THAT'S IT.
Yes, that's it for another year.
Christmas Eve provided the customary intrigue of people struggling to supermarket checkouts pushing trolleys laden with bread.
I wonder about them. Are they guest-house keepers? Are they bread sauce manufacturers? Are they simply pessimists? It is only a two-day break and many of the shops are open on Boxing Day.
Your guess is as good as mine.
We went to Roz, our youngest, for dinner on Christmas Day.
She, husband Mark and children live a couple of miles up the road from us. When we arrived they were experiencing a power cut. The electricity had been off since half seven in the morning. It came back on at about three in the afternoon.
Fortunately, Roz cooks by gas. It must have been an infuriating time for the people who rely on electricity.
There's a nearby pub which remained open without coolers or fridges and with warm beer. England their England!
The local paper contained a piece about it.
Seems a senior councillor who lives a bit further out was affected by the problem, too.
He had no power from 7.20am until just after 9am.
The paper quoted him as saying: "All the candlelight gave the house a nice traditional feel."
What, for an hour and three quarters?
Who votes for these jokers?
NCIS. (Five)
Episode 4/24 of series four had Gibbs (Mark Harmon) running things again, his acting haircut backed up by a well-rehearsed grey moustache which suggested he may have read for the part of Lee Scoresby in The Golden Compass but narrowly lost out to Sam Elliott (a man born wearing a stetson).
Well, there's bound to be another rehash of the interminable Wyatt Earp saga in the pipeline. Perhaps ol' Mark could try for that. He would be very good and he certainly looks the part. He mustn't give up on NCIS though.
Cote de Pablo has settled in as the lethal Ziva David. I don't know whether her attempts to speak Hebrew are good, bad or indifferent and I don't care. She certainly can't sound any worse than dear old Dick Van Dyke did as an Englishman in Mary Poppins.
We shall continue to follow this lovely bunkum next year.
Never mind all the terrorist tosh; we like a good laugh.
NO RESOLUTIONS.
Shan't make any New Year resolutions. Never do.
If you do, I hope you'll manage to keep to them for more than a day.
The following are a few words from an e-mail received today from our friend Jan.
"Life is short, break the rules, forgive quickly, kiss slowly, love truly, laugh uncontrollably and never regret anything that made you smile. I want to wish you all health, happiness and success in 2008. We all have our own idea as to what defines happiness and success - hope all yours are met."
Whether the words are Jan's or those of somebody who sent them to her to be forwarded, they fit the occasion very well indeed.
Happy New Year!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
93. Goodbye Rebus, Hallo Gibbs, Merry Xmas All
I HAD A MAN'S COLD.
November departed and December started and there was I, completely out of it all.
I had a man's cold again.
It started with razor blades in the throat and rapidly became the runny, shivery, decidedly life-threatening, probably-flu-despite-the-flu-jab, could-even-be-pneumonia, multi-handkerchief-filler that only a man suffers.
It could not in any way be likened to the get-on-with-it-it's-nothing-compared-to-having-a-baby sort of one-hanky-snuffle instantly dismissed by a woman.
I was stoical of course.
Well, experience counts in these near-death situations.
And my Leader, bless 'er, refrained from any but sympathetic noises.
Not a single birth giving comparison was heard.
I do love that woman.
CRANFORD IS THE VERY BEST. (BBC1 - Sundays)
Just knew it would be.
Brilliant actors have arrived, done their acting bit and gone. There has not been a flaw.
We just sit back and let it wash over us..
So much costume drama produced for television in this country is without equal. We may not do much in the sporting world but nowhere else in the universe can compete with our richness of acting talent, technical know-how and inspired television direction.
Nor has any other country such a wonderful list of long-departed writers whose work could have been written for the medium.
Eschew false modesty.
Cranford is costume drama at its very best.
NCIS. (Five - Fridays)
Well, it's back. Same frightening Middle Eastern villains, same daft sort of plot (only Spooks can compete in that department), same Leroy Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) who has acquired a badly rehearsed acting haircut and a general appearance of one auditioning for Ben Gunn in the pantomime version of Treasure Island.
Great stuff.
Watch this space.
REBUS. (ITV1)
Series 5 ended with the typical "let's finish Rebus" characters failing to finish Rebus. Ken Stott (despite the jaundiced views of the TV editor in my ultimate digital TV and radio guide) is still excellent as Rebus. So is Claire Price as DS Siobhan Clarke and Jennifer Black as DCS Gill Templar.
