong continues to be the nice fellow who randomly chats to you in the supermarket.
James Bolam’s real life wife, Susan Jameson, is still Brian Lane’s (Alun Armstrong) long suffering wife Esther - a woman with whom one cannot help but sympathise - and Amanda Redman is still the female boss accepted by even the most chauvinistic male.
Series Seven and it could run forever.
Strictly Come Dancing. (BBC1)
Celebrities who quickly become dancers. Celebrities who cannot and never will become dancers. Token joke entrant. Beautiful costumes. Great orchestra and chorus. Tireless professional dancers, Tiresome old compere.
No change here then.
Downton Abbey. (ITV1)
Put the glorious Maggie Smith (at her most imperious as Violet, Dowager Countess of Grantham), and believable Hugh Bonneville (as her son Robert, Earl of Grantham), together with a stellar cast including the likes of Jim Carter and Penelope Wilton and you can be assured of a dependable upstairs downstairs drama. This one is written by Julian Fellowes who appears to have set it in the next property along from Gosford Park.
Where would we be without the costume crowd on a Sunday evening?
Harry and Paul. (BBC2)
Was disappointed with their last effort and cannot take to this one. Never mind, I doubt they will notice my absence from their viewing public.
Ask Rhod Gilbert. (BBC1)
Why?

RADIO.

Golden Oldies.
Still in search of the perfect replacement for Wogan, I was directed to Angel Radio, Isle of Wight which turns out to be a non-stop collection of truly old recordings. Some of them, by almost forgotten singers like Malcolm Vaughan for example, are gems. Many of them are thirties dance band dross which was the forever background to our before-television thirties lives.
Apart from the gems I can’t say I miss any of it.

READING.

M.C. Beaton.
Have read Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet and Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener. Again good, easy reading; though the gardener takes quite a long time to pot.
Now I am following the enthusiastic sleuth’s adventure with the Walkers of Dembley. Eclectic cast are in thrall to the frequently formidable, strangely likeable Agatha.
Me too.
Back after the walk.

155. Comings and goings and an anniversary.

2010-09-22T00:05:00.000-07:00

HOME.

The Bestival.
Last week the monthly lunch club I attend visited the Jolly Sailor at Old Bursledon, a pleasant pub situated along the River Hamble. Upon our return on the Red Jet from Southampton we were met by two police persons and a dear little spaniel dog. They stood halfway along the tunnel leading to and from the jetty at Cowes and their interest was entirely focussed on those disembarking. The police persons maintained an alert look while the little spaniel sniffed methodically. It ended in an anticlimax. None of us attracted special attention.
“They’ll be on the lookout for drugs,” said one of my companions sagely. “It’s the Bestival.“
The Bestival is the final musical event of the season over here. Lasts for four days. Attracts some great groups and some foul weather. Many of the audience are too stoned to know much about either. Granddaughter Jess, a non-smoker, reckons the way to avoid getting high is to avoid low flying clouds. She and her parents - also non-smokers - went, as they always do, for the music and the fun. They were not disappointed. It was a gloriously musical, fun-filled, mud-wallowing occasion and they had a great time.
So where was the little spaniel? I wondered. Did it give up sniffing after its lack of success at Cowes? Well, apparently not. It was on site sniffing the selected. Not everybody. Just enough suspected junkies and recognised pushers to justify its employment.
All sounds very civilized to me.
The Case of the Frozen Ipod.
Few weeks back Maureen bought an Ipod. She obtained a selection of games to play on it and set about hurling exploding birds at pigs in tin hats etc. All went well until she connected it to my computer to do some sort of update or other; I’ve no idea what. Don’t understand any of it. But the contraption froze. Nothing moved,
She went through set procedures; pressed all the advised buttons; sought the guidance of the manufacturer and of family and friends; finally disconnected it and tried again the following day. Nothing moved.
She then took it to the local retailer to say: “Repair or replace, please.”
“Have you tried doing…(blah blah blah)?” said the manager.
“Yes. that doesn’t work.”
“How about…(blah blah blah)?”
“That doesn’t work, either.”
“If you take it to Currys,” said the senior salesman, clearly unaware that he was walking on quicksand, “ they might be able to restart…”
Mild Maureen departed. My Leader emerged. “Never mind Currys,” she interrupted gently: “I bought it from you and I expect you to deal with it. Repair or replace.”
“It’s a 3 megabyte model,” said the manager. “We don’t have any in stock at the moment: we could replace with the 8 megabyte, but that’s £50 more.”
My Leader shook her head. “Can’t afford that. Repair this or replace it.”
The manager fiddled with the controls, got nowhere, asked if he might keep it overnight for further examination.
“Yes, but don’t go breaking into it and invalidating my guarantee,” said the now implacable Leader.
There was, he promised, no fear of that happening.
The next day only the senior salesman was in evidence. The bad news was that they had been unable to unfreeze Maureen’s Ipod. On a shelf behind the counter there was an Ipod with a lead wrapped around it.
“That will be my no cost replacement then,” said my Leader.
The salesman floundered. It was an 8 megabyte job, he would have to phone the manager for confirmation. The manager confirmed. Replacement on shelf. No charge.
“Thank you,” said Maureen.
Eat your heart out Dominic Littlewood.
The Case of the Great Britain Run.
“It’s the Great North Run on Sunday,” I said.
“I know,” said my Leader. “Heather and one of her daughters are doing it.”
(Heather is a friend who lives a short distance from us.)
“They must be keen if they’re going all the way up to Newcastle,.” I said.
“I think they’re doing it in Portsmouth,” she said.
“That’s a helluva long run to the starting line,“ I said.

AND AWAY.

The Pope.
In case you hadn’t noticed, Pope Benedict XVI (an elderly man who has done me no harm) has been here. His visit started in Scotland, where he met HM Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip (an elderly couple who have done me neither harm nor favour), plus the customary coterie of dedicated creeps and devoted ring-kissers. He was then driven off in his popemobile to face the hoped-for crowds.
In Princes Street, surrounded by thickset security men,. he received an enthusiastic welcome from Edinburgh’s cosmopolitan populace. He sensibly had a tartan scarf - which I took to be McPontiff - draped over his shoulders. Coach loads of children, brimming with day-out excitement, were in attendance from Catholic schools.
I guess his visit will go down as a resounding success. Nothing was said to suggest that Catholic priests known to have offended against children will in future be defrocked. No lessening of the intransigent stance on abortion and contraception was detectable.
But most Roman Catholics will be happy that he came and I don’t suppose the bill will be anything like the one for the 2012 Olympics.
I believe in none of it, but live and let live.
The Press and the Internet.
And when it comes to live and let live, is it my imagination or has the web finally driven the entire world of journalism into a state of paranoia?
I can understand professional writers becoming irritated at the tidal wave of advice, gossip and (frequently worthless) opinion freely available to those prepared to spend their lives surfing the net for it; but I find difficulty in understanding why proud, hard-boiled journalists should become quite so fearful and indignant at the mere mention of blogland. I thought only the acting profession was that insecure..
A couple of weeks back my favourite tilter at windmills, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown of The Independent, devoted her column to castigating the alleged instigator of those Sunday-rag-like rumours about William Hague which may have drifted past you on television news programmes. In an article headed. The stench from the blogosphere she placed the blame for this, and every other tawdry, spiteful act of minor celebrity defamation, squarely on the shoulders of irresponsible bloggers in general, and one chap (whose name I forget but it’s a pseudonym anyway) in particular.
Short of closing the web completely, or electing a dictatorship dedicated to the imprisonment of internet rabble rousers, I can see no solution to the concern felt by those who see cyberspace as a growing threat to conventional news coverage and our way of life. Change is inevitable and seldom for the better. Newspaper people are no strangers to it.. You just have to swim with the tide. If you don’t, you drown.
William Hague will soon recover.
Many jobless miners never will..

TELEVISION.

Merlin. (BBC1)
Hooray! Merlin (Colin Morgan) is back in a thirteen part package of magic and mayhem.
Brave, thick Prince Arthur (Bradley James), who will eventually take credit for inventing the round table, has still not realized that his put-upon manservant is a master magician. King Uther Pendragon (Anthony Head) is suffering from the unwell wishes of his ward Morgana (Katie McGrath); and Gaius (Richard Wilson) continues to keep a benevolent eye on our hero as does the talking dragon which sounds remarkably like John Hurt.
Stories, locations, special effects are great: acting is excellent.
Love it.
Grandma‘s House. (BBC2)
Beware a series written - or even partly written - by the star. Simon Amstell co-wrote this throwaway little piece and it was none the better for it. Geoffrey Hutchings as Grandpa had the best lines and made the most of them.
But it finished up like a weak, Jewish version of The Royle Family.
Shame: we rather like Amstell.
Joe Maddison’s War. (ITV1)
This lovely old-fashioned play was written by the late Alan Plater and was completed shortly before he died. It was written as a one-off for Kevin Whately, was set on Tyneside in the Second World War, and was perfectly played by the star and a splendid line-up of co-stars including Melanie Hill, Robson Green, Derek Jacobi and John Woodvine.
Loved every moment of it, but I’m an old-fashioned bloke so for me Plater could do no wrong. His Beiderbecke trilogy was a work of genius and he will be much missed.
Goodbye, definitive playwright.
Spooks. (BBC1)
Harry, Ruth, Lucas and Tariq started off at Ros’s funeral. After that I found myself, literally and mentally, all at sea.
Series 9 of this murderous, twisting, treacherous spy romp, is going to be every bit as lunatic as its predecessors. I shall watch and wonder and absorb at least one useful snippet from each of the eight episodes.
Lesson 1: Beware of Spooks bearing booze.

READING.

Graham Hurley.
Finished Angels Passing and am now a confirmed Hurley follower. I know many former police detectives and DI Joe Faraday is so real he could be any one of them.
Must get back to M.C. Beaton’s Agatha Raisin now. I know nobody like her.

FOOTNOTE.

Anniversary.
Maureen and I celebrate our 48th wedding anniversary today. A long time? Yes. WE ARE A VERY STUBBORN COUPLE.
(Helps a bit if you love each other too.)

154. A couple of farewells and a pair of trout.

2010-09-03T09:48:00.000-07:00

Sam.
In my last post I wrote of an email I had received from an old boy who mentioned “my fishing buddy Sam with the two trout we caught.”
I had intended to include Sam’s picture at the time but my technical know-how proved to be gloriously inept (as it often does) and I chose instead to stay with the solitary, rather nice, picture of Emma Thompson.
However, just in case you have not seen the email and are curious (the old boy’s spouse forbade him fishing again after she had seen it) this is his fishing buddy Sam with as fine a pair of trout as you might see anywhere. I cannot imagine what the spouse’s objection was.

HOME.

Edinburgh Fringe.
It’s the time of year when every has-been, wannabe, will be, won’t be and loony in the world of acting and comedy descends on Edinburgh to be discovered, rediscovered, vaguely remembered or hastily forgotten.
There are a few regal offerings and a fair amount of …king rubbish; but it’s a good place to be at this time of year.
Come to think of it, it’s a good place to be at any time of year.
Summer‘s over.
The Fringe runs throughout the last three weeks in August and the first week of September. Don’t know how festival and other event people quite manage it, but when it comes to attracting inappropriate weather they do have a considerable knack: it follows most of them around. Surprisingly not so bad at Wimbledon and Cowes this year, but did you see the pictures from Reading?
In the past couple of weeks we have had pounding rain, gale force winds and enough leaves and other people’s bloody rubbish in our garden to keep a troop of bob-a-job lads (remember them?) going for a month.
And it ain’t even autumn yet.
Summer’s over.
But this is England so you never know…
Our space.
We moved here about ten years ago from a nice flat, looking out to sea in Ventnor. We have never regretted the move. When you live in a flat you never really own the place; not even if you’re freehold. This is our space and, within the sometimes irritating constraints of Listed, we are our own masters. This year my Leader filled the front garden and the courtyard at the back with potted flowers, mostly geraniums and petunias she tells me: I don’t know one flower from another. They are just going off now, but the whole place has been a glorious blaze of colour and I have loved it.
Thank you my Mo.

AND ABROAD.

Much ado about nothing - again.
Crikey, no sooner had Emma Thompson announced her intention of taking a year off work than there she was in America advertising The Return of Nanny McPhee (we know it as Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang, so I assume a big bang means something other than a loud explosion in the US). Apparently all went well over there until she appeared on a chat show where she casually offended every sensitive soul on the Isle of Wight (not a difficult undertaking) by joking about Islanders stoning, flogging, shooting or torturing everyone they perceived as undesirable: .
My instant reaction was hearty laughter; and if those who purport to represent us had even the slightest sense of humour, theirs would have been the same. When asked for quotes they could have replied along the lines of: “Tell her she’d be quite safe over here. Not as Sybil Trelawney or Nanny McPhee of course. We still burn witches.”
They chose instead to be affronted by her jocular effrontery…waxed sadly indignant to press reporters…clearly welcomed the opportunity to be mentioned on the same page as an international celebrity…and will now be basking in their brief brush with fame.
She must surely be experiencing a touch of déjà vu. In 1994 she won an Evening Standard British Film Award (Best Actress) for Much Ado About Nothing.
Can there be any more ado about nothing than this?
She should be nominated for another award.
How about Best Bundle of Mischief 2010?
I’d vote for her.
With a great big grin on my face.

TELEVISION.

The Deep. (BBC1)
My earliest memory of Minnie Driver is as Ellie in the 1995 television series My Good Friend with George Cole and Richard Pearson. She was in her mid-twenties, easily kept pace with her experienced co-stars and took off when the first series ended to find further fame and eventually to live in America. In common with most showbiz folk, her private life has been even more erratic than her career, but I liked her in 1995 and I still like her now. I certainly like her far more than I liked The Deep.
Put it down to water on the brain if you will but, just as I didn’t know what to make of it in Post 153, the final episode of this wet series simply left me doing the dog paddle. I couldn’t get to grips with the Russian presence, the possible Chinese intervention, the deadly viruses, the alternative power source malarkey or the big business involvement. I’ll go no further than that; you may have recorded it and I do not intend to launch SS Spoilers for you.
Suffice to say that despite buoyant performances by Minnie, James Nesbitt, Goran Visnjic and the rest of a strong cast, for me it went down like a depth charge threatened submarine.
Dive! Dive! Dive!
BBC Proms 2010. (BBC2)
Rodgers and Hammerstein. I was about to start moaning again at the dearth of tuneful, romantic offerings at the Proms when along came this wonderful evening of much loved music from the mid twentieth century.
In a concert performance arranged and conducted by John Wilson (who masterminded last year’s MGM musicals Prom) we were treated to songs from Carousel, Oklahoma, The King and I, The Sound of Music, South Pacific etc. and we thoroughly enjoyed every minute.
The orchestra consisted of dance-band and classical musicians, hand-picked by the conductor: the Maida Vale Singers provided chorus numbers. Soloists on the night were Sierra Boggess, Anna Jane Casey, Kim Criswell, Rod Gilfry, Julian Ovenden and (off stage) Maureen and Dennis Barnden.
So far no complaints from the neighbours.
The Bill. (ITV1)
So Sun Hill has hung up its truncheon at last. Not a lot to say. I’m sure it will be missed by many; it had been going for 27 years. Lost interest myself just after Bob Cryer (Eric Richard) departed the scene and that was way back in 2001. After that too many know-it-all directors, executive producers or whatever took it in turns to change the format until it went from cop show to just another soap. I believe it had now tried to reverse that trend, but by the time it it was marked for the axe viewing figures had reached a point beyond recapture. The two part final story was well acted and tensely told.
Ah well…
Last of the Summer Wine. (BBC1)
And another goodbye. After 37 years running to 295 episodes we have had to bid a final farewell to Cleggy and Co. I shall miss them. Roy Clarke OBE, the writer, comes across as somewhat humourless in interviews. It has to be a façade. How can a man who has written Open All Hours and Keeping Up Appearances, as well as every single episode of Last of the Summer Wine, be other than full of humour? I doubt he’d thank a body for saying so though. No matter. I wish him good health and continued success. He’s eight months older than me and with any luck he’ll produce a few more comedy classics for me to blog about before either of us kicks the bucket.

READING.

Graham Hurley.
Still reading Angels Passing. My reading is slow but that has nothing to do with the story which I find moves me to despair. After watching the final episode of The Bill, this warts and all depiction of violent Pompey is a timely reminder that vicious drug criminals are everywhere and far closer to home than most of us imagine. Compulsively written and wincingly accurate..
Final report in the pipeline.

SOCCER.

England v. Bulgaria.
“England - Bulgaria at Wembley tonight.” I said to the cat Shadow, “Reckon England to win?”
“Is it a friendly?” he asked.
“Euro 2012 qualifier,” I said. “We did quite well against Hungary, though.”
“That was a friendly,” he said. “I assume this one’s for real.”
“Well…yes, but I think Fabio’s feeling quite confident about it,” I said.
“I think Fabio was feeling quite confident about South Africa,” he said.
I didn’t have an answer to that so I didn’t try to reply.

153. In the absence of my Leader.

2010-08-20T02:48:00.000-07:00

Emma Thompson

ABROAD.

Emma Thompson.

This fine actress was recently awarded the 2,416th Star of Fame outside the Pig 'n' Whistle pub in Hollywood. Well deserved. She’s magic. Hugh Laurie and other famous friends attended the ceremony. It is unlikely that any of the bitchy writers who so readily pour scorn on her were present. Now she talks of taking a year off work to concentrate on family life. Good for her: though the harpy hacks will doubtless sniff at that, too.
Meantime, my Leader and I will watch our Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang DVD with extra pleasure and make doubly sure we do not miss her appearances in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Heck, after that she’ll be back. And, who knows? More Nanny McPhee?

HOME.

Granddaughter Jess.
Jess is at that early teens stage of life when adulthood is just around the corner but there are still a few steps to go.
Thanks to a glorious sense of the ridiculous she mostly avoids teenage angst. Among her recent zany offerings this one particularly appealed to me:
“I was wondering…if you tied a slice of bread and butter, butter side up, to a cat’s back and dropped the cat off the kitchen hardtop…how would it land? On its paws? Or flat on its back on the butter?”
She’ll do.
Emails.
Nice people still keep forwarding emails in droves, many of them hardy annuals. This week I have had the one about the impertinent young man being verbally floored by the dry old ’un: “You’re right son, we didn’t have the things you’ve got when we were young…so we invented them…”
Then there has been the glorious picture of ‘my fishing buddy, Sam, with the two trout we caught’…they still really are a nice pair of trout, too…and finally there has been the one about Mujibar, now working at a call centre in India, who famously made the following sentence with the words yellow, pink and green: “The telephone goes green green, I pink it up and say: ’yellow, this is Mujibar.’
If you are on my mailing list and haven’t received any of them from me it will be because, though I can still remember them from way back, I can completely forget to forward them this week.
It’s an age thing.

TELEVISION.

The Silence. (BBC1)
We recorded this four part thriller and watched it in one long session. It tells of 18-year-old Amelia, a profoundly deaf young woman, who witnesses a brutal murder. Her hearing problem, the struggle she is having with new cochlear implants and, among other things, the fact that she is staying with her Uncle Jim (Douglas Henshall) and Aunt Maggie (Dervla Kirwan) initially makes for difficulty in reporting what she has seen, even though workaholic Jim is a senior police detective.
Gina McKee plays Amelia’s concerned, overprotective mother, Annie, and Hugh Bonneville plays her father, Chris, wearily resigned to his wife’s constant apprehension. Genevieve Barr (profoundly deaf in real life) is excellent in the leading role.
With such a cast The Silence should be beyond negative criticism.
But sadly it was too slow and it went on too long.
Would have made a great two parter.
Identity. (ITV1)
Here we have yet another elite police unit (yawn) headed by yet another paragon female (Keeley Hawes) who is in ill-concealed love with yet another maverick cop (Aidan Gillen), who is heartily disliked by yet another distrusting departmental colleague (Shaun Parkes) who is deeply suspicious of our hero’s authenticity. (For template see Dexter.) It was well acted and, like Luther (Post 150), will probably be back.
And again I don’t really care.
The One Show. (BBC1)
Jason Manford and Alex Jones are the current hosts on this load of fluff, the premise of which appears to be that viewers are incapable of concentration beyond a couple of minutes at a time.
Guest stars come along to be given the two minute interview if they’re lucky - twenty seconds if they’re not - and a chance to publicise their latest project. They are routinely set aside by a small band of regulars who provide snippets designed to whet the appetite without taxing the brain.
This week’s guests included Tommy Steele, Whoopi Goldberg, Pamela Anderson and Celia Imrie and ‘regular’ John Sergeant told a story about thousands of pets being destroyed at the outset of WW2. There was also an item about black rats on the Shiant Isles, though none were seen.
Oh, Tommy is to tour again in Scrooge the musical, Pamela Anderson is to appear in Aladdin, Whoopi Goldberg is back with Sister Act and Celia Imrie will be in Hay Fever by Noel Coward.
I shan’t be seeing any of them but it was nice to know.
Getting On. (BBC2)
This little hospital series is written by Jo Brand, Vicki Pepperdine and Joanna Scanlan who also appear in it. I assume all have been nurses. Jo certainly has; it shows.
There is a nice line in indifference and buck passing from the top echelon. There is a lot of bad language and balls to P.C, And there is more than I care to remember about my NHS days.
Who Do You Think You Are? (BBC1)
Never mind the credit squeeze, celebs are still touring the world at the Beeb’s expense seeking to discover their antecedents. In most cases who, apart from them, is all that bothered?
The Deep. (BBC1)
Still don’t quite know what to make of this one. So far nothing much has come of it except the realisation that, no matter how tiresome his offstage persona, James Nesbitt is a bloody good actor.

READING.

M.C.Beaton.
I finished Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet (another easy read) and passed it on to my Leader who was well into the Quiche of Death. She has been spending a few days with her sister Marg in Alverstoke; both are avid readers so the books won’t go unread while she is there. Meantime, back at the ranch I have taken a short break from Mrs. Raisin to read the Pompey cop yarn my Leader had just finished and recommended to me, Angels Passing...

Graham Hurley.
DI Joe Faraday is as far from Mrs. Raisin as the Cotswolds is from Portsmouth and Angels Passing shows a side of the city which many of its citizens would sooner not know about. Whether the author writes from fact or imagination I have no idea, but this police procedural certainly has a Scenes of Crime ring of authenticity about it.
I am hooked, as was my Leader. Both of us know (or know of) the places where it is set. Makes it that much more real.
Report pending.

AND AS FOR YOU…

Thanks for looking in.
More anon.

152. Writer's block? Nope...idleness!

2010-08-05T06:25:00.000-07:00

My Leader and Thomas in Anne's Cornish kitchen.

HOME.

Welcome visitors.
The Isle of Wight is a visitor magnet which attracts both short-stay tourists to hotels and guest houses and long stay guests to H.M. prisons Albany, Camp Hill and Parkhurst.
My Leader and I have always avoided the holiday business, but it was lovely to welcome our friend Anne (followed later in the week by husband Peter) from Cornwall for a brief stay recently. Their house at Mylor, Falmouth, (Post 84: Back from abroad…) is now completed and they and the cat Thomas are nicely settled in. Thomas is a roughneck double of our Shadow, so they do have one reminder of home when they are here. Our tall, skinny little town house otherwise bears not the slightest likeness to their grand design. They have modernity and large rooms and wonderful views and several loos. We have antiquity and little rooms and hundreds of books and dozens of handy shops and a solitary bathroom incorporating the solitary loo..
Anne is a gentle live wire. I doubt anybody else would have persuaded us to attend a concert of trumpet and organ music at Newport St. Thomas’s Minster, even one in aid of the Island RSPCA, but she did. Maureen and I smiled resignedly and went along and were duly entranced.
Richard Hall (organ) and Joel Newsome (trumpet) are two very talented musicians who deserve every success: the entire concert (from Charpentier to Langlais via Bach, Purcell et al) was a revelation.
I don’t think either of the young men can be found on YouTube yet, but give them time.
(Light-hearted note: The relatively modern organ installed at Newport Minster is situated a considerable distance from the organ pipes. When I asked Richard Hall what affect this has on the organist he said: “Well, you hear the note fractionally after you strike the key. Makes it good fun to play, though.”
Sort of in the round organ playing. Bet it’s a hoot for anyone tackling Bach’s Toccata & Fugue.
All burnt up over painting.
A couple of weeks ago my Leader was stricken with the spring cleaning bug. It happens once a year and nothing inside or out is immune. I make sure I don’t stand still too long. Best way to ensure exemption is to join in, so I repainted the outside railings. Did not properly consider the strength of the sun. Finished up with neatly painted railings and nicely sunburnt feet.
What?
Yes, it was daft and no, there is no bloody justice.
Bone-idleness.
My brush with DIY provided the scribbler’s excuse not to scribble and now I am finding re-motivation a difficulty. Have the same trouble with my infrequent forays into the world of water colour. I try not to be too high flown about it: I don’t think of it as writer’s block or painter’s daub or anything that pretentious. I recognise it for what it is: bone idleness.
Think I’ll go and make a cup of coffee.

MUSIC.

Nilsson.
In Post 146: Votes for all…I included videos of A Little Touch Of Schmilsson In The Night which had been discovered by our son Neil and can be found on YouTube. A few days ago he gifted me A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night & More, a nice 19 track CD produced by BMG Campden and obtainable from Amazon.
Superbly presented and, so far as I am concerned, forever enjoyable.
Andrea Bocelli.
I have just been listening to Viaggio italiano, subtitled A tribute to Italian emigration in the world; an 18 track CD, produced by Phillips, featuring Andrea Bocelli and the Moscow Radio Symphony Orchestra. It starts with Puccini’s Nessun dorma and ends with Bizet’s The Pearl Fishers’ Duet in which Bocelli is joined by the Welsh bass - baritone Bryn Terfel.
My Leader loves The Pearl Fishers and this is a rendition to match that of my own favourites, Nicolai Gedda and Ernest Blanc (who recorded it back when she was but eighteen years of age).
It’s still great and so is she.

TELEVISION.

Sherlock. (BBC1)
Sherlock (Benedict Cumberbatch) and John (Martin Freeman) are updated versions of Holmes and Dr. Watson in this very clever tribute to the Conan Doyle stories. Already looks as though the series, written and produced by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffatt, could become as popular as Dr. Who. Seems there was initially talk of Matt Smith as Watson. He would have been good: Martin Freeman is excellent.
Only a short series I believe.
Deserves longer next time.
Rev. (BBC2)
If you missed the entire series, Tom Hollander is the Rev. Adam Smallbone, a C. of E. vicar newly appointed to a run down inner-city church. His beat is a basket-fronted bicycle journey away from anything experienced by The Vicar of Dibley or those dear old souls in All Gas and Gaiters.
He smokes, drinks, swears (sans dog collar), is loyally supported by his solicitor wife (Olivia Colman), battles the undermining input of his ambitious lay reader (Miles Jupp) and hopelessly struggles to make a go of things no matter how dismissive the attitude of detestable Archdeacon Robert (Simon McBurney)..
I think it somehow falls between two pulpits: neither comedy nor drama.
But I hope it will be back.
Liked it.
Undercover Boss (Channel 4)
Living as I do in an area where the council employs one overpaid top office tosser after another, Kevan Collins, the chief executive of Tower Hamlets, came across as an immensely caring and impressively candid modern boss. So, too, did Marija Simovic, the new head of Harry Ramsden’s.
That having been said, I cannot but wonder why so few of the local managers or heads of department in both their organizations, given supervision of a ’trainee’ for a day, did not question the new employee’s validity or show the slightest concern that a television company was to follow them throughout the exercise.
I am concerned, too, at the morality of such a deception.
Bosses masquerading as workers? Bit too much like Beggar King management to suit my taste, But I never did like public participation in television and, in the end, this is just another reality show.
It would be interesting to discover what reaction each of the bosses would have to a request to check on the protagonists’ fortunes a couple of years from now. Providing, of course, that the two bosses are still the bosses a couple of years from now. Faced with television cameras everybody was on their best behaviour. Thus we were denied the opportunity of listening in as a boss was bluntly put to rights with the words:: “Christ knows who’s in charge up there, but whoever it is they’re fucking clueless!”
Never mind.
At least this way nobody got fired...yet.
Five Daughters. (BBC1)
At first I thought I had tuned in to a Harry Potter cast reunion. There was Ian Hart (Professor Quirrell in The Philosopher’s Stone) as chief of detectives DCS Stewart Gull, and dear old David Bradley (Caretaker of Hogwarts) as Patrick, a drug rehabilitation worker
This was a play about the girls murdered by the Ipswich serial killer in 2006 and the tragic affect this had on their families and friends. That the girls were drug addicts, driven by their addiction to become prostitutes, somehow made their end the more deplorable.
What drove the lunatic who killed them is beyond comprehension.
Leading roles were played by Sarah Lancashire, Jaime Winstone and Juliet Aubre. The play was written by Stephen Butchard and directed by Philippa Lowthorpe. If you saw it I doubt you will ever forget it.
I certainly won’t.

READING.

M.C. Beaton.
No apologies for returning to Mrs. Agatha Raisin. It was bound to happen. Bearing in mind my ‘easy reading’ verdict on Kissing Christmas Goodbye (Post 146) my Leader bought me Ms. Beaton’s first ten novels about the amateur sleuth. I have just finished Quiche of Death, which tells how Agatha sold her P,R. business and set out to become a happy countrywoman in the village of Carsely in the Cotswolds. Nice combination of believable characters, easy plot and tourist guide. Took me straight on to book two, Vicious Vet. Same main characters, same easy plotting, more touring the Cotswolds.
Lovely stuff.
Have a lot of reading to do.
I must get back to it now.

151. INDEX 2 - Posts 132 to 150

2010-07-03T15:36:00.000-07:00

Alan, Ray: 148 Alexander, Bruce: 144 Anderson, Lindsay: 136 Andrews Sisters, The: 137 Anonymous John, friend: 139 Armstrong, Alun: 134 Armstrong and Miller: 136 Ayres, Pam: 135 Baker, Simon: 147 Bakker, Thiemo de: 150 Balls, Ed: 142 Barclay, Linwood: 140 Barker, Ronnie: 139 Barenboim, Daniel: 133 Barlow, Gary: 137 Barnaby, DCI Tom: 145 Barnden, Neil: 132,146 Bassett, Linda: 142 Bassey, Shirley: 138 Beaton, M.C. 146 Beckett, Samuel: 141 Beckham, David: 134,136 Beesley, Max: 140 Beethoven: 133 Belzer, Richard: 132 Bentall, Ruby: 142 Berdych, Tomas: 150 Berkeley, Busby: 139 Betjeman, John: 137 Blackman, Honor: 137 Blackwood, Caitlin: 144 Blair, Tony: 142,146 Bleakley, Christine: 149 Blethyn, Brenda: 150 Blondie: 149 Bolton, Michael: 147 Boyd, D.I. Peter: 134 Bradley, David: 141 Branagh, Kenneth: 140 Brown, Gordon: 137,144,147 Brown, Charlie: 148 Brown, Wally: 135 Buchan, Andrew: 134,137 Burke, DCI Matt: 144 Burton, Tim: 149 Butler, Phil: 143 Butler, Steve: 143 Button, Jenson: 136 Byrne, Michael: 134 Callan, David: 134,137 Callow, Simon: 150 Cameron, David: 147 Cameron, James: 149 Capello, Fabio: 150 Caruso, David: 134,141 Christie, Agatha: 134 Clegg, Nick: 147 Clinton, Hillary: 132 Clunes, Martin: 136,147 Coltraine, Robbie: 136 Conti, Tom: 142 Corbett, Ronnie: 137 Coren, Victoria: 144 Costigan, George: 144 Cotton, Billy: 142 Coulby, Angel: 135 Cox, Brian: 137,139 Coyle, Brendan: 142 Cranham, Kenneth: 141 Creek, Jonathan: 143,144 Cribbins, Bernard: 139 Croft, DS “MJ”: 143 Cronin, A.J. 147 Crouch, Peter: 136 Crowe, Russell: 134 Crowther, Leslie: 145 Cruise, Tom: 148 Daly, Tess: 137 Dance, Charles: 136 Darius (Campbell): 140 Darling, Alistair: 144 Davies, Alan: 140,144 Davies, Russell T. 137,139,148,150 Defoe, Jermain: 150 Dempsey, Clint: 149 Dennis, Hugh: 147 Depp, Johnny: 149 Dexter, Colin: 147 Diggory, Cedric: 148 Dillow, Ian: 149 Djokovic, Novak: 150 Doc Martin: 136 Doctor Who 137,138,144,148 Dudgeon, Neil: 145 Duffy, Gillian: 146 Dunbar, Adrian: 144 Duncan, Lindsay: 137,141 Durham, Geoffrey: 139 Elba, Idris: 147,150 Eliot, T.S: 135 Ellis, grandson: 134,143,145,147 Evans, Chris: 134 Eve, Trevor: 134 Falco, Edie: 140 Farndon, Zoe: 146, 150 Federer, Roger: 150 Felton, Tom: 147 Fields, Gracie: 134 Fields, W.C. 147 Fiennes, Ralph: 133 Firth, Colin: 141 Fishburne, Laurence: 142 Fisher. Brian: 135 Fitzgerald, Ella: 137 Florek, Dann: 132 Foley, Dr. Grace: 134 Forbes, Bryan: 132,136 Ford, Phil: 137 Forsyth, Bruce: 137 Fox, Laurence: 147 Foyle, DCS Christopher: 145,146 Fradgley, Keith: 146 Frost, DI Jack: 144 Fry, Stephen: 138, 140 Garrow: 137 Gently, George: 145 Georgy: 132 Gerrard, Steven: 149 Gillan, Karen: 144 Giovinazzo, Carmine: 142 Gibbs, Leroy Jethro: 140,141 Graham, Julie: 140 Gilbert, Rhod: 138 Gleaves, Nicholas: 140 Granger, Ann: 137 Granger, Hermione: 143 Grant, Avram: 145 Grant, Hugh: 138 Green, Robert: 149 Grint, Rupert: 148 Grissom, Gil: 140 Hale, Amanda: 136 Halnan, Emma: 148 Hamilton, Victoria: 147 Hamlet: 136 Harden, Marcia Gay: 132 Hargitay, Mariska: 132 Hari, Johann: 144 Harmon, Mark: 141,142 Hartnell, William: 144 Hayes, Helen: 134 Head, Anthony: 135,138 Heather, friend: 147 Hickson, Joan: 134 Hill, Bernard: 143 Hirsch, Judd: 140 Hodge, Douglas: 141 Hogg, DCI Jason: 136 Horowitz, Anthony: 145 Hough, Stephen: 132 Howell, Anthony: 145 Hughes, Howard: 143 Hreidarsson, Hermann: 145 Hudson, Mr. 149 Humphrys, John: 140,142,144 Hurt, John: 135 Hurt, William: 145 ice-T: 132 Irons, Jeremy: 141 Isaacs, Jason: 150 Isner, John: 150 Izzard, Eddie: 139 Jacqui, daughter: 132 James, Bradley: 135,138 James, David: 145 Jane, Patrick: 147 Jason, David: Jay Z: 149 144 Jenkins, Gordon: 146 Jenkins, Jim: 135 Jess, granddaughter: 134 Johnson, Karl: 142 Johnston, Sue: 134 Jones, Suranne: 143 Joseph, Paterson: 140 Judge Judy: 148 Kanakarides, Melina: 142 Kay, Peter: 137 Kennedy, Sarah: 135 King, Si: 140 Kingsley, Ben: 145 Kinnock, Neil: 144 Kitchen, Michael: 134,141,145 Lampard, Frank: 149 Langston, Dr. Raymond: 140 Lansbury, Angela: 134 Laurie, John: 147 Law, Jude: 141 Lawless, Eamonn: 133 Lawless, Libby: 133 Laxton, Richard: 132 le Carre, John: 133,136 Lennox, Annie: 137 Lewis, DI Robbie: 147 Lisbon, Teresa: 147 Liszt: 133 Little, Ralph: 134 Logan, Phyllis: 144 Lord Charles: 148 Lumley, Joanna: 137,146 Luther, DCI John: 147, 150 Lyons, John: 144 McCall, Robert: 137 McCartney, Paul: 149 McCoy, Jack: 148 McDonald’s 134 McEwan, Geraldine: 134 Macfadyen, Matthew: 134 McGann, Paul: 150 McGrath, Katie: 135 McGuire, Dorothy: 141 McKee, Gina: 141 McKenzie, Julia: 134 McKinnon, Gary: 132,148 Mahut, Nicholas: 150 Malahide, Patrick: 140 Malfoy, Draco: 147 Malfoy, Lucius: 150 Maltravers, Dr. Edmund: 136 Mandelson, Peter: 142 Manning, Anita: 138 Maradona. Diego: 150 Marple, Jane: 134 Marquez, Ramona: 147 Martino, Al: 137 Mason, Jason: 147 Meatloaf: 140 Meirelles, Fernando: 133 Mellor, Ted: 135 Meloni, Christopher: 132 Mercer, John: 134,137 Merlin: 135,136,138 Messer, Danny: 142 Mitchell, David: 140 Mo, friend: 136 Moffat, Steven 144 Morgan, Colin: 135,138 Morrissey, David: 143 Morse, David: 134 Mowlam, Mo: 142 Mude, Minnie: 142 Murdoch, Rupert: 141 Murray, Andy: 150 Myers, Dave: 140 Nadal, Rafael: 150 Nesbitt, James: 132 Nettles, John: 145 Nieminen, Jarkko: 150 Nilsson, Harry: 146 Norton, Graham: 138,140 O’Briain, Dara: 140 O’Grady, Paul: 138 Ollivander: 134 Ömeroglu, Lara: 148 Ortiz, Cristina: 135 Pack, Roger Lloyd: 141 Palmer, Geoffrey: 137 Parish, Sarah: 138 Parkinson, Michael: 142 Pattinson, Robert: 148 Pendragon, King Uther: 138 Petrenko, Vasily: 132 Pinter, Harold: 141 Planer, Nigel: 140 Pond, Amy: 144 Potter, Harry: 134,143,147,148 Powley, Bel: 136 Preece, Nat: 135 Prescott, John: 142 Pullman, Sandra: 134 Putin, Vladimir: 132 Queen Elizabeth 2: 137 Quentin, Caroline: 134,144 Quirke, Pauline: 143 Rachmaninov: 135 Radcliffe, Daniel: 148 Raisin, Agatha: 146 Redgrave, Vanessa: 139 Redknapp, Harry: 145, 150 Redman, Amanda: 134 Reese, Della: 143,144 Reid, Anne: 143 Renwick, David: 144 Richardson, Joely: 139 Rickman, Alan: 141 Robbins, Tim: 143 Roddick, Andy: 150 Ronaldo, Cristiano: 150 Rose, Karen: 149 Roz, daughter: 132, 149 Rutherford, Margaret: 134 Ryan, Meg: 134 Sachar, Louis: 139,140 Sahil, Saeed: 143 Said, Edward: 133 Saint-Saens: 143 Scott, Dougray: 139 Seymour, Toby: 135 Shakespears Sister: 149 Sheen, Michael: 138,141 Shostakotich: 132 Sidle, Sara, 140 Simm, John: 139 Sinatra, Frank: 142 Skinner, Claire: 147 Small, Sharon: 136 Smart, Callum: 148 Smith, Andreas Whittam: 144 Smith, Alexander McCall: 132,141 Smith, Matt: 144 Somerville, Geraldine: 140 Sorbo, Kevin: 145 Soward, Maureen, 143 Soward, Pat: 143 Spacek, Cissy: 145 Standing, Gerry: 134 Stiller, Ben: 138 Stewart, James: 141 Stockwell, Brian: 135 Stott, Ken: 142 Stravinsky: 132 Stevenson, Robert Louis: 140 Taggart: 144 Tchaikovsky: 132,143 Tennant, David: 137,139,144 Tevez. Carlos: 150 Thatcher, Margaret: 135 Timmins, Robert: 142 Tofield, Simon: 142 Torres, Fernando: 150 Tsonga, Jo-Wilifred: 150 Tunney, Robin: 147 Turnbull, Giles: 140 Turner, Kathleen: 148 Urry, Marg: 135,143 Urry, Mike: 135,143 Vaughan, Frankie: 137 Villa, David: 150 Wade, Virginia: 150 Wainwright, Rufus, 146 Waite, Ralph: 141 Walters, Julie: 139,142 Walton, John-Boy, 141 Wasikowska, Mia: 149 Waterman, Dennis: 134 Waterston, Sam: 148 Watson, Emma: 148 Weeks, Honeysuckle: 145 Weisz, Rachel: 133 Wendy, friend: 136 West, Samuel: 141 Whitfield, Nick: 150 Willetts, David: 144 Williams, Serena and Venus: 150 Williams, Simon Channing: 133 Wilson, Richard: 135,137 Wilson, Ruth: 150 Wilton, Penelope: 141 Wingett, Mark: 143 Winkleman, Claudia, 137 Wogan, Terry: 134,137,139,140,142,143 Wonnacott, Tim: 138, 147 Wood, Victoria: 139 Woodman, George: 142 Woods, James: 145 Woodward, Edward: 134,137 Wordsworth, William: 137 Worsley, Arthur: 148 Wright, Bonnie: 148 Wyndham, John: 139

150. Mostly for Zoe

2010-07-02T07:44:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Father’s Day.
I was gifted a great card in the form of a film advert for The Goodfather, which gave everybody a smile. And I had a DVD set of Chance in a Million, first series, with Simon Callow and Brenda Blethyn. We watched it with the same enjoyment we experienced in 1984. Pleasant memories. Lovely stuff.
As for the actual day, the description I best liked of it was: “Another load of American bollocks.”
Thank heavens for outspoken offspring.
The weather.
Driest spell since 1929, we are told. We went out and bought a four seater fishermans’ chair and a two seater rocker for the courtyard.
It has been too hot to sit out there.
We will, we will…

FOOTBALL.

England 0 - Algeria 0.
Ten minutes into the second half the cat Shadow made for the cat flap.
“Had enough then?” I enquired.
“Don’t know which is worse, the game or your language,” he replied.
Ho hum.
Slovenia 0 - England 1.
Harry Redknapp was one of the panel discussing this game and in the pre-match summary, acknowledging his bias as Tottenham Hotspur manager, said that Tottenham striker Jermain Defoe should be chosen to play.
He was and he scored the only goal.
Say what y’like, ol’ Harry does know his stuff.
Germany 4 - England 1.
The cat Shadow came in when it was over.
It was obvious they had been talking up on the roof.
“Well?” he said.
“No comment,” I said.
“You could always blame it on the red shirts,” he said.
“No comment,” I said.
“How about the goal that wasn’t given?” he said.
“No comment,” I said..
“Not having Harry Redknapp as manager?” he said.
I shook my head and shrugged. He sighed.
“Yeah,” he said. “They were crap.”
Argentina 3 - Mexico 1.
I managed to persuade my Leader, a dedicated visitor to anywhere else during football matches, to stay a while and see some real football. She was amazed by the skill and commitment of the South Americans, thought the ebullient Argentinian manager Diego Maradona was great and wondered why none of the England players could hit the ball like Carlos Tevez did.
Why indeed.

TENNIS.

Longest ever game.
Unlike snooker, they don’t give a ‘highest break’ type prize at Wimbledon.
If they did it would have to go to the American John Isner and his French opponent Nicholas Mahut: they played an absolute blinder over June 22nd, 23rd, and 24th 2010 to break the record for the longest ever tennis match. They played for 11 hours and five minutes.
If you have just returned from Mars and want to know more, go to Wiki.
Isner won and was unsurprisingly knocked out of the tournament the next day by Thiemo de Bakker of the Netherlands in 74 minutes.
And more of Wimbledon 2010.
Equally unsurprising was the reappearance of the fleeting shadow, Shadow.
“Poetry time again,” he declared briskly.
“Has the year gone that fast?” I muttered.
He ignored me and struck a poetic pose:
“Poem one: Who Needs a Roof?"

With a brand new roof worth millions of pounds,
Wimbledon’s ready for rain.
So view the baking Centre Court
You could get no more sunshine in Spain
Roddick’s been beaten and Federer, too,
By Berdych at the peak of his play.
Murray hangs on, though for just how long
I really would not care to say
Poor Jarkko Nieminen must have felt some alarm,
When an elderly lady (who does nobody harm)
Granted young Andy the rare accolade
Of her first Queenly Visit since Virginia Wade,
Pushing the lad, growing visibly stronger,
Into beating the Frenchman Jo-Wilifred Tsonga.
And onwards pell-mell to that ultimate hell
A semi final place on a court with Nadal.
It will soon be all over, the grunts and the blisters:
And a Ladies’ Doubles final with no Willams sisters.
Write none of them off. They will be back again.
To try out the roof in the Wimbledon rain.

He looked at me; I pretended not to notice.
“Poem two: Mostly for Zoe.”

I have said Roddick and Federer
Defy the art of rhyme,
Tomas Berdych ain’t much better
While Djokovic is a crime.
And when it comes to football
Ronaldo’s quite a pain
But so are Torres and Villa
Who both turn out for Spain.
I even had a foolish try
At rhyming Fabio Capello,
But my ‘Hello, England manager guy'
Really should have been 'Bye bye.’
So praise be for Zoe Farndon,
A reader and a pal
Whose name rhymes well with Barnden
And that’s my kind of gal.

He had a quick wash; said: “What d’ya think?”
“Farndon doesn’t really rhyme with Barnden,” I said gently.
“Does if you say it quickly,” he said.
“Fair enough,” I said.
We have yet to meet Zoe, but we like her.

TELEVISION.

NCIS. (Five)
Trouble with being able to watch this programme on Five, where series six is coming to an end and on FX, where series seven has just finished, is that you become in turn bemused and too knowledgeable. You also begin to realise that, unless you are prepared to watch another series re-run, you will have bugger all to watch next year on Five.
NCIS continues to be the sort of propaganda stuff we were fed throughout the Second World War and is no more real than that: but I can laugh at the ‘we are under threat from Whirling Dervishes’ twaddle and still stick with it because I like the actors.
Breakfast. (BBC1)
My favourite interviewee of the week was Jason Isaacs. He appeared on the Breakfast show to plug Nick Whitfield’s award winning film Skeletons in which he plays the Colonel, a role he clearly enjoyed.
As the interview ended he was prompted with the: “We can’t let you go without mention that you are Lucius Malfoy in the Harry Potter films…” line.
The Harry Potter films were not short on publicity, Mr. Isaacs pointed out, politely but firmly. The Deathly Hallows would be out in November and again next July. In the meantime, he was on the Breakfast show to publicise Skeletons, a fine little British film that deserved support.
Well done, Jason Isaacs. My Leader and I like you.
Luther. (BBC1)
Luther came to a gory climax with everybody but Luther’s psychopathic helpmate Alice (Ruth Wilson) and his wife’s lover Mark (Paul McGann) either oozing blood or dead or both. Idris Elba and Co. tried hard but were on a hiding to nothing from the start.
I suppose it will be back but I don't really care.
Dr. Who. (BBC1)
I did worry that the series might falter with the departure of Russell T. Davies, but the fresh approach remained lively and Series Five finished on a high with all the main characters set to return.
Look forward to it.

AND HOME AGAIN.

More tennis.
Got to go downstairs now…more tennis. Mens’ semi finals. Have to be able to say I saw them. The cat Shadow has been asleep all morning. He knows the danger of too much excitement.