I think it would be a pity if it just faded away now.
Edinburgh's such a pretty place, too.
WHAM! IT'S CHRISTMAS AGAIN.
Well it is, isn't it?
Heck, shops and garden centres have been flogging Santa stuff around here since September. You get so used to it you lose sight of what it's all about until - wham! - it's under a fortnight away and barely a card written or a gift wrapped.
We'll probably do a lot of Compliments of the Season malarkey this year to avoid upsetting atheists, agnostics, skeptics, infidels, heretics, Pyrrhonists, or the sort of religious fundamentalist who takes offence at the naming of a Teddy bear.
I refuse to be disheartened.
The half tree will go up and the Santas will come out and the Happy Christmas sign will face the front door and friends of all religions or no religion will be equally welcome.
So if you're in the neighbourhood, drop by for a drink and a mince pie.
Oh, and in case I forget, or somehow don't get around to it again,
A Merry Christmas to You!
P.S. Grandson Ellis, two years old, has discovered Christmas.
He says it is: "Baby Jesus in 'is 'ouse."
Now that's what I call a description.
November departed and December started and there was I, completely out of it all.
I had a man's cold again.
It started with razor blades in the throat and rapidly became the runny, shivery, decidedly life-threatening, probably-flu-despite-the-flu-jab, could-even-be-pneumonia, multi-handkerchief-filler that only a man suffers.
It could not in any way be likened to the get-on-with-it-it's-nothing-compared-to-having-a-baby sort of one-hanky-snuffle instantly dismissed by a woman.
I was stoical of course.
Well, experience counts in these near-death situations.
And my Leader, bless 'er, refrained from any but sympathetic noises.
Not a single birth giving comparison was heard.
I do love that woman.
CRANFORD IS THE VERY BEST. (BBC1 - Sundays)
Just knew it would be.
Brilliant actors have arrived, done their acting bit and gone. There has not been a flaw.
We just sit back and let it wash over us..
So much costume drama produced for television in this country is without equal. We may not do much in the sporting world but nowhere else in the universe can compete with our richness of acting talent, technical know-how and inspired television direction.
Nor has any other country such a wonderful list of long-departed writers whose work could have been written for the medium.
Eschew false modesty.
Cranford is costume drama at its very best.
NCIS. (Five - Fridays)
Well, it's back. Same frightening Middle Eastern villains, same daft sort of plot (only Spooks can compete in that department), same Leroy Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) who has acquired a badly rehearsed acting haircut and a general appearance of one auditioning for Ben Gunn in the pantomime version of Treasure Island.
Great stuff.
Watch this space.
REBUS. (ITV1)
Series 5 ended with the typical "let's finish Rebus" characters failing to finish Rebus. Ken Stott (despite the jaundiced views of the TV editor in my ultimate digital TV and radio guide) is still excellent as Rebus. So is Claire Price as DS Siobhan Clarke and Jennifer Black as DCS Gill Templar.
I think it would be a pity if it just faded away now.
Edinburgh's such a pretty place, too.
WHAM! IT'S CHRISTMAS AGAIN.
Well it is, isn't it?
Heck, shops and garden centres have been flogging Santa stuff around here since September. You get so used to it you lose sight of what it's all about until - wham! - it's under a fortnight away and barely a card written or a gift wrapped.
We'll probably do a lot of Compliments of the Season malarkey this year to avoid upsetting atheists, agnostics, skeptics, infidels, heretics, Pyrrhonists, or the sort of religious fundamentalist who takes offence at the naming of a Teddy bear.
I refuse to be disheartened.
The half tree will go up and the Santas will come out and the Happy Christmas sign will face the front door and friends of all religions or no religion will be equally welcome.
So if you're in the neighbourhood, drop by for a drink and a mince pie.
Oh, and in case I forget, or somehow don't get around to it again,
A Merry Christmas to You!
P.S. Grandson Ellis, two years old, has discovered Christmas.
He says it is: "Baby Jesus in 'is 'ouse."
Now that's what I call a description.