149. Technology...Huh!

2010-06-13T10:42:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Paranoid nationalists and web graffiti writers.
In the Middle Ages when a bedlam of bigots held sway, anybody who was different would eventually be dragged to the stocks, the ducking stool, or the stake.
Bigots are suspicious of different. It is something they cannot understand. It frightens them. And because it frightens them, they hate it.
Now, with email, a fast growing army of hate merchants are using the web to decry anything that might be construed as a threat to the volatile and vulnerable USA.
Puerile propaganda is circulated worldwide - excluding countries ruled by despots - and is invariably accompanied by a chain-letter style threat as to the consequences if it is not passed on.
Such offerings to come my way lately have been forwarded by liked and respected friends - presumably unwilling to accept the consequences of not passing them on - and appear to have been initiated by American jingoists who claim to have discovered the best ever (1) reply made to a dismissive French customs official (2) explanation of the Muslim terrorist situation, and (3) answer to anybody questioning gun-happy lawmen.
(1) turns out to be the usual “When I came through here in 1944 there wasn‘t a Frenchman to be seen” old chestnut, (2) is headed: A German’s View of Islam, and has allegedly been written by a Dr Tanay, “well-known and well-respected psychiatrist” (believe that if you will). Emanuel Tanay, M.D. compares Muslim fanatics rampaging across the globe in the name of Islam to Nazis who were allowed to take over because the peaceful (German) majority did not speak up…(I thought those who spoke up were put to death, but perhaps that’s me being simplistic) and (3) contains the droll reply made by a sheriff in Florida when asked why 68 bullets had been pumped into a cornered (illegal immigrant of course) murderer: “Because that’s all the ammunition we had.”
It isn’t just gung-ho Yanks, either.
We were bad-mouthing people long before 1776. and still are. The following is the latest English example sent to me:
A tourist walked into a Brighton curio/antique shop. After looking around for a while, he noticed a very life-like bronze Statue of a rat. It had no price tag, but it was so striking that he decided to buy it anyway.
He took it to the owner and said: 'How much is this bronze rat?'
The owner replied: 'It's £12 for the rat, and £100 for the story.'
The tourist gave the owner his £12 and said: 'I'll just take the rat, You can keep the story.'
As he walked off down the street, he noticed that a few real rats had crawled out of the sewers and begun following him. This was a little disconcerting, so he started to walk a little faster, but within a couple of blocks the swarm of rats had grown to hundreds, and they were all squealing and screeching in a very menacing way. He increased his speed and ran on towards the beach, and as he ran, he looked behind him and saw the rats now numbered in their MILLIONS, and they were running faster & faster. By now very concerned, he ran down to the pier and threw the bronze rat far out into the water. Amazingly, the millions of real rats jumped into the water after it and were all drowned.
The man walked back to relate all this to the shop owner, who said: 'Ah, you've come back for the story then?'
'No,' said the tourist, 'I came back to see if you've got a bronze Muslim Fundamentalist Cleric, a couple of illegal immigrants, scousers, Man Utd fans and anything French!'
It’s light hearted bigotry which could get a few laughs in the pub. Brownie points may be obtained by replacing scousers and Man Utd fans with drug dealers and expenses fiddling politicians.
At the risk of coming across as a po-faced politically correct prat, I have discontinued forwarding these emails. I’m fed up with paranoid nationalists and web graffiti writers preaching spite is right.
Gossip, even juicy gossip, should be confined to corner shops.
What?
No, I wouldn’t go to a bullfight, a cockfight, a dogfight, or an execution, either.

READING.

Karen Rose.
If you’re looking for gore aplenty Kill for Me (subtitled Kiss the Girls and Make them Die) by Karen Rose should satisfy you.
Hell, at 500 plus pages it should satisfy a vampire.
Daughter Roz gave it to me to read. She enjoyed it. I ploughed through it: thought it had little plot and all the subtlety of Dexter.
Guess I’m getting old.

FILM.

Avatar.
Halfway through this James Cameron film I was convinced he was taking a stand against any nation that waged war simply to appropriate another nation’s natural resources..
I checked on Google and apparently he had no such thing in mind.
Pity.
Alice In Wonderland. (2010)
My Leader has never been one of, or for, the Alice band, so she didn’t watch this DVD. Granddaughter Jess and I watched. I think she saw it all.
I went to sleep somewhere between Johnny Depp’s Mad Hatter tramping up and down his tea table and Mia Wasikowska‘s Alice returning to the real world and turning down her soppy, aristocratic, suitor.
Gather Tim Burton directed and that Alice is the highest grossing film of 2010 so far.
I’d have slept less comfortably in the cinema but I’d still have slept.

FOOTBALL.

Japan 1 - England 2.
“England won,” I said to the cat Shadow who had not bothered to move from his chair in the computer room. “Three goals in it, all of them scored by the Japanese.”
“How was that then?” he asked, more out of idle curiosity than interest.
“Seven minutes in and Japan scored the first goal. Wasn’t until the seventy second minute that one of their defenders converted an England cross into his own net and ten minutes later another of them managed the same thing. That’s what won the game for us. None of our bloody lot could beat their goalkeeper. Frank Lampard even failed from the penalty spot!”
“Ah,” he said, “now I understand why you were bellowing down there.”
I was indignant. “Bellowing? I don’t bellow; haven’t bellowed for years. Raised me voice a bit, perhaps…”
“Well, your raised-me-voice-a-bit echoed all the way up here.”
“Go on!”
“It did…I can tell you what your raised-me-voice-a-bit said…it said: ’Bloody ‘ell, Lampard… apart from Christine Bleakley, when did you last score!?’”
“Oops,” I said. “Heat of the moment...I recant.”
“Don‘t bother, they won‘t be reading you, you‘re not the Screws of the World,” he said.
“You did the right thing staying in your chair,” I said. “It was a friendly, played in Graz: the Japanese were the home team so I guess they’ve annexed Austria.”
“Do you not trust them?” he asked lightly, and added: “I don’t trust Siamese cats.”
“Pack that in, “ I said. “You’ll be the next one sending me racist emails.”
England 1 - U.S.A. 1.
First World Cup game and the cat Shadow, taking advantage of some good weather, was away on the rooftops listening to music from the distant pop festival. When he eventually graced us with his presence at suppertime, I told him the result.
“Who scored?” he asked.
“Steven Gerrard scored ours and a chap called Clint Dempsey persuaded Robert Green, our goalkeeper, to score theirs.“
He saw off his cat milk, demolished his food and headed back towards the cat flap.
“Waste of time watching it then,“ he said, “let alone putting up with that bloody great wasps’ nest in the crowd.”
“I had the sound turned down.“
“You could have been out here listening to some music,” he admonished, pushing his way through. “Sometimes I despair of you, mate.”
Thinking about the match, so do I.

AND HOME AGAIN.

Isle of Wight Pop Festival 2010.
It’s here again, to the joy of granddaughter Jess and over sixty thousand supporters from the mainland: some even came from as far away as Totland.
This year seems to be pensioners’ year, with lovely old people like Blondie and Paul McCartney in evidence.
My Leader and I will not go (we can hear most of it from the house) but when I am asked if I went I shall reply: “Liked Mr. Hudson: didn’t mind Shakespears Sister: couldn’t understand a word Jay Z jabbered, but the girl singer with him was good...”
We watched the television coverage and that was enough.

Technology...Huh!

If you had read this post earlier you would have seen the heading Technology! Wow! and this last item, similarly headed, giving credit to the technological genius who invented it.
'It' was the picture of a woman whose head and eyes followed every movement of your mouse and who would clearly speak any words you typed in for her.
It was sent to me by Ian Dillow, one time head of PR at Wessex Regional Health Authority, and it was fantastic.
Unfortunately it was also too clever to hang around for an indefinite time. In a few days the lady was not for talking.
I think it may be possible for you to obtain something of the idea by Googling
Free demo to create avatars using Text-to-Speech (TTS) by SitePal.
So far as I'm concerned, it was nice while it lasted.

148. Watch YouTube for the best dummies.

2010-05-27T12:00:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Real Fur.
This from friend Heather:-
Did you hear about the man who bought his wife a coat made entirely from hamster fur? They went on holiday to Blackpool and he couldn’t get her off the big wheel for two days.
Conversation with my Leader.
We were sitting in bed, supping the morning cuppa, cat Shadow a purr ball between us, when a newsreader mentioned that the new Home Secretary could put paid to Gary McKinnon’s threatened extradition to America. I had doubts and said so.
“When it comes down to it this bunch will be just as gutless as the last,” I opined. “Only hope when he does get dragged over there they’ll get ol’ Jack McCoy’s Law and Order crowd to prosecute him. They never win.”
“Sam Waterston did this week,” murmured my Leader, cleverly disclosing that she knows the name of the actor who plays Jack McCoy. “ He beat Kathleen Turner.”
“You’re right; he did. Afterwards she offered him a job, didn’t she? Then she took off in a black limousine.”
“I think she was some sort of television lawyer,” my Leader opined.
“Yeah. Like Judge Judy. What sort of car d’ you think she has?”
My Leader was in no doubt.
“Bullet proof .”
Death of Ray Alan.
With the death of Ray Alan went another of our gradually disappearing links with music hall variety. He was a superb ventriloquist and a class act. Many years ago when he opened a fete over here, a flustered local dignitary introduced him as: “Ray Charles and Lord Alan!”
“Well, you were close,“ said Ray, amused. “But I assure you I won’t be singing I Can’t Stop Loving You or Georgia On My Mind and I‘m pretty sure he will tell you he’s the one with the title.”
He, of course, was Lord Charles and his response was as expected.
“Silly arse!” he said.
If you want to be reminded of - or even see for the first time - Ray Alan at his hilarious best, go to You tube: Ray Alan with Lord Charles - Worlds Greatest Ventriloquist.- 1986 to savour some real entertainment. And while you are about it, take in my other favourite vent act of all time, the lugubrious Arthur Worsley with his bullying sidekick. Charlie Brown: look for Arthur Worsley - Which one’s the Dummy. Marvellous.
Ray Alan was nine days older than me.
Pays not to dwell on it.
Welcome company.
The cat Shadow has taken up semi-permanent residence on the spare chair in my computer room. I am generally the only other occupant of the room and I am not bothered by his occasional gentle snore. I think he may be wrestling with writer’s block or versifier’s volte-face or something.
He did come downstairs for the England - Mexico soccer friendly: slept through most of it, insisted he enjoyed it, proclaimed it could as easily have gone Mexico’s way and warned there would be more dangerous opponents in South Africa. He can be a cheerful little bugger.
He’s back in the chair now: won’t move until he‘s ready to eat again..
How come they know when you’re going to put their food out?
I’ve asked.
He won’t say.

TELEVISION.

BBC Young Musician of the Year. (BBC2)
16 year old pianist Lara Ömeroglu, playing Saint-Saëns’s Piano Concerto No.2 in G minor, Op. 22, triumphed over flautist Emma Halnan (17) and violinist Callum Smart (14) to win the coveted BBC Young Musician 2010.
The three finalists must surely have meteoric musical careers ahead of them. To the layman their performances were impeccable; a total delight.
I know it is pointless saying so, but we oldies really should stop moaning about the young. The majority of teenagers are worthwhile, kindly and industrious. This biennial competition is proof that an outstanding few of them are gifted beyond belief.
Dr. Who. (BBC1)
I did hope the departure of Russell T. Davies would not detrimentally affect the new format and, despite some cracks in the seams, it hasn’t. There are pronounced differences; but no more than might be expected from new writers and a fresh production team. We remain optimistic by watching the follow up programme:-
Dr. Who Confidential. (BBC3)
Wherein the director, actors, writer and all concerned with the last episode discuss it, show how stunts and effects were accomplished, and clear away many of the cobwebs surrounding the production.
A fascinating character and plot master class for punters.
Good fun, too.
The National Movie Awards. (ITV1)
It was good to see the Harry Potter youngsters (Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson and Bonnie Wright - Rupert Grint rang in sick) still winning awards with six films gone and two to go. Good, too, to see Robert Pattinson (Cedric Diggory in H.P. & the Goblet of Fire) win The Performance of the Year award for The Twilight Saga: New Moon.
And good that Tom Cruise received a screen icon award. He’s a darned good actor and he does bother to turn up at these functions.

A CAT’S LIFE.

Stop pussyfooting around.
Must bring this post to an end now. The cat Shadow has departed the computer room and is pussyfooting around downstairs in a furry of righteous indignation. “Ain’t anyone going to feed me? I dunno what it’s coming to around here! Y’ just can’t get the staff anymore!”
I’ll go down, tell him not to be so bloody impatient, feed him and give him a drop of cat milk,
Afterwards he’ll come back up here and settle beside me again.
He doesn’t hold grudges.

147. None of them would vote for me...

2010-05-14T04:26:00.000-07:00

HOME.

A family view.
Grandson Ellis and I were sprawled in my armchair watching Cbeebies Grandpa In My Pocket.

Of a sudden he asked: “Why has Jason Mason got curly hair?”
“I expect that’s how it grows,” I ventured. ”When I was your age I had fair curly hair.” He peered at me like a predatory nit nurse. “Hmm… now you’re grey, aren‘t you…” he said…“and spiky”
Keeps your feet on the ground, don’t it?
The expected unexpected.
I care not what the ITV people say to the contrary, their adverts are louder than their programmes; I am constantly reducing the sound to avoid being deafened as well as brainwashed. There are frequent frantic searches for the remote.
Recently I was halfway through a British Gas advert boasting how they are committed to ringing ahead so that you don’t wait in all day when, unexpectedly, the doorbell rang.
It was a man to read the gas meter.
Music.
Following up on the treats to be found on YouTube I came across one that combined my fondness for the Harry Potter films with my favourite track from Michael Bolton’s Vintage CD. The scenes are from Potter films and the song is called If I Could. If you would like to give it a try, go to you tube - harry potter/if i could.
Incidentally, for those who hate Draco Malfoy, you may also find a young man called Tom Felton playing the guitar and singing If You Could Be Anywhere. He looks a bit like Draco but is clearly a much nicer chap. I like him.
I bet he’s a good actor, too.

TELEVISION.

Goodbye Mr. Chips.
This television film, originally released over Christmas 2002, was one my Leader and I missed at the time. It was well worth the repeat showing.
Martin Clunes is splendid as Chips and Victoria Hamilton excellent as the freethinking wife who, in life and after her early death, is responsible for his transformation from retiring Latin teacher to respected Headmaster.
Our enjoyment owed as much to the moving story as to the fine acting.
Neither of us was privately educated (family finances scarcely ran to public schools) but we did see Roedean from the car - several times - and were favourably impressed without being at all envious.
Perhaps we should have had more ambition.
Nah.
Who wants to rule the country or study Latin?
We didn’t and still don‘t.
ora pro nobis.
Lewis. (ITV1)
Reliable Kevin Whately is back with laconic Laurence Fox to investigate donnish dark deeds and masterly murders. [I really must stop listening to Tim Wonnacott!]
The casting is extremely good and the plots give a reassuring nod towards an absent Colin Dexter. I think it meets the Morse code. All it needs now is a background tune playing ditdahditdit dit ditdahdah ditdit ditditdit and ol’ Robbie Lewis will be home and dry.
Luther. (BBC1)
New cop on the block is DCI John Luther, played by Idris Elba. He is a coppers’ copper; a loose cannon; a top office nightmare; a hopeless husband, an adoring father; a door-demolishing, table-overturning, friend-testing basket case.
Actually, he’s every cliché in the book.
And so is everything else about this dark psychological thriller - including that description of it.
I’ll not stop watching, but I do hope it will become less predictable.
Outnumbered. (BBC1)
Series three and to my detriment I have only just become a regular viewer of this all-too-close-to-home family romp.
As the parents, Hugh Dennis and Claire Skinner cope splendidly with every actor’s biggest nightmare - apart from somebody whistling in the dressing room or naming Macbeth - working with children and animals.
These parents simply play along. They have to. They are out-talked, outwitted and upstaged at every turn (by children Karen and Ben in particular) but they maintain moderate control and their sanity by the constant employment of gentle reproof and dry asides..
W.C. Fields once said: “Anyone who hates children and animals can't be all bad.” He died in 1946, 55 years before Karen (Ramona Marquez) was born.
He would have loved her. And she would have made mincemeat of him.
The Mentalist. (Five)
My Leader and I recently caught up on a backlog of Mentalist recordings and found we were hooked again. It is daffy and unbelievable and inclined towards the “let’s get rid of a few characters” shock technique, but Patrick Jane (Simon Baker) and Teresa Lisbon (Robin Tunney) have a clear rapport and everything else is incidental.
In a country full of people who seem to act first and think later, I have stopped counting the number of times the insufferably clever and good-looking Jane would have finished up flat on his back and toothless.
You just have to go with the flow,
It’s quirkily watchable.
Doctors. (BBC1)
Just as nobody without the death wish would choose to live in Cabot Cove or Midsomer, so nobody (unless suffering from latrophobia) would choose to be a patient of any other practice than this.
My Leader, who once worked for a GP, regards it as a sitcom; a daily dose of pseudo A.J. Cronin; a farce.
Did you ever find practice nurses, receptionists. managers, accountants, a couple of doctors and the local police sergeant rushing to your home to reassure you that not only would your panic attack not kill you, but neither would your child’s teddy bear - no matter how threatening it looked?
If your answer is “yes” you had better start looking for Alice; you are clearly in Wonderland.
It’s the sort of thing that only happens on Doctors. Ne’er mind, it gives employment to a bunch of actors and technicians and encourages me to have an afternoon doze without feeling guilty.

POLITICAL HANGOVER.

Election post mortem.
That’s it, then. All over for as long as the courting couple stay together.
Who can say how long that will be?
Gordon the jaw-dropping-Scot gained more sympathy in his last appearance as PM, heading with family away from No.10, than he managed to muster from public or colleagues at any other time throughout his tenure.
Blair-clone-Cameron now has to show himself to be something other than a Morecambe and Wise double act with his Lib-Dem-double, Clegg.
As John Laurie oft lamented: “We‘re doomed. We‘re all doomed.”.
So did I vote?
Gosh no.
None of them would vote for me.
Anyway, a wet plank could win an election over here if it was wearing a blue rosette.
One did this time.
Again.

146. Votes for all - well, not politicians....

2010-05-04T15:32:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Battle of the Dental Plate.
A routine visit to old friend and long time dental surgeon Keith Fradgley of Ventnor turned out to be more than the customary: “All OK here. I’ll give them a clean and polish…people like you could drive me out of business…” and concluded in a no-holds-barred contest to extract a tooth and a half (an eight and a five I believe) from my bottom jaw.
Tooth and a half? Well, yes, one of the blighters had cracked right through and in the process of taking a mould to extend a small lower dental plate…
Anyway, the final confrontation lasted better part of an hour; the wisdom tooth was a bit of a beast and the remaining half tooth fought savagely.
Keith won on points, but it was a split decision.
I was awarded the Modified Dental Plate for being best opponent of the day.
Music.
Son Neil has sent me a copy of the BBC television programme Harry Nilsson - A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night, a 1973 recording session which made me a lifelong fan. It and many others can be found on You Tube.
All the tunes are golden oldies. Of the five parts, the last two contain my favourite: This is All I Ask, by Gordon Jenkins and Harry’s version of Over The Rainbow which I like very much.
Listen in. There’s not a bad tune among ’em.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9Zsjphc3RI&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dyfnqEADpSY&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6lwdePZg9BU&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YNXXSYjWnO4&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWF8wkXvPSM&feature=related

AND AWAY..

Rufus Wainwright at Oxford.
Daughter Jac went to the New Theatre (Formerly Oxford Apollo Theatre) on 26th April to see this young chap in concert again.
Her pal Zoe Farndon travelled from Warwick to go with her.
I gather the first half was a somewhat downbeat tribute to his late mother, but it picked up after the interval and he finished in customary buoyant fashion. They enjoyed it.
Of course they did.
They are loyal, if not uncritical, fans.

TELEVISION.

Foyle’s War.
At the end of this short series Foyle departed for America. Before he left he cleared up a couple of nasty murder cases for D.I. Milner; put paid to a council scheme to build on a Roman burial ground; saved Sam’s future husband from prosecution for assault and, with his last word, cut Milner’s bumptious assistant down to size.
Pity there was no sign of Andrew Foyle.
Could have done with a few decent outfits for Sam, too; even if it was Cripps‘ austerity Britain.
The Prime Ministerial Debate.
So all three of the Brickbats at Five Paces sessions are out of the way. According to the pundits, Nick won the first, Gordon probably shaded the second and David took the third.
Most critics agreed that putting the leaders of the largest parties into American style debate was a good thing.
I think it is too much America and would be better left there.
Gordon probably scuppered his chances before the last session by forgetting he was wearing an open microphone when he ‘privately’ pronounced elderly Gillian Duffy to be a bigot.
Later I thought I saw a damp patch under the television.
It wasn’t the cat, so it must have been Tony Blair wetting himself with laughter.
Joanna Lumley’s Nile.
The ol’ girl was on form here. There was plenty of head prefect enthusiasm and slightly breathless wonder There was the expected touch of raunchy naughtiness (think Purdey in The New Avengers and Patsy in Absolutely Fabulous) and there was the customary lack of vanity.
Joanna’s Nile may have been a far cry from her Girl Friday Island or her quest to view the Aurora Borealis but she is never disappointing.
She holds an MBE.
Why not make her a Dame?
An Ambassador?
Hell, now we’ve seen the other three, why not make her Prime Minister?

READING.

M.C.Beaton.
Have just read Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye by M.C.Beaton. The writer was a Fleet Street journalist and had written 18 Agatha Raisin novels at the time this one was published.. It shows.
Easy reading.

AND POLITICS AGAIN.

The Election.
A former son-in-law used to tell me that if I didn’t vote I deserved whoever I got and had no right afterwards to complain about them.
My reply was that whether I voted or not the winners always turned out to be self-serving pains in the bum and I would most certainly complain about them ad infinitum.
Our polling station is the church just around the corner, My Leader may go to vote on Thursday. The cat Shadow and I will probably not.
We might have done if Joanna Lumley had been standing.

145. Mostly a mad world

2010-04-18T11:46:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Refuse refusal.
Latest of the Isle of Wight Council’s tail-wagging-the-dog policies is to order all citizens to place their politically correct rubbish (no bottles, or plastics, or cardboard; and no garden waste unless contained in overpriced green bags bought from the Council) in black dustbin bags and, on the given day, take them to the kerbside - or an allocated spot - outside their houses for collection by refuse collectors, waste disposal operatives or whatever else dustmen are calling themselves nowadays.
If rubbish is put out earlier than six the night before collection is due, the miscreant is liable to be prosecuted. Taxpayers’ money will be used to bring the prosecution.
For years we have been placing our dustbin bag in our front garden the night before the lads who collect it come around. We site it less than a yard from the front gate. Our garden is no more than a large forecourt anyway. Neighbours have adopted the same routine, give or take a bag or two or a yard or two,
This week all those who have ignored, overlooked, forgotten or simply not absorbed the new rule have had their rubbish left where they put it. No warning. The bags have simply been labelled with a notice saying they have not been collected because they are in the wrong place.
Why, I find myself constantly asking, are we employing the arrogant sods who run things around here? And why have none of them reasoned that litter-filled thoroughfares attract litter-scavenging vermin?
At the end of the road running alongside this terrace is a large woodyard wherein reside - if local folklore be believed - some rather large rats.
How long before said rats (accompanied by various other forms of wildlife) realise that the kerbs are being routinely littered with goodie-filled plastic bags lacking so much as a garden gate to protect them?
Since the new rules are clearly not designed to benefit the customer, one can only presume their purpose is to reduce the number of dustmen (or whatever title) we are currently employing. What a mean, futile saving.
A cutback in the number of overpaid, bullshit blathering top officers would be more to the point.
A huge reduction in the number of inflated expenses claims submitted by avaricious councillors would be even more so.
And a return to the days (if they ever existed) when the lunatics did not run the asylum would not come amiss.
The election.
So we’re off to a flying start. They’re going to build Utopia for us - again. The Blues, the Reds, the Oranges, the Greens, the Plaids, the Tartans, the BNP, UKIP and whatever the OMRLP might now be. For the next few weeks every one of them will promise everything you ever hoped for.
Your vote for them will surely make you the equivalent of a National Lottery winner.
And now they’ve imported another American game show, Brickbats at Five Paces, which consists of party leaders indulging in televised verbal jousting. What anybody is supposed to learn from it (other than just how undignified politicians are at election time) I do not know. It comes complete with highly paid opportunist American advisers of course, and that should be warning enough. At first glance they need a more exciting opening.
As a starter, the contestants should have been seated in the audience.
A compere - someone like the late lamented Leslie Crowther - should then have come on stage, introduced the show, and shouted:
“So who’s going to play Brickbats at Five Paces tonight? (long pause) David! Gordon! Nick! Come on down!”
What?
Give it time…
The Easter Hols.
Grandson Ellis has been stricken with the irritating itch of chicken pox, stoically refrained from excessive scratching and is on his way to a clear skin again. (Always happens at holiday time, doesn’t it?)
The cat Shadow has been stricken with cystitis; bad bout. I had not realised cats suffered from it.. We wrapped him in a blanket to take him to the vet. He goes berserk in a cat box. Thank gawd my Leader is a firm but kind administer of medicines. She is dealing with the daily dosage. I’m hopeless: get more fraught than the cat does. He has been very tolerant about it.
“That cat has not got a mean bone in his body,” was Mo’s verdict.
He had a quick wash to cover his embarrassment

FILMS.

Prairie Fever (2008)
This western had drunken ex sheriff Kevin Sorbo (think James Woods without the menace) escorting a group of women from a small town where neither he nor they were any longer wanted. It didn’t get much of a write up but we enjoyed it.
Tuck Everlasting. (2002)
Nice little fantasy from the Disney people. Starring William Hurt and Cissy Spacek, it was clearly family viewing for holiday time.
Ben Kingsley played the villain and the supporting cast included some attractive young people we did not recognise; they were all very good.

TELEVISION.

Foyle’s War.
The three leading characters are back. Sam is out of uniform (pity); Milner is a newly-appointed Detective Inspector with a lot to learn; Foyle is still a reluctant Detective Chief Superintendent who would rather go fishing; and the acting hat is still effortlessly upstaging everybody except its owner, who obviously taught it everything it knows.
Another three weeks of Honesuckle Weeks (what a smashing name), Anthony Howell (whose acting limp may not have kept up with his promotion) and the master of underplay, Foyle himself, Michael Kitchen (complete with his acting hat).
Might have been better to have a complete end to war and give us Foyle’s Peace?
Who knows?
Perhaps Anthony Horowitz does not want Foyle to become a home counties George Gently.
Midsomer Murders.
In a two hour episode, Barnaby and Jones investigated the customary mixture of class distinction, sex, spite and Middle England mayhem.
Dear old John Nettles is still being made to run all over the place before delivering an out-of-breath caution to a detestable toff.
I think he is really looking forward to the arrival of Neil Dudgeon.
　
FOOTBALL.

Mad world.
So penniless Pompey beat Redknapp’s Spurs and now Redknapp’s Spurs have beaten Chelsea. Can’t help wondering whether the ol’ boy will find the right players to beat the Inland Revenue.
Mad world, football.
Surprisingly decent world too, sometimes. When four staff at Pompey’s Eastleigh training ground were axed recently, head coach Avram Grant, club captain Hermann Hreidarsson, goalkeeper David James and the rest of the team, chipped in enough money to pay their wages until the end of the season.
In adversity, eh?

144. At the onset of a month of balderdash.

2010-04-07T12:05:00.000-07:00

HOME

That wretched hour.
Again the half yearly muck about with the clocks. Forward an hour this time. Why?
A theory is that it’s for Scottish farmers. But they’ve got electricity up there, haven’t they? And don’t they have machines to milk the cows nowadays?
So why are millions of non-rural folk currently losing an hour’s sleep in the mornings and bundling little kids off to bed in broad daylight?
Cannot the pillocks-in-power be persuaded on a compromise?
Why don’t we just knock half an hour off the time next autumn and never change the bloody clocks again?
That wretched election.
So, the election is to be on Thursday 6th May, eh? Can’t say the prospect excites me.
Well, we either vote for the bunch that has been too long in power now, or the crowd that was too long in power before them, don‘t we?.
You pays your taxes and you takes your choice.
One thing for sure, whoever gets in can be relied upon to put up taxes and forget their promises. I wouldn’t trust any of ’em with my grandson’s money box.
Johann Hari wrote an excellent article (As Britain ages, will generational conflict dominate our politics?) in The Independent on the day before the PM went to HM.
In a lively and sympathetic defence of old Boomers, the journalist deftly dismantled Tory front-bencher David Willetts who, it seems, has written a book blaming the old for taking too big a slice of the nation’s financial pie.
Mr. Hari slyly suggests that the £20bn more needed in support of the elderly by 2017 could be covered by simply recovering the £25bn in tax which the super-rich currently avoid or evade each year.
In the same paper, Andreas Whittam Smith, with an article entitled The triumph of political mendacity, did a fine demolition job on New Labour Chancellor Alistair Darling.
Mr. Darling, he concluded, lacks respect for the electorate and is not alone among politicians in so doing. Mr. Darling, it seems, is nobody’s darling.
He will give a little with one hand and take back a lot with the other.
Even more galling, he will be convinced that we won’t notice
My favourite start to the month of balderdash we shall now endure, however, was John Humphrys interview with Neil Kinnock (BBC Radio 4 Tuesday 6th April) in which the two Welshmen debated whether Gordon Brown would or would not be a liability to his party in the forthcoming election.
Lovely stuff.
They sounded like two old guys in a pub in Pontypridd.
A trill too far?
After commending Della Reese’s interpretation of The Story of a Starry Night I broke a personal house rule and bought The Classic Della CD.
My Leader looked unsure but did not demur. Her uncertainty was not without foundation. (Post 96 refers) I have a collection of CDs containing one or two tracks to which I actually listen: the rest, no matter how appealing they may be to devotees of the particular artiste concerned, are not to my taste and regularly suffer the skip button.
Della was primarily a jazz singer (hear Cleo Laine). It is my loss that I am not a jazz fan.
An excellent collection for anybody who is, though.
In later discussion with Maureen I said that her initial doubts about the CD, though unexpressed, had been apparent.
She conceded that she had wondered whether twenty four tracks would be a trill too far.
Ah.

TELEVISION.

Doctor Who (New series).
All hail the youngest Doctor to breeze onto the scene since William ‘Billy’ Hartnell first graced our screens in 1963.
On the evidence of episode 1 alone, Matt Smith is the ideal replacement for David Tennant, who was one helluva hard act to follow.
The young Doctor has also acquired lovely Amy Pond (Karen Gillan) as his travelling companion (presumably ‘assistant’ is no longer a PC description).
This first episode was really Amy’s story: writer Steven Moffat cleverly used the updating of the Tardis and its time traveller to show how a brave little girl, Amelia (Caitlin Blackwood), became a feisty young woman, Amy, in the twelve years that it took the Doctor to get back from his ‘I’ll only be gone five minutes’ first encounter with her.
Casting and production have got it right again: this team is nigh on perfect.
Jonathan Creek.
Writer David Renwick’s likeable character, played by likeable Alan Davies, re-emerged at last to tackle another bizarre mystery. This time a one-off.
It was the same old, fondly remembered, formula. But for me, once again, there was something missing.
It was not the unbelievable plot and it was not the entire reel of loose ends, both of which were much in evidence.
No, what was missing (and has been for far too long) was Carolyn Quentin.
All the other Jonathan baiters have been good, but Carolyn was the best.
If there is ever another series, she really should be in it.
A Touch of Frost.
Jack came back in a final two-parter, He fell in love with and married RSPCA Inspector Christine Moorhead, played by Phyllis Logan (who, I seem to remember, once played the love of DCI Matt Burke’s life in Taggart).
Of course it all had to end in high drama: how else, with Adrian Dunbar and George Costigan in the cast?
Pity the producers felt the need to make public their decision to film three endings and leave the choice of which would be screened to David Jason.
He chose well enough, but it savoured of another of those ghastly reality shows which would end with the three threatened characters standing in the spotlight while an off-screen voice intoned: “And the first character chosen not to die tonight is...“
Long - long - long - long pause…
“David!”
(Cut to a delighted Jason. Switch to show Bruce Alexander and John Lyons applauding and trying to look like good sports.)
It was otherwise a decent Frost yarn and a fitting farewell to the long running favourite.
Question Time.
The last time I saw this it came from Stevenage and the panel consisted of three members of parliament, a Daily Mail columnist, and (for the sake of sanity) Victoria Coren.
She came across as unbiased.
Say no more.

143. Every cloud has a silver lining.

2010-03-27T06:26:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Sahil Saeed.
Only a week or so after my last post this little boy was kidnapped and his family faced with the terrible fear that they might never see him again. Praise be he is back with them now and Interpol (if that’s what it still is) appears to have caught some of the gang involved. Makes you realise how lucky you are to live in a spot where your biggest concern is whether some inconsiderate sod may have parked in front of your garage.
Conversation in a car.
Mention of a little boy takes me to a recent car trip. Just the two of us; Big Boo driving and Little Boo (grandson Ellis) strapped into his special seat at the back. All was quiet and I thought he had gone to sleep.
Suddenly he said: “You’re very old aren’t you, Boo.”
I admitted that to be the case.
“Yes…“ he mused…“You’ll be dead soon.”
I confirmed that could be the case, too.
“Mmm…I shan’t see you anymore then,” he said.
There was a pause.
His timing was perfect: “I shall still see La though.”
La is his pet name for his grandmother.
Every cloud has a silver lining.

AWAY.

254 OBA Southern Chapter.
We have just spent a pleasant couple of days at Botleigh Grange Hotel, Hedge End, on the outskirts of Southampton. The occasion was the annual get-together of our local branch of 254 OBA (Post 135 refers).
The Southern Chapter is organized by ex boy soldier Pat Soward and his wife, Maureen: they do it excellently.
Despite a liberal helping of miserable weather - and our uncertainty on foreign roads (I was even passed by a Smart Car) - with the help of satnav Hermione Granger we journeyed too and fro safely enough. There were some white knuckle moments and no little cursing on my part, but we made it.
It was worth the effort.
Many of the nice people we met last October were there, plus a few welcome additions. It was good to be reunited with kindly remembered folk and to recall events that took place when the world was altogether different from the one we know today.
Our thanks to the, mostly young, staff of Botleigh Grange Hotel. Their performance in dealing with our reunion dinner, a wedding reception and a charity function, all on the same night, was laudable and, with a little more direction, could have been outstanding. They did not let the apparent shortage of experienced management (or cooks or whatever) faze them: they remained calm and cheerful and they did their level best.
Well done…
And the journey home…
Our journey home, via Gosport and Alverstoke, was made in the best weather of the entire trip.
At Gosport we visited my Leader’s nephew, Steve, who wanted me to see his new flat. I should have gone to see it when Maureen did, shortly after he moved in, but I tend to stay put on the Island out of sheer bloody laziness.
It is a nice flat in a quiet area and he has decent - mostly elderly - neighbours. We arrived to find two visitors already there; his brother Phil, and a pleasant lady, Doreen, who used to be the occupant of Steve’s flat and now lives downstairs. She and Steve cook lunch for each other on alternate Sundays. We had coffee and he showed me around. It is an excellent pad, he waited a long time for it and his patience has been rewarded: it suits him perfectly.
Well done…
At Alverstoke we had lunch with Maureen’s sister, our Marg, and her husband, Mike. The sisters talked sister talk and Mike and I cheerfully agreed to disagree on just about every topic imaginable. (So what’s new?) I slept on the late afternoon boat back to the Island. My Leader didn’t offer to take over the driving. She knew I’d be shaken wide awake the moment we hit the concrete ploughed fields that pass for roads over here.

TELEVISION.

Five Days.
Suranne Jones, David Morrissey, Anne Reid and Bernard Hill starred in this drama shown on BBC1.
There was some fine acting, a tortuous plot, and the realistically ironic death of one of the leading characters.
Good television.
Missing. (BBC1)
Second series about a police Missing Persons Unit. The action is set in the Kent towns of Tonbridge and Dover. Pauline Quirke plays DS “MJ.” Croft who leads the team and Mark Wingett (him off The Bill) plays a local radio broadcaster. Any tendency to cosiness is tempered by the constant reminder that high-flying jobsworths run the police nowadays, just as they do pretty much every other concern.

READING.

Terry Wogan.
Finished ol’ Tel’s Where Was I?! I enjoyed it. Bit lighter than his autobiographical books, I thought. More blog-like. Don’t suppose he’d mind me saying that. Blog-like or not, he’s been paid for it: and he won’t have come cheap.

RADIO.

Heard that song before?
Listening to Classic FM one morning recently I heard the haunting Danse Macabre by Saint-Saens and found myself wondering how many people know it only as the theme from Jonathan Creek. I then wondered how many classical composers cavort in their crypts at the cavalier use of their music by film and television producers or, worse still, by numpties who adorn it with banal pop lyrics.
That having been said, Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 in B minor, Pathétique, Op. 74, shamelessly hijacked for Howard Hughes’ s 1943 film The Outlaw, was actually complemented by The Story of a Starry Night, particularly when it was sung by the superb Della Reese.
Click on and listen in…
Della Reese - The Story of a Starry Night ...2 min 51 sec She made a very decent job of the Schubert Serenade, too.

FILM.

Zathura.
Two squabbling brothers were propelled into space in their old house. Tim Robbins’ name was there to sell it; he hardly appeared: but we thought it was great fun anyway.
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.
We have the complete DVD set but ITV is showing the films again and we cannot but look in. Emma, Dan and Rupert were all so small. Keep seeing things we missed the first/second/third time around and keep wondering why we don’t just put on the DVD and avoid the darned adverts.
Got to go: they’re showing The Chamber of Secrets again this afternoon…

142. Melina who?

2010-02-24T09:50:00.000-08:00

HOME.

That window.
Happy with the window. Content to pay the bill even if it was more than double the original price of the house. Far from happy with the V.A.T demanded by a grasping treasury. Don’t mind paying those who do it all. Very much mind paying those who do fuck all.
Mini Cooper Y 438 CBL.
And while I am about it, let me express my displeasure with the owner of the above numbered Mini. Last Saturday morning this idiot parked on the hard standing directly in front of our garage door. My wife, prevented from using the family car, was made twenty five minutes late for an assignment.
She left a note on the windscreen of the Mini inviting the owner to call at the front door and apologise.
Fat chance.
As secretly as it had been left, the car was removed. Presumably the owner thought possession of Island Residents Permit IRP 38836 - 01 meant he or she had permission to park anywhere.
I am assuming whoever it was cannot read - there is a No Parking sign above the garage door - so if you know him or her perhaps you would be good enough to pass on this message:
DO
NOT
DO
THAT
AGAIN
YOU
DICK
HEAD.
Thank you for your co-operation.

TELEVISION.

DVDs.
We have started to pile up the recordings again. Don’t remember when Mo was screened, but we watched it last weekend.
Julie Walters was excellent as former Northern Ireland Secretary Mo Mowlam who finally brought peace to Northern Ireland with the Good Friday Agreement.
The credit for her success was hijacked by P.M. Tony Blair and his creepy henchman Peter Mandelson.
Trust politicians?
The News.
Accusations of Bullying.
Don’t care where they are. In the school playground, the workplace, or at 10 Downing Street; bullies are scum. Now the jaw-dropping Scot is accused of bullying staff at No.10. His creepy henchman Peter Mandelson (yes, that little bugger again) hurried to his defence, as did Britain’s prize model of self-control John Prescott. They were followed by Ed (talking) Balls.
With an election in the offing, who the hell knows who to believe.
But I ask you…
Trust politicians?
CSI: NY.
CSI Detective Third Grade Danny Messer (Carmine Giovinazzo) is walking again. I presume he finally accepted this season’s pay offer. His disablement provided a reasonable sub plot based around his will to recover. Meantime, he kept working. Hell, if Melina Kanakarides had been on the staff in my office I’d have kept working if I had to walk there on my hands.
Lark Rise To Candleford.
Ruraltania trotted out its disabled character sub plot when Robert Timmins (Brendan Coyle), distracted by the chatter of Minnie Mude (Ruby Bentall), fell off his ladder. The fall left him in agony, Ivy. (That’s one for the older reader.) Guess it is not too much of a spoiler to say he got over it. There was a fleeting visit from the lady of the manor and a gloriously daffy St. George and the Dragon play. There were fine performances again from Linda Bassett, Karl Johnson and the rest of the cast. You can tell when a series is doing well: it attracts stars like Tom Conti, who appeared the week before last as a concert pianist. He is another Scottish actor, like Ken Stott, who only has to be on the screen to steal the scene. He was gently written in and out and we were all left smiling through the tears.
CSI Trilogy.
This was a good gimmick enabling Laurence Fishburne to fully establish his grip on the CSI scene while reminding the stars of NY and Miami that, in the acting world as in every other business, nobody is indispensable.
NCIS.
There has to be an exception to every rule and Mark Harmon is such an exception. So far as I can see, in what has become close to a cult show, he is indispensable.

READING.

I have just read Lost for Words by John Humphrys. (Hodder and Stoughton). Good book about the mangling and manipulating of the English language. Made me re-read some of my blog posts and think: bloody hell, did I write that? I then recalled the advice given to me years ago by the novelist George Woodman: “It is good that you can admire another person's writing, but never let it undermine your opinion of your own work.” So I shall not dwell too long on the done and dusted.
I am still reading and enjoying Where Was I ?! The World According to Terry Wogan. Not sure about his new show on Radio 2, though. I was never all that happy with Parkinson’s weekly tribute to Frank Sinatra, so a weekly dollop of obsequious TOGs could be a fawn too far. Sunday lunchtime has never been the same since the Billy Cotton Band Show disappeared.
My reading may be further put on hold: Simon’s Cat, the promised book of cartoons by Simon Tofield, has just been presented to me by my Leader.
Not a Christmas or a birthday present: just a present because she knew I wanted it.
Melina who?

141. Sky High with Toad of Toad Hall

2010-02-05T05:26:00.000-08:00

TELEVISION.

The Sky High story.
We finally did it.
In common with millions of fellow goggle box watchers we decided we would have to throw more money Murdoch’s way and have a Sky dish installed. It had less to do with programme satisfaction than with the erratic reception of freeview obtained via the standard aerial. Our fun began with the news that adjacent buildings precluded any simple siting of a dish. Only a topmost site would do. Ordinary pop-up-a-ladder lads checked their insurance policies and ran for cover.
We spoke to a nice Scottish woman on the telephone. She said it sounded like a job for their high aerial installers. We needed the Sky High boys.
She arranged it.
They came, they saw, they debated, they said they could do it, but not that day: that day somebody else on the firm was using the requisite ladders. They would return later in the week. They departed.
Next day it snowed. Semi Arctic conditions prevailed for the following fortnight.
When the freeze was over we rang again.
Another couple of Sky Highers came. They debated and decided the work would take more time than the allocated time slot allowed them. They left promising that we would be visited again later in the week.
They were true to their word.
Later in the week the original pair arrived. There had been several dry days. On the morning of their arrival it was raining.
They were polite and efficient. Impervious to the weather they set about the task. In one and a half hours they had sited the aerial, installed the box, polished off the standard cuppa, shown me the basics of the remote control and departed again.
Now I only have to digest the instruction manual, pick up on all I didn’t immediately take in about the remote control, re-install my freeview box elsewhere to watch all the unseen recorded stuff contained therein (never a problem when recordings were on old fashioned video cassettes) and add my monthly subscription to ol’ Rupert’s billions.
It’s got to be worth it.
Hell, in only the last couple of days I could have seen James Stewart in Anatomy of a Murder (1959) and Dorothy McGuire in The Spiral Staircase (1945): would have done, too, had I not seen them when they were first released (and probably half a dozen times since).
And if I had been even half sure how to record them.
Lark Rise to Candleford.
To coincide with the collection of the harvest, Ruraltania was hit by measles. Little Man got it and Alf’s little brother got it and only one of ’em survived it and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
Unreality television, but real entertainment.
NCIS (Heartland).
Ralph Waite, down off Walton’s Mountain, was discovered to be Gibbs’s father. I am still trying to puzzle out whether that makes Gibbs the half brother of John-Boy Walton.
Lovely episode: beautifully acted.
Arena: Harold Pinter - a Celebration.
It is to my eternal discredit that I never could see the point of Pinter‘s plays. By the end of the evening I didn’t care whose birthday party it was or why anybody came to take him away. I was equally Philistine (despite our son’s singular success in a school production of Krapp’s Last Tape) about the works of Samuel Beckett. Long before David Caruso’s acting sunglasses Mark Harmon’s acting haircut and Michael Kitchen‘s acting trilby, Beckett invented the acting banana. I remember getting the humour but missing the point. There just didn’t seem to be one.
Nonetheless, this Arena programme showcasing the work of Harold Pinter was a fascinating tribute to a unique talent and contained contributions from many of my favourite performers including David Bradley, Kenneth Cranham, Lynsay Duncan, Colin Firth, Douglas Hodge, Jeremy Irons, Jude Law, Roger Lloyd Pack, Gina McKee, Alan Rickman, Michael Sheen, Samuel West and Penelope Wilton, along with students from LAMDA.
Obviously they all thought he was worth it.
I enjoyed most of it.
Still missed the point, though.

READING.

Corduroy Mansions.
I meandered a bit pointlessly through Alexander McCall Smith’s crumbling mansion block in Pimlico, too. Didn’t so much lose the plot as have difficulty in finding it.
Perhaps I should have hired the No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.

HOME.

That Window.
Whisper it very softly. No fuss, no fanfare, it’s in. A like-for-like wooden replacement window. My Leader spoke to Tammany Hall in her customary reasonable fashion and obtained a surprisingly kindly response. The only time I spoke was to say hallo to a return caller and pass the phone over to her. The window looks good and well in keeping.
Say no more - I hope.
Living with minor fame.
The cat Shadow leapt onto his choice chair in the computer room and struck the pose I know all too well.
“You must have a poem,” I said unenthusiastically.
“Live with it, mate,” he replied, and was orating before I could blink:

Shadow the Blogger’s Model.

Now you’ve seen me in the fur,
Glistening eyes and fit to purr,
If you’re honest you’ll concur
I’m something of a blinder.

Much too smart for dog or flea,
No mouse puts one over me,
Even a bird up in a tree,
Knows I’ll surely find her.

As models go I’m a natural mog,
Made for posing on a blog,
Quite as cute as the cutest dog:
(I can’t say anything kinder.)

And one day maybe I’ll be seen
On the front of a national magazine.
Escorting a female cat, pristine:
If only as her minder.

He had the usual wash before asking: “Well, what do you think?”
“Pure Toad of Toad Hall” I said. “Right up ‘til the last line..”
“Knew you’d like it,” he said.

140. One distraction after another.

2010-01-20T08:03:00.000-08:00

The Cat Shadow.

AT HOME.

An apologetic shrug of the shoulders.
For the first year in the last five I failed to complete my computer diary. Made the last entry on the 15th December, 2009. Not sure what happened after that. There was a load of rain, then an early rush to install Christmas decorations inside and out; then the sudden realisation that nice people were sending us Christmas cards and we were floundering to reciprocate.
I have no idea who we missed or who missed us. My Leader and I agreed to jointly tackle the card writing and that is a fatal mistake. In the end neither of us knew who had or had not done what. To be honest, it was much like last year.
So if you were expecting a card and we missed you, please forgive us and we hope you and yours had a Merry Christmas and will have a Happy New Year.
Rest assured other things were overlooked.
My diary for one.

And an air of distraction...

“Got the message in the end, did you?” enquired the cat Shadow sniffily.
I feigned faint distraction (something I do rather easily).
“Message?” I murmured: “What message?”
“You know the one,” he persisted. “The drop the diary and concentrate on the blog one. ‘Forget the diary and stick to the blog,’ I said. Remember?”
“Gawdawmighty, that was a long time ago,” I protested. “More than a year I’ll bet.”
“October 2008,” he said smugly.
“And I tried it and you said it was no different from my usual stuff.”
“I think I probably said it was a bit like your usual stuff but with dates instead of headings. That didn’t mean you shouldn’t stick with it.”
“But I suffer from retired geezers’ syndrome. Not a minute to spare. I just can’t find the time to do a daily blog. Anyway, I don‘t think the Blog Eds would welcome that sort of intrusion into their cyberspace.”
“It’s not their bloody cyberspace,” he said. “And if you think they so much as know you exist you’re even more self - delusional than I imagine you to be.”
I sighed my despairing sigh.
“Don’t go lookin’ to heaven either, mate,” he said. “You claim to respect that Giles Turnbull’s computer nous. Well he says you have to keep blogging on a regular basis; if you look at his blog nowadays it’s up to date and full of daily photo stuff.”
“It’s a bit of a while since I looked in at him,” I admitted. “Haven’t found the time.”

TELEVISION.

Celebrity Mastermind 2009/2010.
The world of television has been beset by celebrity reality and game shows of late, so I almost dismissed this one without looking up from the concise crossword. Glad I changed my mind. It turned out not half bad, even if I didn’t know most of the people taking part.
Episode 9 was won by the actor Nigel Planer with an impressive 17 marks for his specialist subject (Robert Louis Stevenson) and an overall mark of 31.
Described in Wiki as an English actor, comedian, novelist and playwright, he gained my undivided attention when he told John Humphrys:
“I love actors. Actually I think actors are a lot nicer than comedians and a lot less vain than writers.”
Knows what he’s talking about, that one. He’s done it all.
The Hairy Bikers: Mums Know Best.
This male version of Two Fat Ladies has Dave Myers and Si King biking around the country in search of mums’ recipes to be presented by mums at various nosh fairs which I have to admit I had no idea existed.
It’s all as pleasant as the two pleasant blokes presenting it and we wouldn’t miss a single episode.
Finding the recipes on the internet was a losing battle, but perhaps that has been rectified now: they do have a cookbook to sell, though, so perhaps not.
Survivors.
At the end of the first series I thought there had to be a follow up, but realised that would not necessarily be the case because programme producers have their own strange agenda. Nonetheless, goody lethal bug survivors Max Beesley, Julie Graham, Paterson Joseph and friends are back to do bewildered battle with baddie survivors Patrick Malahide, Nicholas Gleaves, Geraldine Somerville and an army of hard-faced extras. It’s still watchable tosh.

CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

New series and already the ever open door of the CSI lab has been used to lethal purpose, this time by an armed gang of pseudo funeral directors.
Dr. Raymond Langston punched one of them through a plate glass window and with that KO punch - despite the strange reappearance on the team of Sara Sidle - symbolically despatched ol’ Gil Grissom to distant memory.
NCIS.
Episodes 1 and 2 of series six.
Jenny is dead. Gibbs and his acting haircut are left with Abby and Ducky. The new director appears to be the sort of suspect character who, upon appointment, shreds one of the sheets on his own personnel file and disbands the agency team. By the end of episode 2 we have been brought up to speed. There has been yet another infiltration of the NCIS workplace by Russian gangsters/al Qaeda/China/N. Korea…whatever.Part positive action has been taken. (There must be a threat left for future episodes.) The team is gradually being reconstructed. The new director now seems slightly less ominous. By episode 25 he will be entirely trustworthy - until he turns out to be the second cousin of Osama bin Laden. But no matter how poorly the critic in Britain’s Best-Value Digital TV Guide rates it, we shall continue to watch every head smacking, coffee drinking, silly daft second of it.

Numb3rs.
Another new series. This is the one with the reasonably unlikely premise that a mathematical genius brother of an FBI special agent based in Los Angeles is able to assist in the solving of crimes by scrawling equations on a blackboard. The leading characters are charming and are played by likeable actors; does anyone dislike Judd Hirsch? I watch it fitfully. At school I was a bored, consequently poor, maths student. So I tend to drop off… What? Oh, the gunfire wakes me up.
CSI: NY.
So the sinister black car from which a machine gun opened up on our heroes did not contain a hit man from the mob but an idiot who did not mean to injure anybody and was just looking for publicity. One of our heroes has been put in a wheelchair - maybe until he agrees the latest pay deal - and the rest are unscathed - but probably on much the same salary as they got for the last series…
Wallander.
Kenneth Branagh has just finished another short series as the Swedish detective. Still solving gory murders, weathering a sad family life, sleeping in his clothes and going to the office unkempt, unshaven and bleary eyed. Branagh‘s a fine actor but I prefer the Swedish production. The English version is too morose and sepia tone. And there’s too much wood. All the English Swedes seem to live in sheds.
QI.
Stephen Fry, Alan Davies and assorted guests continue to provide excellent entertainment on this unique show. The episode entitled Genius was particularly good. Messrs. Fry and Davies, together with David Mitchell, Graham Norton and Dara O’Briain, were clever, interesting and funny. It can still be watched on QI, Series 7, Genius (or downloaded at BBC iPlayer) if you missed it. Give it a go.
Popstar to Operastar.
Some production genius suddenly came up with a novel idea.

"Why don’t we try to turn celebrities into dancers - er, no - ice dancers - er, no - singers - that’s it - singers! Eh? No, Andrew Lloyd - Thingy hasn’t done it already. His were unknowns who became Marias or Nancies or something. Ours will be celebs. Tell you what, we’ll get pop stars. We’ll turn ‘em into opera singers. We’ll ask the public to vote for their favourite turn. (So 90% of the public can’t sing…that doesn’t matter…90% of ‘em can’t dance or ice skate, either.) The phone calls will bring in decent revenue and one of the hopefuls will be voted off every week. We’ll have long - long - long waits while they sweat over which of ’em is for the chop. It has to be a hit don’t you think? " Well, yes, I do think. On the first show the judges (even manic Meatloaf) came across as encouraging and responsible, the public vote was reasonable, and there were some rather good voices to be heard. I look forward to marked improvement all round as nerves are conquered, confidence builds, and operatic numbers are more carefully chosen to suit the vocal capability of the individual. I look forward to hearing Darius tackle something like On With The Motley. I do not look forward to the screaming bobbysoxers - or whatever they’re called nowadays - in the audience every week. And I certainly do not look forward to the long - long - long wait to hear which one is for the chop.

Nurse Jackie.

Yet another new series. This one stars New Yorker Edie Falco. Christ! Ain't she a good actress!

READING.

Interruptions on the way to the library.
Finally finished Linwood Barclay’s No Time For Goodbye.
Was intrigued by the opening chapters, enjoyed all the twists and turns, and sussed out the villain long before the end. My sort of thriller. Have just read Dogs Don’t Tell Jokes by Louis Sachar. It is not as good as Holes but it does convey the same degree of empathy with its young protagonists. In the meantime, am still flitting in and out of Corduroy Mansions, harassed by the likes of Louis Sachar and by dear old Terry Wogan pleading: “Where was I ?!”

I’ll have to finish with Corduroy Mansions before my welcome runs out.

139. Eyes Down, Look In.

2010-01-04T08:48:00.000-08:00

HOME.

A holiday break to remember.
Throughout the festive season we have been invited to meals by our entire family. It has been a pleasant and memorable time for us.
Hope Christmas was kind to you, too, and that you will have a healthy, peaceful and prosperous 2010.
Anonymous John.
Our old pal forwarded the following.
Well it made me laugh, John.
http://www.eyegas.com/sproutifarts/
That window.
Thought I’d bring you up to date with the replacement window saga previously mentioned in Post 136.
Our builder approached the Council’s listed buildings department (not a move I’d have made) and was told that we would have to apply for planning permission enclosing photostat evidence of when the current window was installed etc.
I had a good swear and my Leader took over.
She spoke to our solicitor who searched the house deeds for evidence and eventually unearthed what appeared to be partial proof that the job was done in 1973, thought to be the year before the unstately pile was listed.
We are keeping our fingers crossed. I am keeping right out of it.
Maureen will deal with them.
She is younger, kinder and far more tolerant of their bureaucratic claptrap than am I.
The weather.
Hoped not to mention it again but hasn’t the weather been gross?
Snowfalls, black ice, torrential rain; hardly anywhere has escaped it.
We have avoided the worst of it.
That’s one advantage of living on the Isle of Wight.
Seems we even escaped the Triffids…

TELEVISION.

The Day of the Triffids.
Dougray Scott and Joely Richardson, assisted by Brian Cox and a likeable supporting cast, took on Eddie Izzard at his most hateful, Vanessa Redgrave at her least likeable, and several fields full of stinging, blinding, carnivorous cacti at their less than believably mobile.
It was the silliest story John Wyndham ever wrote and no amount of jiggery-pokery with the plot could disguise that.
Finally though, with the whole of Britain lined up on the menu, it transpired that the Isle of Wight was Triffid free,
Surprised me.
I would have thought they’d be invited over to join the Council.
Never mind, it was good holiday viewing and I enjoyed every daft minute of it.
Dr. Who.
David Tennant’s demise took almost as long as the never ending departure of ol’ Tel Wogan.
Russell T. Davies wrote a terrific exit for the Doctor.
We were all turned into replicas of a blonde John Simm (it took years off me): there was a lot of shouting and groaning from David Tennant, some lovely acting by a splendid cast - no apologies for picking out dear old Bernard Cribbins again - and finally a succession of cameo appearances by star characters from past series and the spin-offs thereof.
It all made for great holiday viewing and, yes, I enjoyed every daft minute of it.
Victoria Wood’s Midlife Christmas.
Hurray! She’s back!
And with her a host of cherished favourites including Julie Walters’s self-obsessed actress Bo Beaumont (Mrs. Overall in Acorn Antiques) who, seeking to rekindle her declining career, disdainfully refuses to join the ‘bush tucker’ tribe on Celebrity Big Brother with the scathing observation that if she is ever that desperate for work she will just become a guest in Countdown’s Dictionary Corner. (One could almost hear the “Ouch” from Geoffrey Durham.)
There was a splendid skit entitled Lark Pies To Cranchesterford in which a comely lass left her Mar and Par and went to work in a Post and Potato Office. There was a spoof Apprentice sketch and there was the marvellous Ballad of Barry and Freda (Let’s Do It!) incorporating a final dance routine straight out of Busby Berkeley.
Welcome back Victoria Wood!
What else was on?
Well there was a two-part Cranford, a Marple, the ubiquitous David Tennant appearing as Hamlet and again as a QI panellist, the hundredth Taggart, a few interesting Celebrity Masterminds, loads of repeats in different guises and, on Christmas Day, an animated version of the children’s picture book The Gruffalo which was arguably the best holiday offering of them all.
And what is coming soon?
The new series of CSI/NY is on the way and we shall find out who was bumped off for seeking too big a pay rise…
NCIS is due back (cheers!), and…
Lark Rise to Candleford will be happily mar-ing and par-ing again; good old Ruraltania!

READING.

A mini library.
Even as I struggle to conclude my current couple of fascinating reads (find I get slower and slower with age), Christmas has brought a mini library of book gifts to my side table.
So now I not only have Corduroy Mansions and No Time For Goodbye to finish but Louis Sachar’s Dogs Don’t tell Jokes: Terry Wogan's Where Was I? and - a tour de force - The Penguin TV Companion to tackle.
I have also been given The ultimate RONNIE BARKER collection of 12 DVDs to watch.
Cannot help but wonder how I shall manage to cope now that all these new telly series are starting.
Well I shan’t abandon anything.
The books will take even longer to finish and the list of unseen recordings may reach sixty odd, that’s all.
I’m not bothered.
Nobody’s holding a gun to my head.
Back soon if I’m not reading or watching.

138. Seasonal Greetings from a Moaning Blogger...

2009-12-05T07:36:00.000-08:00

IN THE NEWS.

The Floods.
I guess everybody from religious fanatics to global warming know-alls will spout their reasons for the unprecedented rainfall that has caused such devastation and sad loss of life this autumn.
Truth is, we are never prepared for freaks of nature and mostly live in a cocoon of complacency wherein disasters only happen to other people.
Television reminds us that the elements can beset anybody, but the comfort of an armchair in a warm living room removes reality from the situation.
Cameras never linger too long on chaos. Insurance companies hurry to advance it as a reason why next year’s premiums will go up. The usual platitudes about lessons being learned are routinely served up by beleaguered officialdom.
Cures are promised right up until the crippling pecuniary aspects become clear; then councils cravenly decide that effectiveness cannot be guaranteed; anyway, next year it will probably happen somewhere else…
Lessons will have been learned, though.
Mind out for that flying pig!

FILMS.

Ice Age 3: Dawn of the Dinosaurs.
Well I suppose one way to ensure that audiences know exactly the sort of film they are going to see is to slap a number after the title and rely on the success of the original to bring them back
So far none of these computer-animated gems has failed to amuse and entertain. This one incorporates a wealth of original ideas with some extended sight gags carried along from the two earlier films.
We loved it.
The numbered Ice Ages have even been given subsidiary titles (number 2 was The Meltdown).
Whether you have kids or, like me, are a big kid, I would recommend you obtain the complete DVD set.
And refuse to lend any of them out!
Night at the Museum 2.
No additional title to this one, just the number and Ben Stiller’s name at the top.
It’s OK, but only half as good as the original.
Don’t know whether any more are planned.
Hope not.
A third night at the museum would be one and a half too many.

TELEVISION.

Merlin. (BBC1)
New characters come and go, with or without ceremony.
King Uther Pendragon (Anthony Head) firmly believing that he has weeded out all the wizards in Camelot, maintains a blinkered unawareness that they are still gathered around him. In a recent episode he even married a troll (lovely OTT stuff from Sarah Parish).
His son Arthur (Bradley James) has yet to realise that manservant Merlin (Colin Morgan) has the description 'practising wizard' included in his C.V.
Amidst all the drama on offer, this sublime load of tosh gets barmier and more enjoyable by the week.
A great Saturday teatime warm-up for…
Strictly Come Dancing. (BBC1)
Where none of the pairs now stands out for culling.
I have no idea who the winners will be: was originally convinced that Ricky and Natalie had to make it to the final and there probably be competing with Ali and Brian. But Chris (with Ola) has terrific public support and Laila (a very good dancer) has Anton, a superb partner.
Nope, I can’t choose between them. They’re all great.
If it was left to me they’d all get a trophy.
The Paul O’Grady Show. (C4)
Theatricals and showbiz names clearly enjoy being on this show. Paul O’Grady’s ’You’re a star’ interviewing technique makes him the easiest of conversationalists and his guests revel in it.
This week Bradley James and Colin Morgan appeared again. Away from the set of Merlin their banter is little changed except that Colin Morgan clearly hails from Northern Ireland. Yes, Merlin has a charming Nor’ern Ir’ern accent. Well it surprised me.
In fact it’s the most surprised I’ve been since Dr. Who turned out to be a Scot.
The Graham Norton Show. (BBC1)
This fellow’s fay following is still a bit beyond my comprehension, but since Woss had his wrist slapped there has been a tad less of the outlandish about him.
Recent guests on the show have included Dame Shirley Bassey who, when her fellow guest Michael Sheen’s absent mother was insulted by comedian Rhod Gilbert for living in Port Talbot, simply said to Sheen: ”Hit ‘im.” (Good ol’ Shirl!) and Stephen Fry who made it clear that he delights in twitterers because they twitter and hates bloggers because they moan.
I shall retain a dignified silence.
No I won’t.
Fuck off, Stephen.
Bargain Hunt. (BBC1)
Retirement brings with it certain cultural restraints, one of which is daytime television.
I try to avoid all the reconditioned barrow boys with their auction dabbling, property dealing, small-time entrepreneurial find-me-a- cottage-priced-mansion-with-a-heated-swimming-pool stuff and concentrate on just a couple of cheerful time-wasters a day.
The ebullient, camera-mugging Tim Wonnacott presents Bargain Hunt.
In this house he is known as: “That bloke with the bow ties and the silly hats.”
He’s a bit posh English and is always ‘going orf ‘ to one stately home or another where he is invariably on first name terms with the owner.
I think y’gets what y’sees with him.
And never mind the office boy press screaming that the show is a sham, if I had a house full of antiques and needed to sell them I would get the lot transported up to Great Western Antiques and Fine Art Auctions, Glasgow, and have them sold off by Anita Manning.
What an auctioneer!
　
THE FESTIVE SEASON.

Christmas Again.
What did I tell you?
Well it’s not my fault if you’re not ready. Join the club: I never am.
Cards have started to arrive from those wonderful folk who are ready, of course, and by the end of next week I shall doubtless be running around like Hugh Grant at the beginning of Four Weddings and a Funeral.
Remember?
Anyway, this will probably be my last blog post before the holiday, so let me say
A Merry Christmas to all you nice folk who take the trouble to read it and A Happy and Prosperous New Year even to those who don’t, Stephen.
Now Be Sure Sound is on:
(The wait is worth it)
Click here: Santa and Reindeer

137. From Poor Press to Good Listening

2009-11-21T12:42:00.000-08:00

IN THE NEWS.

Poor Press.
Nobody expects Gordon Brown to be viewed with much favour anymore.
It is clear, though, that he has been attempting to express his sympathy with those who have lost loved ones in the Afghanistan conflict by sending them a hand written letter of condolence.
Surely that is something to his credit, even if you believe the continuation of our part in the war is not.
Now a bereaved mother has been further upset because his letter to her family contained an incorrect spelling of their son’s name.
It was a regrettable, though I think understandable, mistake.
But I am old enough to remember how thousands disappeared in two world wars with their missing presumed deaths coldly disclosed in a telegram delivered by a downcast telegraph boy.
I would not want to see such a soulless system reintroduced just to avoid the blame for a misspelled name falling on any individual.
Would you?
Would that tabloid with tits The Sun?
Nurses.
Latest in the war on NHS common sense waged by wacky Department of Health advisers is the decision that by 2013 all nurses will be required to have a degree qualification. The nursing diploma will no longer suffice.
Now I have no objection to education. Didn’t get that much of it, so respect it the more.
But I do believe some jobs are best served by common sense and that a PhD in bedpan manipulation will be a qualification too far.
A nurse does not need a degree, she needs humanity.
Edward Woodward OBE.
We were sorry to hear the news of this fine actor’s death on the 16th November.
His early television appearances as Callan were gems.
They gained him a British Academy Television Award for Best Actor and thousands of fans (among them my Leader and me).
His role as McCall in the American television series The Equalizer won him a 1986 Golden Globe Award and he was an acclaimed stage and film performer.
He could sing, too.
Those who knew him said he was a pleasant man.
So did those who came across him by chance.
Back in the late sixties, the elderly father-in-law of a colleague of mine found himself sharing a railway carriage with “A chap on his own who looked as though he thought at first I might know him…”
They chatted all the way to Town.
After they had left the train and exchanged cheery farewells, the old gent’s son, waiting on the concourse to meet him, exclaimed: “ Dad! You never told me you knew Callan!”
“Who?”
“Edward Woodward. Callan on the tele. He’s famous.”
“Really? He didn‘t say. Nice young chap…very intelligent…liked him…“
On a personal note, it was while watching Callan that my first boss on the Isle of Wight was reported to have said to his wife: “I don’t care what he’s called in this programme, I see him in the office every day. His real name’s Barnden. He’s my Deputy.”
I could have been likened to many less worthy characters.
Thank you, Edward Woodward.
R.I.P.

READING.

Flowers For His Funeral.
It is some time since I began and finished a book inside a week but this Mitchell and Markby page turner by Ann Granger (Headline, 1994) kept me reading as though I was back in the old tuppence-a-week library days.
Guessed the murderer - always satisfying - but was caught out by the denouement - a reminder not to get too smug - and came away thinking I really must obtain more of this readable writer’s updated whodunits.

TELEVISION.

Doctor Who. (BBC1)
The Waters of Mars starred David Tennant and Lindsay Duncan, was co-written by Russell T. Davies and Phil Ford and was the first of a final three part episode which will conclude with David Tennant’s departure from the Doctor role at Christmas.
Here we had a darker and more self-absorbed Doctor Who than we have ever seen before and this one-off special ended with a splendid scene in which he and Mars research station boss Adelaide (Lindsay Duncan) did verbal battle over the changes in his doomed personality.
Time Lord or not, he’s still a man, he didn’t stand a chance of winning that one.
FlashForward. (Five)
I quickly became disorientated by all the flashing backwards and forwards. Intend to keep trying but catnaps may prevail.
Strictly Come Dancing. (BBC1)
Bruce Forsyth was away last week. Flu.
Tess Daly and Claudia Winkleman were more than adequate stand-ins despite the help of Ronnie Corbett.
Tuffers went: it was time anyway.
This week Ricky and Erin were out.
Old Bruce was back.
Ah well, you can’t win ‘em all.
Garrow’s Law. (BBC1)
Andrew Buchan (previously John Mercer, the 21st century Callan) is Garrow, a young and better looking Rumpole of the Bailey, in this 1700s historical drama .
I have recorded the first three of a four part series and have just started watching it. Have to say yet again that nobody produces better historical stuff than we do in this country.
It would be a shame if one little series was all there is to be of Garrow.
My Leader and I are already hooked.
The Queen in 3-D. (C4)
H.M. has turned up a couple of times this week.
Where the hell did we put our 3-D glasses?
Children in Need Rocks the Royal Albert Hall. (BBC1)
Every now and then television compensates for all the dross with a true showpiece. This musical assortment of gifted performers provided just that.
There was something for everyone and every fiver it obtained for the charity was thoroughly deserved.
Gary Barlow organised splendidly.
Oh, I’d have contributed just for Annie Lennox‘s performance.
Children In Need. (BBC 1)
I think this was the best of these jamborees we have been offered in a long time.
There was the usual collection of tame sketches, end-of-the-pier vocals and ‘we’re-not-just-soap-actor’ song and dance routines performed by well-meaning celebrities.
There was a great deal of Terry Wogan. (I tend to the view that Sir Terence should be like a television in the next room, heard and not seen.) And there was a great deal to enjoy. A lovely ’turn’ by the newsreaders, the children’s tv show characters doing their official single (courtesy of Peter Kay) and even dear old Richard Wilson saying: “I don’t believe it.”
Who could ask for anything more?

LISTENING.

Golden Memories.
My Leader found this four part CD set for me. It contains recordings by just about everyone from The Andrews Sisters to Frankie Vaughan via Ella Fitzgerald and Al Martino.
She has also presented me with a CD containing a splendid selection of poems with music…
Words For You.
The voices of Honor Blackman, Brian Cox, Joanna Lumley, Geoffrey Palmer and a host of other well-known actors reciting just about everyone from Betjeman to Wordsworth over a background of popular classical music.
Magic.
Who could ask for anything more?

136. If Hamlet sees a dagger...

2009-11-02T12:40:00.000-08:00

HOME.

That bloody autumnal hour.
So let’s get the moans out of the way for a start. That bloody autumnal hour has had to be fiddled with again: the clocks, as my Leader annually reminds me, fall back in the fall.
I neither know nor care why we are required to put them back an hour in autumn, or indeed put them forward again come spring.
My body clock will be all at sevens not sixes for several weeks; I see the entire exercise as an unnecessary intrusion; and I never did manage to change the clock in my last car.
An unstately pile.
As I may have mentioned before, the terrace where we live was built in the early eighteen forties and became Grade 2 listed in the nineteen seventies.
Quite why it was given a listing I do not know.
The properties are no more than simple town houses: this one provides fairly adequate living accommodation for a small family, is spread over three floors and is in a convenient spot for schools and shops.
As listed property owners we’re entitled to be members of the Listed Property Owners Club, just as are Bedford, Bath and the entire Grade 1 crowd. But in our case it‘s nothing to boast about. I think many terraces like ours were given a listing to save local councils the trouble of knocking them down; a move that was likely to attract the vociferous displeasure of the Victorian Society and unfavourable mention in poems by Sir John Betjeman.
We never really think about it until the time comes for replacements, repairs and even, heaven forbid, additions:
then we have to think about it.
Local Government (which I vaguely remember was once a public service) has an entire department of busybodies to check that wooden doors and window frames are not replaced with sensible plastic, that nothing new is introduced into hallowed hovels and that planning permission is sought before so much as a scaffold is erected or a builder’s bum glimpsed.
We now require a replacement front window on the ground floor. Based on past experience (Post 42 refers) it is likely to be a long drawn out process.
We only bought the house because my Leader fell in love with the photograph of it taken by the estate agent when it was up for sale. As I recall, he did very little else of any use. Anyway, the word listed would not have concerned me if it had nothing to do with subsidence.
But I have grown increasingly fond of the old place over the years: it is our own unstately pile, has a mini moat outside the front gate when it rains (something else the useless tits at the Council have never bothered to cure), is comfortable, conveniently situated (just four minutes stroll from M & S) and has a garage worth almost as much as the entire terrace.
I am hoping our builder will deal with the Council’s Listed Buildings bunch.
My tolerance with bureaucracy was tested and found wanting years ago.
There will be more on this subject in (probably a long) time.
Flu Jab time again.
On a lighter note: as I know I have mentioned before (Post 112), time is a sprinter. Last year was yesterday, next year is tomorrow.
A week ago we held the 2009 AGM of the Flu Jab Club.
Same four people; same venue; fresh cheese scones, tea and coffee.
Lovely to see Wendy and Mo again.
I must look out the Christmas decorations…

TELEVISION.