Monday, November 26, 2007
92. Old ones, new ones, loved ones...
CRANFORD (BBC1 - Sundays)
Just glance down the cast list and you can sense a superb series. This is Elizabeth Gaskell's Cheshire market town beautifully staged and looking, though I feel sure Miss Deborah Jenkyns (Eileen Atkins) would deplore my saying so, a million dollars.
Something to record after the Antiques Roadshow, then.
We shall still watch Long Way Down (BBC2) until the very end. Boorman and McGregor are compulsive viewing.
EGGHEADS. (BBC2 - nightly)
Last week the Eggheads were beaten twice in two days.
On Tuesday they lost to a team of museum people who departed with £33,000.
On Wednesday they were beaten by a bunch of tax inspectors, but the prize money was back to £1,000. (Hurray!)
Time to demand a change in the format, Eggheads.
And the departure of Dreadful Dermot.
WE CAN'T ALL BE EGGHEADS.
(Or museum people or, thanks be, tax inspectors.)
On Monday at 7.30 pm my Leader reminded me that Mastermind was about to start.
"Hurry up or you'll miss the chance to get your two right answers," she advised cheerfully.
The gifted imagination of television schedulers ensures that half an hour of Mastermind (John Humphrys being consistently pleasant) is followed by half an hour of University Challenge (Jeremy Paxman being occasionally likeable).
After Mastermind I repaired to the kitchen.
When "Come on! Come on!" Paxman started his introduction I bolted back to the television.
"What's the rush?" my bemused Leader called after me.
The truth will out.
"Must try to increase my right answers to four."
MATCH OF THE DAY LIVE. (BBC1 - Wednesday 19th November)
England 2 - Croatia 3
So England failed to qualify for Euro 2008.
The scoreline says it all.
The cat Shadow departed long before it finished.
England manager Steve McClaren and assistant Terry Venables departed shortly after it finished.
I departed at 9 pm to watch Heroes on BBC2.
NCIS. (Five)
At the end (a while back) of what I took to be the final series, Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon), having quit his job, walked along a beach to meet up with his old boss.
I thought that was it.
NCIS was over.
Now it seems he may have had a dream in a shower or something because a new series is being advertised and the word repeat has not been mentioned.
If this really is brand new and has never been shown here before, great!
I need no longer watch repeats of
CRIMINAL MINDS. (Five)
Where each week dear old Mandy Patinkin, gravitas glasses on the end of his nose, appears with The Sequential Dialogue Club.
This is a delightful load of bunkum in which it is clear that from me - to you - via her - to him - back to Mandy dialogue has been allocated to the ensemble, sequentially, to be delivered without pause for breath or suggestion of thought.
Sometimes two or three people share a sentence.
It is democracy gone mad.
Once the Criminal Mind of the week has been terminated, a voice-only who sounds a lot like Mandy Patinkin delivers a worldly-wise denouement - without let or hindrance - and that's that.
I still enjoy it.
Though ol' Mandy really is better when he's singing.
CSI (Five)
Thinking about sequential dialogue brought to mind my one bone of contention with CSI.
No forensic or other expert in a CSI/NY/Miami (whatever) episode is ever allowed to express a view without some fellow cast member simplifying it, in alternative words, for the benefit of the viewing public.
Ever stopped to wonder at the incredible patience of experts who take no offence at this?
I have.
I find myself longing for just one expert who will yell: "Stop re-wording everything I say, you smart-ass! Fuck off!"
Just glance down the cast list and you can sense a superb series. This is Elizabeth Gaskell's Cheshire market town beautifully staged and looking, though I feel sure Miss Deborah Jenkyns (Eileen Atkins) would deplore my saying so, a million dollars.
Something to record after the Antiques Roadshow, then.
We shall still watch Long Way Down (BBC2) until the very end. Boorman and McGregor are compulsive viewing.
EGGHEADS. (BBC2 - nightly)
Last week the Eggheads were beaten twice in two days.
On Tuesday they lost to a team of museum people who departed with £33,000.
On Wednesday they were beaten by a bunch of tax inspectors, but the prize money was back to £1,000. (Hurray!)
Time to demand a change in the format, Eggheads.
And the departure of Dreadful Dermot.
WE CAN'T ALL BE EGGHEADS.
(Or museum people or, thanks be, tax inspectors.)
On Monday at 7.30 pm my Leader reminded me that Mastermind was about to start.
"Hurry up or you'll miss the chance to get your two right answers," she advised cheerfully.
The gifted imagination of television schedulers ensures that half an hour of Mastermind (John Humphrys being consistently pleasant) is followed by half an hour of University Challenge (Jeremy Paxman being occasionally likeable).
After Mastermind I repaired to the kitchen.
When "Come on! Come on!" Paxman started his introduction I bolted back to the television.
"What's the rush?" my bemused Leader called after me.
The truth will out.
"Must try to increase my right answers to four."
MATCH OF THE DAY LIVE. (BBC1 - Wednesday 19th November)
England 2 - Croatia 3
So England failed to qualify for Euro 2008.
The scoreline says it all.
The cat Shadow departed long before it finished.
England manager Steve McClaren and assistant Terry Venables departed shortly after it finished.
I departed at 9 pm to watch Heroes on BBC2.
NCIS. (Five)
At the end (a while back) of what I took to be the final series, Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon), having quit his job, walked along a beach to meet up with his old boss.
I thought that was it.
NCIS was over.
Now it seems he may have had a dream in a shower or something because a new series is being advertised and the word repeat has not been mentioned.
If this really is brand new and has never been shown here before, great!
I need no longer watch repeats of
CRIMINAL MINDS. (Five)
Where each week dear old Mandy Patinkin, gravitas glasses on the end of his nose, appears with The Sequential Dialogue Club.
This is a delightful load of bunkum in which it is clear that from me - to you - via her - to him - back to Mandy dialogue has been allocated to the ensemble, sequentially, to be delivered without pause for breath or suggestion of thought.
Sometimes two or three people share a sentence.
It is democracy gone mad.
Once the Criminal Mind of the week has been terminated, a voice-only who sounds a lot like Mandy Patinkin delivers a worldly-wise denouement - without let or hindrance - and that's that.
I still enjoy it.
Though ol' Mandy really is better when he's singing.
CSI (Five)
Thinking about sequential dialogue brought to mind my one bone of contention with CSI.
No forensic or other expert in a CSI/NY/Miami (whatever) episode is ever allowed to express a view without some fellow cast member simplifying it, in alternative words, for the benefit of the viewing public.
Ever stopped to wonder at the incredible patience of experts who take no offence at this?
I have.
I find myself longing for just one expert who will yell: "Stop re-wording everything I say, you smart-ass! Fuck off!"
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
91. A few more Dribs and Drabs
CANUTE AT THE SEASIDE.
When we moved here seven years ago I could sit at my computer by the upstairs workroom window and, on the corner of a road just along from our garage, take in the sight of a pleasant little bungalow probably built around the time of the second world war.
It stood in a reasonable garden.
Then, a few months ago, it was demolished.
The entire site has now been taken up by a three storey block of flats. It is the second of its kind to be built around here, less than a hundred yards apart, in the past six months. Most of them are devoid of private parking.
Seems councils have been counselled that people who choose to live in flats should not be encouraged to own cars. Well. the shops are but a short walk away.
I am well aware that the jaw-dropping Scot and his henchpersons are tossers - they are M.P.s after all - and I do realize that the local prats-in-power are fiscally bound to creep to central government.
But are not their sad attempts to drive more and more people back to the pre 1950 days of mass public transport just another example of Canute at the seaside?
Mark you, with petrol at the cost it is now even old Two Jags Prescott may soon have to use his bus pass.
EIGHT WASTED MINUTES, YOUR MAJESTY.
Yes, all that pomp and paraphernalia and thumping on doors just for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2 to tell us, in eight wasted minutes, that her government is going to stick its oar into education...health...oh...you name it...you've heard it all before.
The eight minutes would have been far better spent if the aforementioned Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly lady who really has done me no harm) had been allowed to say:
"My government will make the same almighty cockup of absolutely everything that it and previous governments have for as long as I, or any of my subjects, can remember. It will also indulge in the same lies and deception to cover up its considerable shortcomings. That having been said, my husband and I look forward, with wry amusement, to the childish party squabbling which, no doubt, my words will engender at Westminster in the near future."
A COLLINS MOMENT.
Love her or loathe her, ol' Joan Collins does occasionally come out with a gem.
Talking to Melanie Sykes on The Paul O'Grady Show recently, she was asked whether there was anything sexy about kissing handsome actors in films. Her reply was a throwaway masterpiece.