Football: England v Belarus.
“Well, what did you think?” I asked the cat Shadow after England’s impressive 3 - 0 win.
“Opposition wasn’t all that special,” he said.
“Couple of goals poached by Peter Crouch, though, and some precision passing by Becks,” I said. “I thought it was a tidy performance.”
“Brilliant might win the World Cup,” he said. “Tidy won’t.”
I sighed. Sometimes there’s no pleasing him.
Trinity. (ITV 3)
A strong cast keeps this bizarre series - set in an updated Lindsay Anderson style public school - humping merrily along.
There is the customary clique of top toffs (the untouchable Dandelion Club); a pair of naïve idiots for light relief; sinister manipulation of Dean Dr. Edmund Maltravers (Charles Dance) from a television screen in his study, and an occasional murder to help things along.
It is total tosh, but it certainly ain’t boring.
Merlin vanished.
Just to prove he is a magician in the making the young Merlin disappeared completely from BBC1 for a fortnight this month. The only spell he cast to cover his magical departure was the screening of Formula 1 motor racing, World Championship:
Button won so all’s well with the world.
Doc Martin. (ITV1)
Dr. Ellingham (Martin Clunes) has finally overcome his aversion to the sight of blood. He only has to do the same with his lousy bedside manner and he’ll be home and dry.
What?
Yes, I did meet NHS consultants exactly like him!
The Force. (C4)
This short documentary series about the work of Hampshire Constabulary started with an enquiry, led by DCI Jason Hogg, into the killing of a young woman: her body, found in a country lane, had been stuffed into a suitcase and set alight.
“Sex could be a motive for the murder or a reason for the murder, there’s a subtle difference,” said the DCI, or some equally wise soul on his team. He and they came across well.
On a personal note, it might look all right on the box but I wouldn’t want their job.
True Blood. (C4)
Duelling banjos with fangs. I am having trouble getting my teeth into this.
Guess it‘s just not to my taste..
The Armstrong and Miller Show. (BBC1)
Some of the sketches will be a decided hit and some a total miss: depends on your sense in humour. We enjoy the two airmen talking mod teen, the gloriously accident prone lecturer and the spoof Flanders and Swann.
Good value the pair of ‘em.
Murderland. (ITV1)
Robbie Coltraine, Sharon Small, Amanda Hale and Bel Powley share the limelight in this intriguing three parter. The story is told through the eyes of each of the main characters.
Like Trinity, it’s total tosh but it ain’t boring.
Last episode tonight.
Don't like all the flashbacks but I shan’t miss it.

READING.

A Song At Twilight.
Finally finished Brian Forbes’ excursion into John le Carré territory. It is a measure of his skill in the depiction of devious characters that by the end I cared not one jot what happened to any of them.
I have always thought that people who talked to each other in gobbledegook of the “If Hamlet sees a dagger someone will be shafted” sort, were clowns playing a silly, nonsensical game.
I believe more information about enemy intentions has been obtained from bad wireless security than ever has from sad sociopaths masquerading as spies.
And I think the CIA, GRU,KGB, MI5, MI6 and every other so-called intelligence agency of whatever country should have been laughed out of existence long before their silly self-deception got too big for their Alice in Wonderland boots.
Oh, one more thing: please stop sending me Russian emails, whoever you are. I am not a linguist, a communist, a capitalist or even a Seventh-day Adventist, so whatever your messages convey they are lost here.
That having been said, I wish you no less than you wish me.

135. Roofing at home and 254 away.

2009-10-11T09:36:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Maintenance.
Forgot to mention in my last post that we have had our kitchen re-roofed.
It is a board and felt job with a couple of roof lights and when we moved in, around about 2000/1, we were advised by the surveyor that it would probably be necessary to replace it in a couple of years.
We held out; it lasted.
So this year, after a couple of reasonable summer months, we decided to have it replaced before, perhaps, winter forced our hand.
We found a reliable firm, accepted their quote, and a couple of weeks back they came in: Jim and his mate.
It pee-ed down, on and off, for the entire time they were here.
Jim was phlegmatic. “Better we know right away whether there are going to be any problems,” was his philosophy. “This way we find out early on.”
One night they left us with a tarpaulin between us and the rain.
That night we experienced the first truly unbelievable downpour for months. Water teemed off the kitchen roof and into the courtyard in a solid sheet. Standing at the kitchen sink was like standing behind Niagara Falls.
But we were miraculously leak free and the next day saw the laying of the new felt.
Finally came the replacement of old, cracked lead and the modification of the antiquated drainage system.
Job done.
Well, I take it job done.
Should last twenty years I am told, so I‘d be a tad optimistic if I said I‘ll let you know.

AND AWAY.

254 OBA.
My Leader and I spent the last few days of last week at a reunion of the 254 Old Boys’ Association. It was our first visit and it came about by chance.
I was wallowing around the web one night and happened upon the names of some ex boy soldiers who had been lads in the Royal Corps of Signals with me. Seemed they had formed an Association consisting entirely of those whose army numbers began 254 i.e. boys who, at the age of fourteen (and from the years 1942 to 1948/9 only), had enlisted in the Royal Signals as apprentices.
Further inquiries elicited the information that they hold an annual reunion (have done so since 1991), that wives were welcome and that, courtesy of the Grim Reaper, the Association’s numbers were fast depleting.
We were sent a nominal roll of OBA members and some copies of their magazine, Jimmy’s Journal, by editor Brian Fisher. We were invited to attend this year‘s bash, drove our car to Salisbury, were driven from there to Derby and back by newly found chum Jim Jenkins, were cordially received by Chairman Toby Seymour - together with as nice a bunch of people as you could find anywhere - and quietly enjoyed the entire experience.
Well…four star Mickleover Court Hotel, Derby…nice staff…all the trimmings… old pals like Wally Brown, Ted Mellor, Nat Preece and Brian Stockwell…a host of affable new pals, all contemporaries…a bevy of charmingly patient (not to say long-suffering) spouses…great organisation by dedicated volunteers…what was not to enjoy?
We shall go again next year if, as Sarah Kennedy so appropriately puts it, we are spared.
Alverstoke Michaelmas Fair.
In a pleasant spot just outside Gosport, Hampshire can be found the charming village of Alverstoke wherein live my Leader’s sister, Our Marg, and her husband, Mike.
Every year the village holds a Michaelmas Fair and if we can we pay it a visit.
Brother-in-law Mike meets us at Gosport Ferry terminal and taxis us back and forth. The weather is usually fine. There couldn’t be a nicer way to spend a day.
We wander around the stalls and various charity catchpennies until loose change has departed and elderly energy flags.
We then repair to Our Marg’s to sample her excellent cooking; the two sisters talk sister talk and Mike and I cheerfully agree to disagree on just about every topic imaginable.
He is a devout Tory who firmly supported Margaret Thatcher and believes global warming is a myth. I am a devoutly non-partisan detester of politicians who regards himself as too old to do anything about global warming, myth or fact, and who refuses to lose so much as an hour’s catnap about it.
To the best of my knowledge we have never parted company on a sour note.
Why would we? He married Our Marg.

TELEVISION.

Leeds International Piano Competition.
Is it three years already? I suppose it must be.
This year I saw the televised concert performances of the first two contestants and pronounced them fine by me.
Cristina Ortiz, a magnificent concert pianist, quickly put the damper on such naive enthusiasm.
So I replayed them on DVD.
And of course the lady was right.
Her forthright views also made total nonsense of my theory that piano competitions are won by playing Rachmaninov, hitting the right notes in the right order, and finishing up at the same time as the orchestra.
Ah well…
Merlin.
They’re back again. Young Colin Morgan (Merlin) and the rest of them: Anthony Head, Richard Wilson, Angel Coulby, Katie McGrath, Bradley James as Arthur, and the Voice of the Dragon provided by John Hurt.
Incidentally, how come nobody but Merlin and his mentor seem to know that there’s a bloody great talking dragon in the cellar?
It’s as daft as ever was and I shall try not to miss a single episode.
Harper’s Island.
We have regularly recorded this series and have just started watching it.
There’s plenty of misty forest, duelling banjos characters, lust and loathing.
And, like Merlin’s talking dragon, nobody seems to realise that the trees are full of booby traps and bodies.
Gawd! Ain’t it bloodthirsty?
I shall try not miss a single episode.

DAFT DAYS INDEED.

World Egg Day.
The second Friday in October, the 9th, was World Egg Day.
What purpose did it serve?
Is the world falling behind in egg consumption? Are the world’s dairy farmers on the breadline? Is there fear that, universally, hens will become paranoid if the total amount they drop into their baskets is not instantly snapped up?
I like eggs, boiled, fried or poached, but I won’t be brainwashed into eating them by the announcement of another daft day.
National Poetry Day.
And on the subject of daft days, National Poetry Day, with the theme Heroes and Heroines, fell on the 8th of October.
Probably the daftest thing about that one was news that the nation’s favourite poet is T.S. Eliot.
I was mulling it over, musing that I’d have bet on Pam Ayres myself, when the magical mystery Shadow appeared before me.
“Old Possum Eliot is favourite poet then,” he said. “Were you surprised?”
“Very,” I said. “Were you?”
“Oh yeah. I’d have bet on Pam Ayres myself.”
He struck his poetic pose.
I sighed, but there was no stopping him.

Shadow - The Poetry Cat (he announced)
A poem by Himself.

Shadow is a poetry cat: he’s called the Feline Bard
He scribbles on the rooftops and he scribbles in the yard.
And if by chance you find a scratchy scribble on your door,
You can bet composing Shadow has been at the muse once more.

Shadow, Shadow, you can rely on Shadow,
Shadow will be rhyming all the time:
No dog out-doggerels Shadow, top-cat poetic laddo,
He’s a dedicated master of the rhyme.

So lock up all your notepaper and cover all your walls,
For when it comes to scribbling verse ol’ Shadow don’t lack balls.
He’ll scribble in the sunshine and he’ll scribble in the rain.
He’ll scribble on your lavatory door - or even on the chain.

He’ll inscribe a rhyme on your Pekinese, or even on its fleas
He’ll tattoo a verse on your elbow and two of them on your knees.
He’s not averse to appending a verse that would make other poets despair,
But when he tried to do it to Eliot - MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!

He had a quick wash.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked.
“Not bad,“ I said. “Quite T.S. Eliot. Especially the last three words.”

134. New schools. New tele. Ol' Tel.

2009-09-10T11:12:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Leaves.
It’s that time again.
The winds blow and just about every educated leaf from the trees in the school opposite makes a helter-skelter dash for our little front garden, just as every holy leaf from the church trees along the way makes for the courtyard at the back.
We, of course, have no trees.
I go back to sweeping and cursing, particularly out front.
I no longer feel particularly aggrieved with the trees, their mess is nature’s mess, but I do become heartily pissed off with the mucky, uncaring, graceless morons who drop sweet papers, food wrappers, drinks cartons (McDonald’s is down the road) and the rest of their fuck-you-Jack litter for me to shovel up.
Day may yet dawn when I make a collection of everything labelled McDonald’s and post it back through their letterbox.
Meantime, have you ever noticed that it is impossible to sweep up fallen leaves without the assistance of a stiff breeze?
Matters not how still the day, just you start sweeping…
School’s back.
Granddaughter Jess has started at high school this term: grandson Ellis started at primary school.
Youngsters arrive here every morning. Suddenly the world has reawakened.
Both had to be kitted out.
Jess went to a local outfitter where the enthusiast who served her ( a sort of Ollivander’s Wand Shop character) directed her attention to the blazers for her particular school with the words: “You’ll be size…” and he was right.
“Skirt size… “ he was right, remaining outfit ditto, shoes ditto, and finally, gym kit:
“You’ll want this size - trust me…”
She did. He was right.
She looks good in the new uniform. It could have been tailored for her.
As for Ellis, he has adapted to long trousers and shorter hair with the casual ease of a seasoned pre-schooler moving on.
I’m still not sure where the little boy went and the little man came from.

RADIO.

Terry Wogan.
Would you believe it? After the sumptuous - by my standards - praise I lavished on ol’ Tel in Post 129, the rascal came back from holiday on Monday 7th September and summarily announced his retirement.
He won’t be going until the end of the year so it looks like he could finish up with two world records: the longest successful golf putt ever televised (33 yards in 1981) and the longest retirement speech in the history of radio (103 days, less a few weekends and a holiday or two, in 2009).
Oh, for the news gathering impaired, Chris Evans is replacing him.
Anything good on Radio 4?
　
TELEVISION.

New Tricks.
In the last episode of series six Gerry Standing (Dennis Waterman) was revealed to be one of the sons of a Smithfield Market meat dealer. He was none too happy when his colleagues found out. Don’t ask me why.
In the end a startling case link encompassed team leader Sandra Pullman (Amanda Redman) in an unexpected way.
Something to do with a brother. Don’t ask me about that, either.
Perhaps I was out making a cup of tea.
Doubtless in the not too distant future the entire series will be shown again, will otherwise be made available to the technically au fait and will be marketed on DVD for those who cannot resist the lure.
I enjoyed what I saw but I can wait for series seven.
The Fixer.
John Mercer (the 21st century Callan), played by Andrew Buchan, is back on ITV in a new six part series.
The first story was about child trafficking, presumably to ensure we sided with Mercer no matter who he beat up or killed.
Unbeatable cast; unfathomable plot; unfaltering action.
Them as didn’t like Edward Woodward probably won’t like it: some of them as did like Edward Woodward won’t like it, either.
My leader, a Callan fan, is not sure about it.
Me?
I think it passes an hour.
Waking the Dead.
Another new series. Trevor Eve back again with Sue Johnston.
The stories are generally in two, nightly, parts.
He plays the snarling Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd (a borderline case for Broadmoor) and she plays the charming Doctor Grace Foley (who should ‘section’ him).
The entire concoction is tortuous, brutal and total tosh.
I watch it and scoff.
Agatha Christie’s Marple.
Here we are then. Julia McKenzie finally arrived in the first of four new Marple stories.
Reflecting on former Marple portrayals: on film I only ever saw Gracie Fields as a singing factory girl; Margaret Rutherford was the prize eccentric; Helen Hayes and Angela Lansbury were safe hands; Joan Hickson was the definitive and Geraldine McEwan the slightly cookie.
Ms. McKenzie plays the role more in the Hickson mould, a tad updated.
I think Agatha Christie would have approved.
The policemen in this episode, as played by Ralf Little and Matthew Macfadyen, were - for a change - depicted as sensible, competent coppers.
Well worth watching.
Blue Murder.
And another new series.
Mumsy copper Caroline Quentin back with her floundering squad of male underlings and a host of family distractions.
You can’t dislike it without being boorish.
International Football.
England v Croatia.
"England won 5 - 1 ," I said to the cat Shadow who had been out beating the bounds.
"Did Becks play?" he asked.
"For about ten minutes at the end. Made a few good passes."
He appeared to think about it.
"Anyway, they've qualified for the World Cup," I added cheerfully.
"Oh aye," he said. "We'll see next year then, won't we."
It was the most enthusiastic he has been in a long time.

FILMS.

Proof of Life.
This film, starring Meg Ryan and Russell Crowe, was released in the year 2000 and recently shown on television. We missed it at the cinema.
A strong supporting cast included Alun Armstrong, Michael Byrne, Michael Kitchen and David Caruso pre CSI: Miami: i.e. before he went into acting partnership with the screen- stealing pair of designer sunglasses.
Meg Ryan played a wife whose husband (the believable David Morse) was taken hostage in a South American country.
Russell Crowe played the negotiator for an insurance company who set out to rescue him.
The action scenes were lively. The romance was limp.
I’m not all that sorry we missed it at the cinema.
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.
We did originally see this in the cinema but decided it was the best thing on offer when it was screened again on television.
Potter film repeats are quite painless.
Come to think about it, though, we need not have watched an advert littered ITV rerun. We have the DVD.
There’s more out than in.

133. A Mostly Homely post.

2009-08-26T14:29:00.000-07:00

HOME.

It took the Isle of Wight Council.
Economically this holiday island, like many another, is heavily reliant on the tourist industry for its survival. Parking charges are generally bloody, but I guess visitors are so accustomed to the avaricious money grubbing of councils that they expect the big stick wherever they go.
This year, however, legalized thievery reached new heights over here when popular carnival spots were deluged with parking tickets issued by council traffic wardens. Both the daytime and evening (Illuminated) carnivals were targeted. Needless to say the IW Council hotly denies accusations that its actions were monetarily motivated and claims that it only had safety in mind.
Is anybody seriously expected to believe that?
Do the patronising rogues care?
And do they give a toss how much goodwill and next year’s returning holidaymaker business they may have lost?
I sometimes think that when we stopped electing opportunistic jerry builders (who we knew were in it to fiddle council contracts from their funny handshake mates) and opted instead for career expenses claimants (who seem to be in it because they like the money and don’t like television) we took an enormous step backwards.
And it took the Scots.
When, in my last post, I ventured the opinion that sometimes we should simply tell our bullying American cousins to piss off, I had no idea the Scots would do it.
Should have known better.
They have always told the English where to go and the Romans built a bloody great wall across the north of England to avoid confrontation with them.
With a history like that did the pleasant President of America and his unpleasant Secretary of State (doing a televised good cop/bad cop routine) expect grovelling acquiescence to their clear indication that the man imprisoned for the Lockerbie deaths should remain incarcerated until he died?
How good or bad the evidence against him was, or whether the medical prognosis is at all questionable, I have no idea: so whether, given the choice, I would have released him I do not know.
But the Scottish Justice Minister did have the choice, decided enough was enough, and acted accordingly.
Though I still deeply distrust politicians, I must admit to the grudging belief that he may have done everybody a favour.
　
TELEVISION.

Proms on BBC4.
Just as I was decrying the dearth of my sort of music at the Proms along came the wonderful West-Eastern Divan Orchestra conducted by co-founder Daniel Barenboim to give us Liszt’s Les Preludes, the Prelude and Liebestod from Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde and Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, all hauntingly musical.
The orchestra was founded in 1998 by concert pianist Barenboim, an Israeli-Argentinian, and Edward Said, a Palestinian-American author.
In the words of the conductor it is “a project against ignorance.”
Whatever their off-stage differences, in performance this fine orchestra’s magical harmony is clearly born from its affection and respect for maestro Barenboim: feelings clearly reciprocated.
The following night, with an international cast of singers, they performed Beethoven’s Fidelio.
Long may they and their remaining founder thrive.
Cricket.
“England won The Ashes then,” I said to the cat Shadow.
“Yeah,” he said. “Did you watch it?”
“No, did you?”
“Nope.”
He thought for a moment: “Don’t matter. They wouldn’t have won if we had.”

FILM.

The Constant Gardener.
This intense, moving and well acted adaptation of the John le Carre novel was directed by Fernando Meirelles, produced by the late Simon Channing Williams and starred Ralph Fiennes and Rachel Weisz (who won a best supporting actress Oscar).
There was a lot of flashback, a twisting plot and the subtle absence of a feel-good finish.
Fascinating.

AND HOME AGAIN.

A great result.
Libby and Eamonn Lawless own a farm here on the Island and we have been friends for many years.
Back in the seventies Eamonn, a superb horseman, ran a riding school at the farm and our daughter Roz was one of his pupils. She would have been around ten years old.
They got on.
Neither of them suffers fools.
When he eventually forsook the saddle Eamonn began more seriously entering his dogs for sheepdog trials. On the 24th of August we received an email referring us to the International Sheep Dog Society website which at the time carried the news that Eamonn and his dog Bill had become English National Trials Champions 2009.
Well done, mate!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0AKf6mCNhk

132. Beware of Russian Arabs and Self-Importance

2009-08-17T06:41:00.000-07:00

HOME.

It was a Russian Arab!
Report from our languages correspondent in Ventnor, Neil Barnden (nepotism - so what!) after I sent him an assumed Arabic email for which I had been unable to obtain an English translation from Google translate.
"It is Russian (the text refers to something costing 3900 rubles - probably Viagra!). But I can't get any translation from the text either. The names you copied into your blog were actually in Cyrillic script - which Google translate was happy to work with. So perhaps it's the fact that this text has been translated from Cyrillic Russian to 'Roman' Russian that's the problem."
Well thanks, Neil, now I need not fear al-Qaeda: just the KGB.
Hell, they don't target you for shunning their Viagra, do they?
Three lessons in self-importance.
Lesson 1.
I suppose it is not surprising what a touchy little politician American Secretary of State Hillary Clinton can be. She is, after all, still married to Bill. But her recent outburst in response to a question from an uncomprehending Congolese student was a classic in affronted dignity.
She is not alone of course. Self-importance in the political world is more common than fleas on a hedgehog.
It has even been mooted that Georgy, writer of the pro-Georgian blog Cyxymu, an outspoken critic of sadly misunderstood Vladimir Putin and his gentle cronies, so upset delicate Russian sensibilities that party line hackers swamped the web, interrupting Twitter and Facebook, in a concerted attempt to disable his blog.
Lesson 2.
Now we have the ludicrous example of America v. McKinnon, where a British hacker and Asperger syndrome sufferer named Gary McKinnon is to be extradited to the United States to face charges that he infiltrated American military websites, caused thousands of dollars in damage to their national security and badly dented their beribboned self-esteem.
What a pathetic bunch of incompetents they are.
If an eccentric Scot can so easily slide under the razor wire of their computer security is it inconceivable that Afghanistan, China, Iran, Russia, or even Monaco might be doing the same?
OK, so the man needs to have his wrist slapped for being a bloody nuisance, but by a court here, please, not by the US criminal justice system.
Sometimes we should simply tell our bullying American cousins to piss off.
Lesson 3.
On Wednesday our two daughters travelled to Italy for a well-earned holiday. The following is an extract from my diary after their arrival phone call to their mother.
The actor James Nesbitt and his family were at Gatwick and booked on the same flight as Jacqui and Roz. Seems he left his wife struggling with the luggage, the kids and all the arrangements, sailed to the head of the queue to be first to board the plane, and left nobody in any doubt that he considered himself much the VIP.
Consequently, Mo's: "How interesting..." reaction to the initial news that he was at the airport elicited a typically down-to-earth response from Roz:
"Not really. He's a tosser."
She's usually right.
See you, Jimmy.

TELEVISION.

BBC Proms 2009.
My interest in the Proms is desultory nowadays. I have never been able to understand the lure of Stravinsky, Shostakovich or any of the weirdly discordant modern composers so readily given a Proms platform in recent years. As time goes by I find it increasingly difficult to accept them. I play no instrument but I love melodic music.
Recently The National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain, conducted by Vasily Petrenko, performed Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No.1 in B flat minor. No matter how dismissive the pianoforte aficionados may be, you cannot write it off.
This performance, with the occasionally wild-eyed Stephen Hough as soloist, was somehow as new as its young orchestra.
Tuneful and exciting and great viewing.
Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.
Just shown here have been a couple of episodes when Christopher Meloni was away.
Mariska Hargitay managed brilliantly and serial policeman Richard Belzer, "Captain" Dann Florek and confident ice-T were first rate.
When ol' Chris did come back he found himself thrown straight into the deep end with a nasty case involving neo-Nazis and little children being shot by a sniper. The story had more twists and turns than a mountain road, a denouement that the writers of Murder She Wrote would have killed for, and a screen-stealing performance by Marcia Gay Harden as an undercover FBI agent.
Special Victims Unit becomes more special with each series.

FILM.

Grow Your Own.
This little film, directed by Richard Laxton, surfaced and sank in 2007 to mixed reviews, most of them rather poor.
I watched it on television on a night when the opposition was mostly repeats and I found it quite enjoyable.
There was a touch of gentle humour, a few sad truths, and nice underplaying by a multi-racial cast of modern day Brits.
I put it in The Full Monty/Hear My Song category so perhaps I am prejudiced.
I liked them, too.

READING.

The Endless Game.
Finally reached the end of Bryan Forbes's lengthy spy yarn to find that it really is the prelude to A Song at Twilight, published with it. He's good enough to make you persevere, so I shall.
I shall also be reading Corduroy Mansions by Alexander McCall Smith because it was a gift and is clearly a far cry from his No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency.
More anon.

CARS.

The Old For New Deal.
We are exchanging our ten year old, two door, 1.4 Seat Arosa (one careful owner) in a couple of months for a new, four door, 1.2 Hyundai i10 Comfort.
The exchange is being done under the scrappage scheme and, though I shall miss the Arosa's great little engine (it would do over ninety all day long on the motorway I have been told), we shall not be sorry to abandon the inconvenience of only two passenger doors.
Anyway, the one careful owner tag cuts no ice when it comes to depreciation.
I checked its trade-in price.
Hear the hollow laughter?

131. INDEX 1 - Posts 1 to 130

2009-08-06T02:59:00.000-07:00

THE CAST - IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER.