"No. You are too worried about being on the right camera. And makeup are too worried that you might smudge your lipstick - or smudge his lipstick!"
Wicked.
SPOOKS OR MIAMI?
On Tuesday nights at 9 o'clock it is either Spooks on BBC1 or CSI: Miami on Five. Or watch one of them and record the other. Both are hilarious tosh, but while the former has actors. the latter has David Caruso and his acting sunglasses.
I cannot choose between them so I always record Spooks and watch it after I have seen Miami with my Leader. She does not watch Spooks. Well, apart from Peter Firth there are no antiques in it.
On the other hand, David Caruso's sunglasses are probably worth as much as any antique.
My Leader and I count how many times ol' David stands sideways to talk to somebody.
My Leader: "Why do you think he stands like that?"
Me: "To avoid being kicked in the balls."
(Later)
My Leader: "He's got that strange, wistful look on his face again."
Me: "Perhaps he forgot to stand sideways."
Both of us: "Hallo! He's putting his sunglasses on! There'll be trouble now..."
JOE'S PALACE.
One of the Spooks stalwarts, Rupert Penry-Jones, had a leading role in this absorbing drama by Stephen Poliakoff. The main character, Joe, was beautifully portrayed by newcomer Danny Lee Wynter and the eccentric billionaire who employed him to act as doorkeeper at a mansion was that star actor, very funny interviewee and self-proclaimed liar, Sir Michael Gambon.
Nothing ever seems to happen in a Poliakoff story. You just have to keep watching.
The end was worth the wait.
When we moved here seven years ago I could sit at my computer by the upstairs workroom window and, on the corner of a road just along from our garage, take in the sight of a pleasant little bungalow probably built around the time of the second world war.
It stood in a reasonable garden.
Then, a few months ago, it was demolished.
The entire site has now been taken up by a three storey block of flats. It is the second of its kind to be built around here, less than a hundred yards apart, in the past six months. Most of them are devoid of private parking.
Seems councils have been counselled that people who choose to live in flats should not be encouraged to own cars. Well. the shops are but a short walk away.
I am well aware that the jaw-dropping Scot and his henchpersons are tossers - they are M.P.s after all - and I do realize that the local prats-in-power are fiscally bound to creep to central government.
But are not their sad attempts to drive more and more people back to the pre 1950 days of mass public transport just another example of Canute at the seaside?
Mark you, with petrol at the cost it is now even old Two Jags Prescott may soon have to use his bus pass.
EIGHT WASTED MINUTES, YOUR MAJESTY.
Yes, all that pomp and paraphernalia and thumping on doors just for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2 to tell us, in eight wasted minutes, that her government is going to stick its oar into education...health...oh...you name it...you've heard it all before.
The eight minutes would have been far better spent if the aforementioned Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly lady who really has done me no harm) had been allowed to say:
"My government will make the same almighty cockup of absolutely everything that it and previous governments have for as long as I, or any of my subjects, can remember. It will also indulge in the same lies and deception to cover up its considerable shortcomings. That having been said, my husband and I look forward, with wry amusement, to the childish party squabbling which, no doubt, my words will engender at Westminster in the near future."
A COLLINS MOMENT.
Love her or loathe her, ol' Joan Collins does occasionally come out with a gem.
Talking to Melanie Sykes on The Paul O'Grady Show recently, she was asked whether there was anything sexy about kissing handsome actors in films. Her reply was a throwaway masterpiece.
"No. You are too worried about being on the right camera. And makeup are too worried that you might smudge your lipstick - or smudge his lipstick!"
Wicked.
SPOOKS OR MIAMI?
On Tuesday nights at 9 o'clock it is either Spooks on BBC1 or CSI: Miami on Five. Or watch one of them and record the other. Both are hilarious tosh, but while the former has actors. the latter has David Caruso and his acting sunglasses.
I cannot choose between them so I always record Spooks and watch it after I have seen Miami with my Leader. She does not watch Spooks. Well, apart from Peter Firth there are no antiques in it.
On the other hand, David Caruso's sunglasses are probably worth as much as any antique.
My Leader and I count how many times ol' David stands sideways to talk to somebody.
My Leader: "Why do you think he stands like that?"
Me: "To avoid being kicked in the balls."
(Later)
My Leader: "He's got that strange, wistful look on his face again."
Me: "Perhaps he forgot to stand sideways."
Both of us: "Hallo! He's putting his sunglasses on! There'll be trouble now..."
JOE'S PALACE.
One of the Spooks stalwarts, Rupert Penry-Jones, had a leading role in this absorbing drama by Stephen Poliakoff. The main character, Joe, was beautifully portrayed by newcomer Danny Lee Wynter and the eccentric billionaire who employed him to act as doorkeeper at a mansion was that star actor, very funny interviewee and self-proclaimed liar, Sir Michael Gambon.
Nothing ever seems to happen in a Poliakoff story. You just have to keep watching.
The end was worth the wait.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
90. Unresolved history, a bit of tele and a new film
DECENT COPPERS DON'T GET THANKED ENOUGH.
On Tuesday last we had a telephone call from P.C. Gamble, the police officer who took our statements when we experienced the abortive burglary early this month, to tell us that CCTV footage on the cameras closest to where we live have revealed no sign of any suspiciously sneaking, or obviously fleeing, white-jacketed figure.
Nobody saw anything of the cheeky git or any companion(s) he may have had. He simply disappeared like one of the subjects of the TV series Without a Trace.
He is unresolved history.
Meantime I have not only renewed the security at the back of the house but have opted to double it.
Paul, the nice chap who originally supplied and fitted the garage door, advised me to drill holes through the bottom of the door and continue straight on down for least four inches into the concrete floor. Then drop six inch bolts through.
So when he had repaired the damage that is exactly what I did. If matey tries his arm again he may, with any luck, pull his shoulders out of joint.
The mental insecurity these little bastards cause is incalculable.
Our thanks, though, to P.C. Gamble for his common sense approach to the whole tiresome business.
Decent coppers don't get thanked often enough.
SMILEY'S PEOPLE. (Saturday evenings) (BBC4)
This sequel to John le Carre's Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy is a long awaited repeat.
George Smiley (Alec Guinness) spent almost the entire second part of the two-part opener walking alone, looking about him and being enigmatic.
Made you realize what a damned good actor Guinness was, though.
THE SOPRANOS (Final episode) (E4)
There was an expected flood of fatalities and an unexpected ending.
James Gandolfini (as the overweight, lethal, strangely charismatic Tony Soprano) was watchable until the last second.
His fellow actors were, without exception, superb.
Since its inception in 1999 this HBO production has been universally praised.
Brilliant direction, brilliant background music and meticulous observation ensured its success.
It will be a hard act to follow.
HIS DARK MATERIALS HAS MATERIALIZED.
Clearly I was well adrift with my suggestion that Ken Stott would make a good Lord Asriel in Northern Lights.
The film had already been made and is currently being advertised under the title The Golden Compass.
So, good for Philip Pullman, His Dark Materials has materialized.
I had not heard a murmur until now. Well, I wouldn't have known me Golden Compass from me Northern Lights, anyway, but the other two books will surely follow, with or without their original titles.
Wonder if Iorek Byrnison sounds like Gandalf?
Oh, Daniel Craig plays Lord Asriel.
Sorry, Ken.
On Tuesday last we had a telephone call from P.C. Gamble, the police officer who took our statements when we experienced the abortive burglary early this month, to tell us that CCTV footage on the cameras closest to where we live have revealed no sign of any suspiciously sneaking, or obviously fleeing, white-jacketed figure.
Nobody saw anything of the cheeky git or any companion(s) he may have had. He simply disappeared like one of the subjects of the TV series Without a Trace.
He is unresolved history.
Meantime I have not only renewed the security at the back of the house but have opted to double it.
Paul, the nice chap who originally supplied and fitted the garage door, advised me to drill holes through the bottom of the door and continue straight on down for least four inches into the concrete floor. Then drop six inch bolts through.
So when he had repaired the damage that is exactly what I did. If matey tries his arm again he may, with any luck, pull his shoulders out of joint.
The mental insecurity these little bastards cause is incalculable.
Our thanks, though, to P.C. Gamble for his common sense approach to the whole tiresome business.
Decent coppers don't get thanked often enough.
SMILEY'S PEOPLE. (Saturday evenings) (BBC4)
This sequel to John le Carre's Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy is a long awaited repeat.
George Smiley (Alec Guinness) spent almost the entire second part of the two-part opener walking alone, looking about him and being enigmatic.
Made you realize what a damned good actor Guinness was, though.