Abbot, Russ: 127 Abby (Scluto): 64,68,75,103,115 Ackland, Josh: 129 Adams, Douglas: 82 Adams, Tony: 118 Affleck, Ben: 29 Agyeman, Freema: 75,104 Alexander, Sasha: 35,46 al-Fayed, Mohamed: 98 Alibhai-Brown, Yasmin: 40,69,71,79,89,97,128 Allen, Dave: 115 Allen, Keith: 124 Alliss, Peter: 130 Allsopp, Kirstie: 116,125 Amis, Martin: 89 Amos, Emma: 71 Anderson, Bruce: 97 Anderson, Jon: 127 Andrews, Julie: 43 Annis, Francesca: 87 Anonymous John: 75,77,83,84,99,104,106,109,112,121 Ant & Dec: 122 Armstrong, Alun: 3,8,108,129,130 Armstrong, Jonas: 128,129 Arnott, Jake; 101 Ashdown, Simon: 64 Asher, Jane: 118 Ashman, Kevin: 68,73 Asriel, Lord: 88 Astaire, Fred: 114 Astin, Sean: 111 Atkins, Eileen: 92,97 Atkinson, Rowan: 53 Aunt Kate: 41 Ayres, Pam: 117,123 Bacchus, D.S. John: 111,124,125 Bailey, Bill: 125 Balding, Claire: 129 Ballesteros, Seve: 81 Banks, Leslie: 63,69 Bannen, Ian: 25 Barclay, D.S.I. Iain: 62 Barker, Sue: 78 Barlow, D.S. Charlie: 62 Barnaby, D.C.I. Tom: 16,27,84,97,115 Barnden, Dennis: 105,110 Barnden, Jacqui: 75,82,123,127 Barnden, Lilian: 100 Barnden, Neil: 28,29,51,55,70,82,84 Barnden, Pauline: 84,99 Barrett, Alan: 118 Barron, Keith: 84 Barrowman, John: 101 Bassey, Shirley: 78,96 Bean, Sean: 111 Becket, Thomas: 98 Beckham, David: 74,75,76,77,84,86 Beeching, Richard: 111 Beesley, Max: 101,115 Belfrage, Bruce: 112 Belzer, Richard: 16 Bening, Annette: 86 Bennett, Alan: 107,109,111,112,114 Bennett, D.I.George: 111 Bennett, Jan: 76,113 Benton, Mark: 102 Bergerac, Jim: 16,27 Berlin, Irving: 95 Bernstein, Leonard: 96 bin Laden, Osama: 102 Black, Jennifer: 93, Blair, Tony: 8,66,67,78 Blanc, Ernest: 127 Blessed, Brian: 61 Bloom, Orlando: 48 Blumenthal, Heston: 49 Bocelli, Andrea: 77 Bogart, Humphrey: 43 Bolam, James: 38,108,130 Bolton, Michael: 95 Bonasera. Stella: 126 Bond, James: 33 Bonneville, Hugh: 62 Boorman, Charlie: 92 Bowles, Lynn, 129 Bowlly, Al: 95 Bowman, Stuart: 64 Boyd, D.S. Peter: 62 Boyd, 'Barrowlands': 129 Boyd, William: 117 Boyle, Susan: 123,126 Brading, Amy: 105 Brambell, Wilfrid: 100 Branagh, Kenneth: 114 Brand, Russell: 112 Branning, Dot: 97 Braun, Lilian Jackson: 4. Brennan, Temperance: 124,125 Brett, Jeremy: 7 Brett, Simon: 7,8 Brimble, Nick: 61 Broadbent, Jim: 100 Brooks, D.S.Ronnie 122 Brown, Gordon, 8,66,73,78,108,123 Brown, Johnny Mack: 85,117 Brown, June: 97 Brown, Rosie: 119 Brown, Warrick: 116 Bruford, Bill: 127 Brydon, Sir Mark: 51 Buble, Michael: 87 Buchan, Andrew: 99 Buchan, John: 115 Buchanan, Colin: 72,73 Bucket, Hyacinth: 63 Bullard, Dr. George: 84 Burke, D.C.I. Matt: 57,104 Burnham, Andy: 112 Burroughs, Edgar Rice: 43 Burton-Hill, Clemency: 123 Bush, George: 67 Butler, Phil: 75 Butterworth, Peter: 83 Cadfael, Bro: 97 Caine, Horatio 11 Caitlin (Todd); 35,46 Callan, David: 33,99 Cameron, David: 73,124 Camilleri, Andrea: 114 Campbell, Menzies: 89 Campion, Albert: 7 Carroll, Lewis: 65 Carson, Willie: 129 Carter, Jim: 100 Caruso, David: 7,10,11,18,39,58,91,100 Caruso, Enrico: 96 Casement, Roger: 95 Cassandra: 85 Cassidy, Eva; 105 Cassidy, Hopalong: 117 Castle, Andrew: 126 Castle, John: 24 Cerdan, Marcel: 107 Chambers, Tom: 114 Chandler, Raymond: 43,114 Chapman, Beth Nielsen: 95 Charlatans, The: 128 Charteris, Leslie: 43,77,114 Christie, Agatha: 87,105 Churchill, Randolph: 82 Churchill, Winston: 74 Cink, Stewart: 130 Claire and Lara: 9,10,29,33,39,65 Clapp, Gordon: 61 Clarke, Oz: 49 Clarke, Roy: 83, 127 Clarke, D.S. Siobhan: 93. Clarke, Warren: 16,72,73 Clarkson, Jeremy: 107 Cleasby, Emma: 86 Clooney, George: 13 Close, Glenn: 110 Clunes, Martin: 87 Cocker, Joe: 127 Cole, George: 63 Cole, Brendan: 114 Cole, Kevin: 12 Collette, Toni: 125 Collins, Joan: 91 Coltraine, Robbie:27,31,84 Columbo, Lt: 130 Columbus, Chris: 80 Comden, Betty: 83 Connery, Jason: 128 Connery, Sean: 61 Connolly, Billy: 120 Constantine, Leary: 89 Cook Jnr,, Elisha: 46 Cooke, Christian: 118 Cookson, Catherine: 107 Cooper, Gary: 43 Cooper, Jilly: 86,95 Cooper, Tommy: 33,77 Coppell, Steve: 64,125 Corbett, Harry H. 100 Corden, James: 121 Corelli, Franco: 96 Cosmo, James: 21 Costello, Elvis: 46 Costner, Kevin: 61,86 Coward, Noel: 77,83,96,124 Crabbe, D.I. Henry: 7,121 Cracker: 27 Craig, Daniel: 90.95 Cranham, Kenneth: 74 Craven, John: 123 Crawford, Randy: 127 Creek, Jonathan: 44,111,115 Cremer, Bruno: 114 Cribbins, Bernard: 108 Crispin, Edmund: 122 Cromwell, Oliver: 115 Crosby, Bing: 95,96,115 Cruise, Tom: 120,130 Crushem, Will: 105,110 Cuaron, Alfonso: 80 Cunningham, Liam: 86 Curtis, Richard: 53 Dale, James Badge: 11 Dali, Salvador: 76 Dallaglio, Lawrence: 82 Dallerup, Camilla: 114 Daltrey, Roger: 71,72 Daly, Fred: 81 Dalziel, D.C.S. Andy: 16,72,73 Damon, Matt. 29 David, Ziva: 94,115 Davies, Alan: 111,115,117,121 Davies, Dangerous: 7,8,71 Davies, Deidre: 104 Davies, Rupert: 114 Davies, Russell T: 51,100,102,108 Davis, Bette: 43 Davis, Phil: 69,100,101 Davison, Peter: 7,8,71,87 Daws, Robert: 76 Dawson, Les: 123 Day, Doris: 95 Dayer, Roz: 60,84,95,123 De'ath, Charles: 71 Deed, Judge John: 69 deMooi, C.J: 68,73,107 Dench, Judi: 78 de Pablo, Cote: 94 Depp, Johnny: 95 Dexter (Morgan): 105,115,120 Dexter, Colin: 64,95,107,109,111 Diana, Princess: 76,117 Dickens, Charles: 109 Dimbleby, David: 108 Dinozzo, Anthony: 46,64,115 Dillow, Ian: 53 Diversity: 126 Doctor Who: 73,75,102,104,105,106,107,108 Donat, Robert: 115 Donna (Noble): 102,104,105 D'Onofrio, Vincent: 58 Doris (sister) 124 Douglas, Kirk: 43 Dourdon, Gary: 116 Dowland, James: 121 Driscoll, Sgt. Jack: 130 Duff, Blythe: 104 Duffy, Carol Anne: 126 Dumbledore, Albus: 56,86 Dunn, Carrie: 114 Durante, Jimmy: 96 Durr, Jason: 115 , Duvall, Robert: 86 Dyke, Greg: 112 Eagleton, Terry: 89 Earp, Wyatt: 94,95 Eastwood, Clint: 125 Elliot, John: 82,109 Elliott, Sam: 94 Ellis, grandson 'Boo': 42,53,60,64,75,93,109,111,114 Evans, Rupert: 98 Eve, Trevor: 62,101,102 Everett, Rupert: 33 Ewen, Jade: 126 Faldo, Nick: 81 Falk, Peter: 130 Farndon, Zoe: 127 Feast, Michael: 74 Federer, Roger: 79,108,130 Fen, Gervaise: 122 Ferguson, Alex: 49,59,64,126 Ferris, Pam: 105 Fields, Gracie: 96 Fillis, Brian: 100 Finch, Scout: 111 Fine, Sylvia: 95 Firth, Peter: 24,91 Fishburne, Laurence: 122 Fisher, Connie: 22,48 Fitz: 31 Fitzgerald, Tara: 38 Flemyng, Jason: 124 Fletcher, Cyril: 96 Fletcher, Dexter: 101 Fletcher, Jessica: 50,97,103 Fletcher, Justin: 100 Flynn, Barbara: 97,109 Flynn, Errol: 128 Flynn, Jerome: 33 Fogle, Ben: 98,117 Forbes, Bryan: 125,127 Forsyth, Bruce: 114 Fowke, Philip: 81 Fowler, Daphne: 68,73,107 Fox, James: 108 Fox, Laurence: 64 Foxx, James: 130 Foyle, D.C.S. Christopher: 7,62,63,103,104,109 Franz, Dennis: 11,61,63 Fraser, Hugh: 8 Fraser, D.C. Stuart: 57 Frazer, Liz: 63 Fred & Ginger: 43 Freeman, Morgan: 61 French, Dawn: 98,121 Friday, Sgt.Joe: 111 Front, Rebecca: 64,76 Frost, David: 68 Frost, D.I. Jack: 7 Fry, Stephen: 74,100,113,115,117,127 Fu Manchu, Dr. 100 Gallagher, (brothers): 115 Gallagher, Frank: 64 Gamble, P.C. 90 Gambon, Michael: 86,91,114 Gandhi: 128 Gandolfini, James: 65,90 Gardner, Freddie: 96 Gaunt, Marion: 105 Gedda, Nicolai: 127 Gens, Veronique: 10 Gently, D.I. George: 69,111,124,125 Gerrard, Steven: 75,106 Gershwin, George: 96 Gervais, Ricky: 37 Gibbs, Leroy 'Jethro' 22,35,46,58,64,68,75,92,93,94,95,103,115 Gielgud, John: 64 Gifford, Josh: 129 Gish, Sheila: 64 Glenister, Philip; 69,101,118 Gless, Sharon: 53 Gok, Wan: 109,126 Goody, Jade: 56 Goran, Det. Robert: 58 Gould, Elliott: 43 Graham, Julie: 115 Graham, Nicola (Royston-Parry): 105,106 Granger, Hermione: 50,80,130 Grant, Richard E: 72,73 Grappelli, Stephane: 96 Green, Adolph: 83 Green, Hughie: 101,102,123 Green, Robson: 24,28,33,37 Greer, Germaine: 113,123 Griffiths, Richard: 7,97 Grint, Rupert: 50 Grissom, Gil: 116 Gross, Andrew: 53 Grout, James: 64 Grump, Arthur: 115 Guetary, Georges: 96 Guinness, Alec: 90,128 Hagrid: 27,84 Haining, Peter: 77 Hallinan, Olivia: 98 Hamilton, Lewis: 89 Hammerback, Dr. Sid: 126 Hammond, Joan: 82,96 Hancock, Tony; 101 Hannah, John: 21,74 Hannay, Richard: 115 Harbinson, Patrick: 111 Hardwicke, Edward: 7 Hardy, Robert: 64 Harewood, David: 128 Hari, Johann: 79,97,128 Harmon, Mark: 16,22,31,35,58,64,68,75,92,93,94,100, Harper, Lee: 111 Harrington, Padraig: 81 Harris, Richard: 5 Hastings, Captain: 7,8,97,111 Hathaway, Det.Sgt: 64 Havers, D,S, Barbara: 2,83,106 Havers, Nigel: 41 Hawking, Stephen: 103 Hayman, David: 62,101 Haynes, Natalie: 125 Hayter, James: 128 Hayward, Louis: 43 Hazlewood, Charles: 12 Head, Anthony: 111 Helfgott, David: 22 Henman, Tim: 79 Henri, Thierry: 59 Henriksson, Krister: 114 Henshall, Douglas: 123,124 Henshall, Ruthie: 123 Henson, C.S. Laura: 104 Hepburn, Katherine: 43 Herman, Jerry: 96 Heymer, Dennis: 102 Hibberd, Stuart: 112 Hickson, Joan: 87 Hill, Harry: 100 Hinds, Ciaran: 115 Hislop, Ian: 37,62,111,123 Hitler, Adolf: 71 Hoffman, Philip Seymour: 120 Holliday, Doc: 95 Holman, Claire: 64 Holmes, Sherlock: 7,31,97,104 Hood, Robin: 61,122,129 Horowitz, Anthony: 103,104,109,125 Howard, Trevor: 96 Howe, Steve: 127 Howell, Anthony: 63,103 Howerd, Frankie: 101,102 Hubbard, Ron. L. 124 Hucknall, Mick: 127 Hughes, Chris: 68,73 Hughes, Gwyneth: 62 Hughes, Sean: 71 Humble, Kate: 74,127 Humphrys, John: 92 Hunt, D.C.I. Gene: 69,101 Hunter, Alan: 69 Hunter, Russell: 99 Hurt, John: 111 Ice Road Truckers: 99,116 Imrie, Celia: 120,127 Ingleby, Lee: 69.111,124 Innocent, Harold: 61 Isaacs, Jason: 49,51,53,100,101 Izzard, Eddie: 64 Jackson, Barry: 84 Jackson, Peter: 48,111 Jackson, Philip: 8,111 Jacobi, Derek: 97 Jacobs, Marc: 110 James, Clive: 36 James, P.D: 111 Jankovic, Jelena: 79 Japp, C.I. James: 7,8,97,111 Jardine, Douglas: 59 Jason, David: 7 Jehovah: 124 Jeffreys, Prof. Alec: 44 Johanssen, Scarlet: 111 John, Elton: 78 Johns, Stratford: 62 Johnson, Boris: 123 Johnson, Celia: 96 Johnson, Karl: 98 Johnson, Lyndon B. 57 Johnson, Samuel: 40 Johnston, Sue: 97 Jones, Martha: 104 Jones, Nicholas: 24 Jones, Suranne: 118 Joseph, Lesley: 117 Joy, Robert: 126 Judd, Ashley: 124 Kahn, Gus: 95 Kanakaredes, Melina: 11,126 Kaye, Danny: 51 Kearney, Martha: 125 Kendal, Felicity 105 Kennedy, Gordon: 76 Kennedy, Nigel: 120 Keppel, Judith: 68,73 Kerr, Deborah: 89 King Charles 1: 115 King, Justin: 128 King, Simon: 74,127 Kingdom, Peter: 127 Kingsley, Ben: 128 Kington, Miles: 97 Kipling, Rudyard: 69 Kitchen, Michael: 7,62,63,103,104 Kline, Kevin: 124 Kos: 57 Kuryakin, Ilya: 35 Lahbib, Simone: 24 Lamb, Amanda: 116 Lancaster, Burt: 43 Lane, Dorcas: 98,121 Lane, Lupino: 96 Langford, Bonny: 99 Lansbury, Angela: 50,51,120 LaPlante, Lynda: 111,115 Larwood, Harold: 59 Latham, Jody: 99 Laughland, Nick: 71 Laughton, Charles: 82 Law, Jude: 104 Lean, David: 96 le Carre, John: 90 Lee, Peggy: 127 Leigh, Janet: 130 Le Mesurier, Joan: 101 Le Mesurier, John: 101 Lemon, Miss: 8,97,111 Lewis, Damian: 128 Lewis, D.C.I. Janine: 44 Lewis, D.I. Robert: 64 Liddell, Alvar: 112 Lincoln, Andrew: 22,31 Lock, Sean: 117 Locke, Josef: 96 Lockhart, Sally: 107,109 Logan, Phyllis: 104 Long, Max: 109 Lovegood, Linda: 79 Luca, Giordano: 128 Luft, Lorna: 117 Lumley, Joanna: 51,53,121,125 Lusardi, Linda: 99 Lynley, D.I. Tommy: 2,83,106 Lyra: 95 Mack, Lee: 118 Maigret, Insp. Jules: 114 Makutsi, Mma: 121 Malfoy, Draco: 80 Malfoy, Lucius: 49,53 Mallard, Dr.'Ducky': 35,115 Mankell, Henning: 114 Mantle, Doreen: 97 Marcus Aurelius: 82 Margolyes, Miriam: 97 Marlowe, Philip: 43,114 Marnham, Patrick: 18 Marple, Jane (Miss): 87,97,98,101 Marples, Ernest: 111 Mastrantonio, Mary Elizabeth: 61 Matthews, Jessie: 41 Maugham, Somerset: 82 Maupin, Armistead: 124,125 May, James: 49 McBride, Damian: 123 McCain, John: 111 McCallum, David: 35 McClaren,Steve: 14,15,47,76,84,92 McCredie, Colin: 57 McCutcheon, Martine: 87 McDermid, Val: 111 McDonnell, Owen: 130 McEnroe, John: 81 McEwan, Geraldine: 61,87,97,98 McFly: 128 McGee, Timothy: 103,115 McGovern, Jimmy: 31 McGregor, Ewan; 92,109,111 McKellan, Ian: 111 McKenna, Charlene: 64 McKenzie, Julia: 76,97,98 McKidd, Kevin: 86 McLaughlin, Joseph: 96 McNeice, Ian: 100 McShane, Michael: 61 Medavoy, Greg: 61 Melua, Katie: 95,109 Menuhin, Yehudi: 96 Mercer, John: 99 Mercury, Freddie: 101 Merlin: 56,111 Merman, Ethel: 96 Merton, Paul: 37,76,107,113 Miles, Ben: 98 Milligan, Spike: 89 Mills, John: 63 Milner, Paul: 63,103 Minghella, Anthony: 100,104 Mirren, Helen: 38,78 Mitchell, David: 121 Mitchell, James: 99 Mitchum, Robert: 96 Mitty, Walter: 127 Mo, friend: 112 Molina, Alfred: 104 Monk: 97 Monroe, Marilyn: 43 Montalbano, Insp, Salvo: 114 Monteith, Kelly: 101 Montgomery, Robert: 43 Moore, Roger: 43 Moran, Pauline: 8 More, Kenneth: 115 Morse, D.I. Endeavour: 69,97,107 Motion, Andrew: 78 Mourinho, Jose: 87,126 Mower, Patrick: 99 Mullan, Peter: 99 Munch, John: 16 Murnaghan, Dermot: 68,73,86,107 Murray, Al: 69,97 Murray, Andy: 79 Murray, Jamie: 79 Murray, Sean: 103 Mynenko, Yuriy: 128 Nadal, Rafael: 108 Nettles, John: 16,27.58 Newell, Mike: 80 Newman, G.F. 101 Newman, Nanette: 125 Nighy, Bill: 100 Nilsson, Harry: 95 Norton, Alex: 57,104 Norton, Graham: 86,126 Novello.Ivor: 124 Obama, Barack: 111,117,124 Ochoa, Lorena: 82 Oddy, Bill: 74, 127 Ogden, John: 81,96 Ogilvy, Ian: 43 O'Grady, Paul: 41,91,115 Osbourne, Jack: 36 Osbourne, Sharon: 20 O'Shea, Tessie: 96 Osmond, Donny: 86 Outhwaite, Tamzin: 99,101 Owen, Michael: 84 Pack, Roger Lloyd: 35,118 Packham, Chris: 127 Padel, Ruth: 126 Palance, Jack: 46 Pallette, Eugene: 128 Palmer, Harry: 33 Paris, Charles: 7,8 Park, Nick: 115 Parker, Nathaniel: 106 Parker, Peter: 113 Parkinson, Michael: 117 Parton, Dolly: 96 Pascoe, D.I. Peter: 16,72,73 Paterson, Bill: 109,122 Patinkin, Mandy: 44,92 Patterson,James: 53 Paulin, Tom: 113,123,125 Pavarotti, Luciano: 85 Paxman, Jeremy: 92 Payne, John: 130 Peake, Maxine: 101 Penry-Jones, Rupert: 24,91,115 Perette, Pauley: 64,68,75 Pertwee, Sean: 86 Petersen, Willian. L: 15,26,44,51,122,123 Phillips, Sian: 38 Pigott-Smith, Tim: 72 Pixies: 128 Plater, Alan: 64 Poirot, Hercule: 7,31,97,103,111 Poliakoff, Stephen: 91 Poppins, Mary ; 94 Porter, Cole: 96,124 Porter, Linda: 124 Portillo, Michael: 123 Potter, Beatrix: 109 Potter, Dennis: 114 Potter, Harry: 4,5,9,12,27,39,45,50,63,77,78,79,80,82,83,88,100,106,111,114,120,124,130 Powell, Dick: 43,114 Powell, Robert: 115 Powers, Stefanie: 68 Prescott, John: 8,91 Presley, Elvis: 96 Preston, Duncan: 120 Preston, Robert: 96 Price, Claire: 93, Prince Philip: 98,106 Prodigy, The: 128 Pullman, Philip: 50,88,90,95,107,109 Queen Elizabeth 2: 80,91,100,102,106,121 Quentin, Caroline: 44 Quick, A.C. Bob: 114,123 Quilleran, Jim: 4 Rachmaninov, Sergei: 96 Rackham, Jane: 33 Radcliffe, Daniel: 50 Radd, Ronald: 99 Ramotswe, Precious: 100,121 Ramsay, Gordon: 37,115 Rankin, Ian: 21,109,111 Rathbone, Andy: 28 Rathbone, Basil: 61 Rathbone, Willie 34 Rattle, Simon: 10 Razorlight: 128 Rebus, D.I. John: 21,25,29,30,88,93. Red Arrows: 128 Redknapp, Harry: 70,105,112,118 Redman, Amanda: 38,108,130 Reichs, Kathy: 121,122,124,125 Reid, D.S. Jackie: 104 Reilly, Kelly: 115 Renwick, David: 111 Reynolds, Kevin: 61 Rhys-Davies, John: 48 Richard, Cliff: 34,78 Richard The Lionheart: 61 Richards, Ben: 99 Richards, Dakot Blue: 95 Richie, Shane: 35 Rickman, Alan: 5,29,30,53,61,104,120 Riseborough, Andrea: 115 Robb, Natalie: 64 Robeson, Paul: 89 Robinson, Tony: 108 Roddick, Andy: 130 Rodgers, Richard: 129 Rogers, Anton: 76 Rogers, Ginger: 114 Rohmer, Sax: 100 Ronaldo, Cristiano 67,108 Rooney, Wayne: 15,67,84,86 Rooper, Jemima: 111 Root, Henry: 87 Rose, Anika Noni: 121 Ross, Jonathan: 112,130 Rowling, J.K. 5,18,27,36,45,63,71,77,78,80,82,88,98,100,114,130 Rush, Geoffrey: 22 Sachar, Louis: 50 Sachs, Andrew: 112 Saint, The: 43,77,114 Sallis, Peter: 127 Sanders, George: 43,114 Saunders, Jennifer: 49,53,121 Savage, Lily: 115 Sawalha, Julia: 98,117,121 Sayers, Dorothy L: 28 Sayle, Alexei: 107 Schofield, Phillip: 99 Schweitzer, Albert: 111 Scoresby, Lee; 94 Scott, Jill: 121 Secombe, Harry: 96 Sellars, Peter: 22 Semprini, Albert: 95 Sessions, John: 121 Sewell, Brian: 76 Shahi, Sarah: 128 Shaps, Simon: 103 Sharp, Lesley: 22,31 Shaw, Martin: 69,124 Shcherbachenko,Ekaterina: 128 Shearer, Alan: 14, 15 Sheila,friend: 99,112,121 Shepherd, Jack: 62 Shore, Dinah: 95 Shrapnel, John: 71 Shunpike, Stan: 111 Silent Bob: 30 Sim, Alistair; 63 Simenon, Georges: 114 Simm, John: 115 Simon's Cat: 118 Sinatra, Frank: 36 Sinclair, Hugh: 43 Sinise, Gary: 11,126 Sipowicz, Andy: 61,63 Sjowall & Wahloo: 114 Skellern, Peter: 127 Skinner, Claire: 76 Slater, Christian: 61 Sleep, Wayne: 117 Sloan, Mark: 97 Small, Sharon: 106 Smiley, George; 90 Smith, Alexander McCall: 100 Smith, Andreas Whittam: 97 Smith, C.Aubrey: 69 Smith, Julian: 126 Smith, Kevin: 30 Smith, Liz: 45,98 Smith, Maggie: 97,111 Smith-Start, Brix: 126 Snape, Prof. Severus: 5,66 Snowdon, Liza: 114 Soprano, Tony: 65,90 Spall, Rafe: 102 Sparrow, Walter: 61 Spencer, Phil: 116 Spiderman: 113 Spielberg, Steven: 14 Squire, Chris: 127 Squire, William: 99 Staff, Kathy: 127 Standen, Clive: 128 Staunton, Imelda: 97 Steed, Maggie: 7,97 Stephen, Jaci: 72,73 Stereophonics: 128 Stettner, Patrick: 125 Stevens, Rachel: 114 Stevens, Toby: 124 Stewart, Sam: 63,103 Stott, Ken: 21,25,30,62,88,90,93,101, Strachan, Gordon: 49 Streep, Meryl: 110,125 Street-Porter, Janet: 121 Streeter, Tanya: 83 Stuart, Moira: 62 Styne, Julie: 83 Suchet, David: 7 Sutcliffe, Thomas: 108,121 Sutherland, Joan: 128 Swift, Clive: 118 Sykes, Melanie: 91 Tarrant, Chris: 87 Tarzan: 43,69 Tatchell, Peter: 112 Tate, Catherine: 102 Tate, Jeffrey: 120 Tauber, Richard: 96 Taylor, Mac: 11,100,126 Teale, Owen: 64 Templar, D.C.S. Gill: 93, Tennant, David: 102108 Tennyson, D.S. Jane: 38 Terry, John: 75,106 Thatcher, Margaret: 71,99,108,125 Thaw, John: 69 Thomas, Leslie: 71 Thomas, Matthew: 71 Thompson, Emma: 98,121 Thompson, Flora: 98 Timmins, Laura: 98,100 Titchmarsh, Alan: 86,102,126 Tofield, Simon: 118 TOGs: 3,5 Tolkein, J.R.R. 48 Tomkinson, Stephen: 127 Torode, John: 60 Torres, Fernando: 108 Townsend, Robert: 81 Townshend, Pete: 78,110 Toyah (Wilcox): 117 Tracy, Spencer: 43 Treacy, Philip: 110 Trelawney, Sybil: 98 TrippingOnWords: 9,21,29,33,39,51,53,58,65,75 Trotter, John Scott: 96 Troughton, David: 58,108,129 Troughton, Patrick; 108,129 Troughton, Sam: 129 Tuck, Friar: 128 Turnbull, Giles: 58,87,109 Turow, Scott: 124 Twain, Mark: 57 Umbridge, Dolores: 79 Valentine, Anthony: 71,99 Valjean, Jean: 27 Van Dyke, Dick: 94,117 Vane, Harriet: 28 Vegas, Johnny: 117 Venables, Terry: 92 Vickers, Roy: 38 Vogt, Lars: 10 Von Nida, Norman: 81 Wainwright, Hetty: 97 Wainwright, Rufus: 78,127 Wainwright, Sally: 118 Wakeman, Rick: 127 Walker, Johnny: 129 Walker, D.C.S. MIchael: 62,101 Wallace & Gromit: 115 Wallace, Gregg: 60 Wallander, Insp. Kurt: 114 Walliams, David: 101,102 Walsh, Bradley: 122 Walter, Harriet: 122 Walters, Julie: 106,118,120 Walters, Paul: 5,41 Warhol, Andy: 107 Wark, Kirsty: 123 Warnes, Jennifer: 127 Waterman, Dennis: 38,108,130 Watson, Doctor: 7 Watson, Emily: 109 Watson, Emma: 50,130 Watson, James: 89 Watson, Tom: 130 Waugh, Evelyn: 82 Weasley, Molly: 120 Weatherley, Michael: 46,64 Weaver, Sigourney: 120 Webber, Andrew Lloyd: 22,126 Weeks, Honeysuckle: 7,63,103 Weissmuller, Johnny: 43,69 Wells, H.G. 106 Wendy, friend: 112 Wenger, Arsene: 59,64 Wesley, Mary: 5,18,38,125 West, Samuel: 58 Wexford, C,I, Reg: 97 Whately, Kevin: 64,97 Wheeler, Jimmy: 113 White, Jessica: 20,47,50,60,76,83,84,95,105,110,113,123,128 White, T.H: 63,67,77 Whitehouse, Mary: 106 Whitehouse, Toby: 51 Whitfield, David: 96 Whitfield, June: 97,127 Who, The: 128 Widmark, Richard: 102 Wilde, Oscar: 77 Wilde, Brian: 127 Wilkinson, Colm: 27 Wilkinson, Johnny: 82 Williams, Iris: 96 Williams, Lee: 101 Williams, Robin: 125 Williams, Rowan: 98 Williams, Venus: 79 Willis, Bruce, 5 Wilson, Benji: 103 Wilson, Richard: 111 Wilson, (truth about): 85,117 Wimsey, Lord Peter: 28,31 Wincott, Michael: 61 Winkler, Irwin: 124 Winstone, Ray: 43,48 Wogan, Terry: 3,5,13,18,27,41,102,106,126,129 Wolf, Dick: 122 Wood, Elijah: 111 Wood, Victoria: 53,72,73,76,120 Woodman, George: 85 Woodman, Greta: 85 Woodward, Edward: 99 Woolgar, Fenella: 105 Wright, Clarissa Dixon: 109,111 Wycliffe, D.C.S. Charles: 62 Wynter, Danny Lee: 91 Yates, David: 80,100,130 Yates, Jess: 102 Yates, Paula: 102 Young, James: 64 Young, Neil: 128 Young, Will: 128 Zellweger,Renée: 109 Zingaretti, Luca: 114