THE SOPRANOS (Final episode) (E4)
There was an expected flood of fatalities and an unexpected ending.
James Gandolfini (as the overweight, lethal, strangely charismatic Tony Soprano) was watchable until the last second.
His fellow actors were, without exception, superb.
Since its inception in 1999 this HBO production has been universally praised.
Brilliant direction, brilliant background music and meticulous observation ensured its success.
It will be a hard act to follow.
HIS DARK MATERIALS HAS MATERIALIZED.
Clearly I was well adrift with my suggestion that Ken Stott would make a good Lord Asriel in Northern Lights.
The film had already been made and is currently being advertised under the title The Golden Compass.
So, good for Philip Pullman, His Dark Materials has materialized.
I had not heard a murmur until now. Well, I wouldn't have known me Golden Compass from me Northern Lights, anyway, but the other two books will surely follow, with or without their original titles.
Wonder if Iorek Byrnison sounds like Gandalf?
Oh, Daniel Craig plays Lord Asriel.
Sorry, Ken.
Monday, October 22, 2007
89. Dribs and Drabs
ALIBHAI-BROWN v AMIS.
At a slow time for news - and I include the resignation of Sir Menzies Campbell - Martin Amis managed to get himself named and pictured on the front page of The Independent simply by pissing off Yasmin Alibhai - Brown. (Surely not a recommended course of action for any but the most supremely arrogant man.) I would as soon seek serious trouble with my Leader.
Mr. Amis had allegedly made remarks of a Muslim baiting/hating nature which were seized upon by Ms. Alibhai-Brown - who can be quite touchy where such matters are concerned - and she roasted him in her newspaper column.
His reply, in which he blamed Professor Terry Eagleton, a Manchester University colleague, for misrepresenting his views, ("The anti-Muslim measures he says I 'advocated' I merely adumbrated..." Christ!) proclaimed his innocence in a weirdly conciliatory and condescending letter which became the biggest news in The Independent on a slow Friday.
Anyway, since both Ms. Alibhai - Brown and Mr. Amis are featured in Wikipedia, where their differences are mentioned, I will remark only that Yasmin A - B, for all her tendency to professional indignation, remains high on my list of respected people and that I have read none of Martin Amis's work because - to paraphrase Spike Milligan - he wouldn't read any of mine.
Further comment would be superfluous.
THE WEAKEST LINK (POLITICAL SPECIAL)
Ming, why Chris?
He has attracted a bunch of supporters determined to undermine my leadership.
Chris, why Ming?
How can anyone take seriously a man who pronounces his name like a Chinese dynasty? Anyway, it's my turn.
Nick, why Ming?
Well, he's old enough to have founded a Chinese dynasty. He's had his time. The party needs a new image.
So this is not just the back-stabbing treachery of a colourless bunch of juniors?
No...no...no...
Ming, you are the weakest link. Goodbye.
DEBORAH KERR.
The actress Deborah Kerr died on the 16th October aged 86. She was the most (six times) nominated film star never to actually win an Oscar. In her seventies she received an honorary Oscar, a just reward for a beautiful, talented leading lady who over the years carried many, often less deserving, co-stars to glory.
I wonder whether she minded always being remembered for From Here To Eternity?
Surely not.
She was wonderful in it.
WHAT A SILLY PROFESSOR.
Professor James Watson, a 79-year-old geneticist and Nobel Prize winner, has caused one helluva furore with his much publicized view that black people are less intelligent than their white counterparts.
What a silly professor he is.
I wouldn't care if he had found incontrovertible proof of his theory, his silliness lies in the shouting of it from the roof tops.
The grievance brigade, nooses in hand, have rushed to the attack of course.
Better him than me.
That having been said, I feel I should still defend our (fast diminishing) right to free speech.
But then I am too old and cynical to be much influenced by anyone's scientific, religious, or political opinion.
I long ago realized that had I been born with half the brains and talent of a Paul Robeson or a Lord Leary Constantine I would have made far more of my life.
And no redneck in America or snotty little London hotel manager would have objected to my colour.
Well they don't when you're white.
SPORT.
The cat Shadow came into the kitchen and, by way of making conversation, I said: "Haven't heard much from you lately."
He gave me a questioning look.