130. From Magic to Mystery via Misery

2009-08-05T11:20:00.000-07:00

FILMS

Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince.
Most of the usual cast are back for the sixth - and darkest to date - episode of this popular film series.
Five of us went to see it: four enjoyed it, the other one went to sleep.
Well...it ain't a film for a four year old.
My enjoyment was slightly tempered by some glaring departures from the J.K. Rowling original.
Slimy accountants apart, why did film director David Yates choose to make substantial alterations to a bestselling author's work?
I would put it down to him being an arrogant bugger, but I believe he speaks highly of me.
A couple of weeks ago the often irksome Jonathan Ross interviewed Emma Watson (Hermione Granger) and behaved himself sufficiently not to ask too many lewd questions about her private life.
She has changed little over the Potter years, is still brightly intelligent, blessed with innate common sense - the two don't always go together - and seems destined for a succesful life long after the curtain has fallen on the final Potter film.
Meantime, with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows being imaginatively split into Part 1 and Part 2, we should be seeing her on screen until at least 2011: later than that if Warner Brothers play the same daft release game they played with The Half-Blood Prince.
Collateral.
I like Tom Cruise (no matter what weird religion he may espouse) and this 2004 film proved again what a fine actor he is. Good guy or villain he delivers the works.
Here he is the villain; Vincent, a contract killer. The hero is cab driver Max, perfectly played by James Foxx, who is forced to take part in the killer's plan to make several hits around L.A. in one night.
The result is a thriller on a par with The Long Kiss Goodnight.
Thoroughly enjoyed it.

TELEVISION.

New Tricks.
The same reliable crew (Redman, Armstrong, Bolam and Waterman) are halfway through series six and show no sign of flagging. So far we have had stories about a murderous monk, a duplicitous American airforce chief and a cunning control-freak husband.
All have been totally watchable .
Shows what can be done with regular airing, reasonable story lines and fine actors.
Wimbledon.
I found the cat Shadow asleep and when I woke him he was devoid of poem.
"That's not like you," I said. "Once the heavy servers and the ball boys...girls...children...whatever...have done their stuff you're usually full of rhyme."
"Well it was Federer again, wasn't it," he grumbled. "OK, so there was the big serving much improved Andy Roddick and a final that went on forever, but in the end Federer won and he doesn't rhyme with anything.
"I talked it over with the boys on the roof: none of us could find a rhyme for Federer or Roddick."
"Didn't the Centre Court's new retractable roof come to mind?" I asked.
"Nothing rhymes with roof, either, other than goof, hoof and poof," he said sourly. "Anyway, I lost the muse."
I might have commiserated had he not immediately gone back to sleep.
Golf.
He seemed to be sleeping again when the British Open finished at Turnberry.
Eventually Tom Watson was beaten by Stewart Cink.
(Praise be, not one newspaper carried the headline Cink Sinks Watson.)
Suddenly I became aware that a Shadow eye had opened.
"Ol' Tom didn't manage it then," he said.
"I thought you were asleep," I said.
He stretched: "Na-a-ah, I was just giving me eyes a rest. I heard Peter Alliss and the rest of 'em rabbiting on."
He thought for a few seconds. "How old are you?" he asked.
"Seventy eight, " I replied.
"Just think," he said, "If you'd been a professional golfer the whole bloody world would have been told that a thousand times between the 16th and the 19th of July."
He really had been awake.
Columbo.
When it comes to a thousand times, I'm sure Peter Falk's Columbo repeats must well exceed that number. Today it was Janet Leigh and John Payne in the 1975 episode Forgotten Lady. She played Grace Wheeler Willis, a former star of musicals, much admired by Columbo's wife.
According to Columbo, in their early days together Mrs. Columbo dragged him to see all of Grace's films.
Halfway through, the thought struck me that Mrs. Columbo must hate her husband with a passion.
Everybody she admires he eventually arrests for murder.
No wonder she refuses to be seen with him.
Single-Handed.
A new police kid on the block, this time a Garda one, Sgt. Jack Driscoll (Owen McDonnell) working in western Ireland.
Last night we saw the first of a three parter and it was uncomfortable viewing.
I was reminded of a friend of mine who, some years ago, was offered a police job on one of the Channel Islands: he declined when it turned out that outside the holiday season he would be expected to turn a blind eye to certain (locally regarded as minor) law infringements.
Jack Driscoll finds himself in something of the same predicament. He has taken up the post of senior police officer in the area where he was brought up.
His conscientious approach to the job is hampered by the fact that his father, the popular previous holder of the post, was an 'us and them' copper quite prepared to ignore anything that might embarrass his cronies.
There is a disturbingly insular and faintly incestuous atmosphere about it all.
Damned good television though.

HOME.

A reasonable reason for a late post.
At the beginning of the second week in July I was stricken with the squits; easier to spell than diarrhoea.
I know it sounds like an old bloke's attempt to outdo the advert where a red-haired woman with strange eyes tells her mates she's passing hard lumps - (Could that be why she has strange eyes, d'you think? No matter.) - but this attack put me in bed for a couple of days, took a couple of weeks to clear and was caused by the food poisoning bacteria Campylobacter.
Don't know how I came by it. Could have been from a portion of fish and chips. Never will know now. Didn't care to gather evidence.
One thing is for sure: I have never had it before and I never want it again.
ps. At the risk of an indelicate reply, where is that advert coming from?
Unsolicited e-mails.
Lately my Inbox has been the casual target of people writing in Arabic. At least, I assume it's Arabic. No idea what they want.
They could be trying to sell me a carpet.
They could be attempting to recruit me into al Qaeda.
They could even be proclaiming a fatwa against me.
Normally I just delete such stuff and empty the deleted items folder, but two have appeared again this morning and for the first time I have opened them.
As you may have gathered, they didn't explode.
One was a short message from Святослав Панфилов which I did not keep and the other was from Новикова Лида which I thought I might publish but the attempt went haywire.
(Monitored by that contradiction in terms, an Intelligence Agency?)
Needless to say I have not the slightest idea what any of it is about.
I would rather not be responsible for somebody in the Middle East having their hands, head, or unmentionables chopped off but, what the hell, how many fundamentalists read this?
So if anybody else out there gets unsolicited Aladdin, Ali Baba, Sinbad messages and can translate them into English, even if it's very rude, please let me know what they say.
Oh, if the senders are seeking support for the young woman who could be flogged for wearing trousers, they need look no further. I am on her side.
Religious bigotry is crap and its perpetrators are crap artists.
Whatever their religion.

129. After Ascot a few more departures.

2009-06-28T15:44:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Hmm - Hmm.
The cat Shadow was hovering.
"You're hovering," I remarked. "What is it, food again?"
"Do try to curb the negative attitude," he said. "As a matter of fact it's Royal Ascot." He struck his poetic pose and my heart sank.
"Don't tell me: you have a poem."
"Too right, mate, listen to this..."
And before I could so much as close the stable door he was emoting to a tune reasonably close to the Richard Rodgers classic My Favourite Things:
"Most Favoured Mascot."
Girls in posh dresses and millinery monstrosities,
Blokes in grey toppers and hired suit pomposities.
Look at me, I am a right royal mascot
Perched on the back of a posh coach at Ascot.
Hmm - Hmm
Owners and trainers and horses in blinkers,
Brightly clad jockeys and tipsters and tinkers
Odds on the favourite's not going to win
Best back a horse owned by a Sheik Yadust Bin.
Hmm - Hmm
Race talking Claire Balding has got all the patter,
She can talk the hind leg off a horse that don't matter.
But the prize little waffler, no doubt about that
Is little Willie Carson in a bloody great hat.
When the chosen horse
Does just half the course
When I'm blowing a gasket
I simply imagine I'm perched on a posh coach,
The most favoured royal mascot.
[Repeat all verses]
"That's it," he said. "Repeat all verses."
I smiled: "Maybe later."
"D'you think they'd like it?" he asked after a while. "Rodgers and Hammerstein?"
"If they weren't dead I think it'd kill 'em," I said.
He thought about that for a moment.
"You're having a josh with me," he said.
"Sure," I replied. "But more Gifford than Ackland."

BBC Radio 2.
I still listen every weekday morning to Wake Up To Wogan, [On line, on digital and on 88 to 91 FM.]
I shake my head as he talks over the beginning or the end (sometimes both) of every track he plays to make sure nobody will illegally record it: I mutter when he forgets to credit the performer and when he inexplicably drops his voice at crucial moments: I smile indulgently when he wheezes with laughter at the least funny Janet and John sketch and I growl impatiently as he introduces yet another contribution from the TOG repertory company led by its tiresome retired actor manager.
I love it.
The unscripted banter of the broadcasters, the way Traffic Totty Lynn Bowles talks about "north bahnd and sahth bahnd" traffic and once even announced that there were "hold ups to sahth bahnd traffic at the rahnd abaht."
I like Deadly and Johnny and Charlie and the seldom-heard-never-seen Barrowlands Boyd.
I wouldn't change a minute of it. It's not the same with anyone else, not even Johnny Walker, who I also like.
It's just not a normal morning without ol' Tel.
This week he's away on a holiday break. It will probably last no more than a fortnight and it happens every three or four weeks.
Sure there's more important things than snorkers and broadcasting.
Like what?
Like golf.
And grouting.

TELEVISION (CONTAINS SPOILERS).

Robin Hood.
Robin (Jonas Armstrong) bade a fitting farewell to Nottingham by blowing his enemies and half the town to smithereens.
He then succumbed to the poison on a dagger wielded by Gisborne's sister.
Well. at least there is the nucleus of a cast left for the next series.
One interest in series three has been the casting of Alun Armstrong's son Joe as Alan a Dale (bumped off last week) and of David Troughton's son, Sam, as Much.
(Grandfather Patrick Troughton was in the first television series of Robin Hood.)
Fascinating family likenesses.

CSI: NY.
The end of series five was a master class in actor management.
Faced by the inevitable clamour from actors' agents for their clients' salaries to increase in proportion to the increased popularity of a show, the cunning executive will gather the entire cast together in a bar and quietly ease a black sedan into position outside.
A window will roll down...a machine gun will appear...
Care to guess who will still be around for series six?

128. From I o W to Cardiff - music all ways.

2009-06-14T14:20:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Isle of Wight Festival.
Yeah, it's that time again. Granddaughter Jess has gone with one of her friends and the requisite adult accompaniment to be entertained by a host of assorted musical talent at the 8th IW Festival.
Who is appearing?
No, not The Who, that was last year.
Among those I recognise are The Charlatans, Neil Young, Stereophonics, McFly, Razorlight and Will Young.
Then there are groups like The Prodigy and Pixies of whom I know little and, finally, there will be a host of bands with names like The Bitch, The Botch, The Kitsch and The Crotch of whom I know nothing.
They will all be very loud and very good after ten cans of lager.
Yesterday those of us in the area who have not joined the festival audience were able to stand outside our houses and watch The Red Arrows give another fantastic display over the site.
My Leader and I must have seen them half a dozen times in the past few years.
They are sheer magic.
Long may they reign.

READING

The Independent.
Perhaps surprisingly for a retired old bloke I scarcely found time to read much last week.
On Monday I managed a look at Yasmin Alibhai-Brown's column.
She was decrying women who flee the political battlefield: at least, I think that's what it was, I could be wrong, a week is a long time in political journalism.
Then, on Friday, Johann Hari warned that we are filling space with trash, much of it orbiting earth at thousands of miles an hour.
That really was dire news.
I always thought all the trash in space was beamed back by satellite to become reality television.
Both of these journalists are fine writers.
I bet they cheer up sometimes, too.

TELEVISION

I'm Running Sainsbury's (C4).
At a time of economic downturn the chief executive of Sainsbury's, Justin King, one of those charming blokes born to sail through interviews, had the brilliant idea - well, lays claim to the brilliant idea - that shop floor workers (now called colleagues would you believe?) should be invited to submit their proposals for the better running of the company.
The idea is not entirely new: every sharp company in the country must have experimented with a staff suggestion box from which it hoped to garner a few good ideas for as little money as possible.
But the Sainsbury's idea had a twist: four of the proposals would be taken up for a trial period in selected stores under the direction of the proposer.
Of the first two, one suffered setbacks and has not worked out - sad, because it was a nice idea - and the other has been given an extended trial in twenty shops.
When I go into a supermarket only two things really concern me:-
(1) why have they shifted every-goddam-thing around again? and:-
(2) how long is the queue at the checkout going to be?
I have loathed and avoided standing in queues ever since the war: still remember ration books and people lining up outside the butcher's shop.
So far as my involvement in the process of shopping is concerned, I do not try the free samples offered by free sample offerers, I do not bother with anything said over the Tannoy and I do expect to lose my wife inside twenty minutes somewhere between wines and spirits and pet food.
For the next half hour she ceases to be my Leader and becomes: "Where the hell is Maureen?"
What?
Well of course it's my fault.

Life (ITV3).
That pleasant English actor Damian Lewis is back for what is apparently the last series of this amiable American cop drama. Sarah Shahi co-stars as his likeable, down-to-earth partner.
It is a well scripted, well acted, easy to follow show; which means - in televison production terms - it is absolutely right for the axe.
I shall be sorry to see it go.

Robin Hood (BBC1).
Talk is that Jonas Armstrong, arguably the best Robin in this load of supreme tosh since Jason Connery, is to be replaced by an Errol Flynn lookalike called Clive Standen who has suddenly appeared in the role of Archer, half-brother of Robin and Gisborne (don't ask).
We are close to the end of series three which started off with the casting department choosing David Harewood (an actor for whom I have the utmost respect) as a black Friar Tuck.
This chap blithely wanders into Nottingham and York unnoticed by the colour-blind townsfolk.
Well, with abject apologies to Yasmin A-B, neither my imagination nor my political correctness stretches quite that far.
Friar Tuck was Eugene Pallette (1938) and James Hayter (1952).
He was a fat old white bloke, not a well-built young black bloke.
Still, looking back I was opposed to the casting of Ben Kingsley as Gandhi and of Alec Guinness as Indian mystic Godbole and Arab leader Prince Feisal, too.
Does that make me a racist?
Do I care?

BBC Cardiff Singer of The World 2009.
A great week and a wonderful final from which the Russian soprano Ekaterina Shcherbachenko emerged a deserved winner.
(Dame Joan Sutherland, frail but indomitable, presented the trophy.)
The popular People's Favourite prize went to tenor Giordano Luca from Italy and the toughest competitor to beat in the competiton, undoubtedly, was an amazing countertenor, Yuriy Mynenko, from the Ukraine.
Well done the BBC and well done Wales!

127. Home and Away - with music.

2009-06-08T09:11:00.000-07:00

HOME.

Music.

The weather has been glorious so I have been sitting here doing less than I should and not giving a tinker's cuss.
In the background my old aiwa digital audio system (posh description for an inexpensive stereo) is helping lull me from the slog of extemporaneous composition.
Randy Crawford is halfway through the fascinating One Day I'll Fly Away; Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes will shortly be telling me that they are Up Where We Belong, then it will be Still Magic with Peter Skellern and then still more magic with Peggy Lee's You Can Sing A Rainbow: Mick Hucknall will follow to remind me how he feels Every Time We Say Goodbye and after that the duet from The Pearl Fishers will be sung in French by Nicolai Gedda and Ernest Blanc.
It's one of my personal choice tapes: put it together some years ago and still enjoy every one of the more than thirty tracks on it.
Good job I shall never be invited to choose eight Desert Island Discs.
How do those who get the invitation make up their minds?
Yesterday, in similar tranquil mood, I listened to the Yes album Fragile and marvelled again at the superb musicianship of Bill Bruford, Steve Howe, Chris Squire and Rick Wakeman and at Jon Anderson's terrific rendition of Heart of the Sunrise.
Well they'd never have time for that on your radio desert island, would they?
Na-a-h, I couldn't select just eight tunes.
I'd be forever hankering after the stuff I'd left out.

Reading.

I continue at a leisurely pace with Bryan Forbes' The Endless Game.
Could go faster but for incessant interruptions and a couple of months backlog of DVDs demanding attention.
So far ol' Bryan has been such darned good value that whatever DVD I have on at the same time as I read needs constant rewinding (or whatever you call it on a DVD) because I become so immersed in the book I lose the plot on the box.
Well, to be honest, losing the plot is not something I find difficult to do nowadays.
Once did a complete three year correspondence course with my radio playing in the background, but that was more than fifty years ago and you didn't have to watch radio.
Come to think of it, I sometimes wonder why I am watching...

Television.

And Springwatch again.
Kate Humble, Simon King and Chris Packham are doing the honours.
Bill Oddie should be missed, sadly or happily according to whether you were or were not a fan, but I don't see any signs of the team falling apart since his departure so I guess that says it all for programme presenters.
They're as necessary as they are popular and as popular as last week's show.
Kingdom is back on Sunday evenings.
Ol' Stephen Fry playing the kindly country solicitor Peter Kingdom.
Lovely start of week tosh with a great cast including a lady particularly popular in this part of the world, Celia Imrie.
I think she has a home here somewhere.
Everybody likes her.
In the first episode, the guest stars were June Whitfield and Peter Sallis, both on the run from
Last of the Summer Wine.
Since the demise of Kathy Staff somebody (tell me not Roy Clarke?) has decided that Russ Abbot, as Hobbo, should replace the late Brian Wilde's Foggy as the token Walter Mitty character.
Hobbo is not a success, the series is sadly limping, and I do not blame June Whitfield and Peter Sallis if they are AWOL.
At the moment they are better off with Stephen than with Russ and far better off with either than with the other Stephen on
Stephen Tomkinson's African Balloon Adventure.
Always liked the idea of travelling by hot air balloon, but this is a trip too far.
What goes up must come down and when I came down it would have to be somewhere flat, convenient for rescue and clear of hazards.
It would not have to be in the middle of impenetrable scrubland or herds of startled wild animals.
I'm sure Stephen Tompkinson and camera crew survived the three episodes - we'd have heard, wouldn't we? - and well done them.
But beautiful though the scenery clearly is, the thought of where we could land next would have precluded participation on my part.
Against my religion.
Devout coward.

AWAY.

Manchester International Festival, Manchester, UK, 2009.

In July our daughter Jac and her friend Zoe Farndon are going to see the singer/songwriter Rufus Wainwright's new opera Prima Donna.
I don't know how Zoe is with languages; Jac is fluent in German and can manage a smattering of Italian: the opera is in French.
Doesn't matter.
Hell, I speak nothing but Isle of Wight English with a side-helping of Invective but that never stopped me enjoying opera in Italian.
Che Gelida Manina is melodic in a way that Your Tiny Hand is Frozen just ain't.
I hope Prima Donna will be a magical first for Rufus and a total treat for all those faithful fans who make it to Manchester.
That particularly goes for Jackie and Zoe.
Enjoy every minute my dears.