"Well you generally have some comment on the sport," I added. "But we've had the England soccer and rugger games and Lewis Hamilton's Formula One championship bid and you haven't said a thing."
He turned about and exited, cat flap, kitchen door.
"Know what you mean," I shouted as the flap swung shut behind him.
At a slow time for news - and I include the resignation of Sir Menzies Campbell - Martin Amis managed to get himself named and pictured on the front page of The Independent simply by pissing off Yasmin Alibhai - Brown. (Surely not a recommended course of action for any but the most supremely arrogant man.) I would as soon seek serious trouble with my Leader.
Mr. Amis had allegedly made remarks of a Muslim baiting/hating nature which were seized upon by Ms. Alibhai-Brown - who can be quite touchy where such matters are concerned - and she roasted him in her newspaper column.
His reply, in which he blamed Professor Terry Eagleton, a Manchester University colleague, for misrepresenting his views, ("The anti-Muslim measures he says I 'advocated' I merely adumbrated..." Christ!) proclaimed his innocence in a weirdly conciliatory and condescending letter which became the biggest news in The Independent on a slow Friday.
Anyway, since both Ms. Alibhai - Brown and Mr. Amis are featured in Wikipedia, where their differences are mentioned, I will remark only that Yasmin A - B, for all her tendency to professional indignation, remains high on my list of respected people and that I have read none of Martin Amis's work because - to paraphrase Spike Milligan - he wouldn't read any of mine.
Further comment would be superfluous.
THE WEAKEST LINK (POLITICAL SPECIAL)
Ming, why Chris?
He has attracted a bunch of supporters determined to undermine my leadership.
Chris, why Ming?
How can anyone take seriously a man who pronounces his name like a Chinese dynasty? Anyway, it's my turn.
Nick, why Ming?
Well, he's old enough to have founded a Chinese dynasty. He's had his time. The party needs a new image.
So this is not just the back-stabbing treachery of a colourless bunch of juniors?
No...no...no...
Ming, you are the weakest link. Goodbye.
DEBORAH KERR.
The actress Deborah Kerr died on the 16th October aged 86. She was the most (six times) nominated film star never to actually win an Oscar. In her seventies she received an honorary Oscar, a just reward for a beautiful, talented leading lady who over the years carried many, often less deserving, co-stars to glory.
I wonder whether she minded always being remembered for From Here To Eternity?
Surely not.
She was wonderful in it.
WHAT A SILLY PROFESSOR.
Professor James Watson, a 79-year-old geneticist and Nobel Prize winner, has caused one helluva furore with his much publicized view that black people are less intelligent than their white counterparts.
What a silly professor he is.
I wouldn't care if he had found incontrovertible proof of his theory, his silliness lies in the shouting of it from the roof tops.
The grievance brigade, nooses in hand, have rushed to the attack of course.
Better him than me.
That having been said, I feel I should still defend our (fast diminishing) right to free speech.
But then I am too old and cynical to be much influenced by anyone's scientific, religious, or political opinion.
I long ago realized that had I been born with half the brains and talent of a Paul Robeson or a Lord Leary Constantine I would have made far more of my life.
And no redneck in America or snotty little London hotel manager would have objected to my colour.
Well they don't when you're white.
SPORT.
The cat Shadow came into the kitchen and, by way of making conversation, I said: "Haven't heard much from you lately."
He gave me a questioning look.
"Well you generally have some comment on the sport," I added. "But we've had the England soccer and rugger games and Lewis Hamilton's Formula One championship bid and you haven't said a thing."
He turned about and exited, cat flap, kitchen door.
"Know what you mean," I shouted as the flap swung shut behind him.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
88. A burglar, an actor, two losses and a win.
A BIT OF A SHOCK.
One evening a week or so back we were sitting at ease in our living room when there was an almighty crash at the back of the house.
"What the hell was that?" I wondered as I headed for the kitchen.
When I found out it was a bit of a shock.
In the sideway leading from the back door of the garage to the courtyard I made out a (probably teenage) figure.
He registered my appearance at the same moment I saw him and he turned tail.
We keep the kitchen door locked so by the time I had recovered the key and made my way outside he was well gone. The garage light was on and he had kicked open its locked back door, smashing the rimlock in the process. That had been the cause of the almighty crash. The actual garage door (electric) had been prised halfway up and dislodged from its runner on the mechanism side.
The road beyond was empty. It runs alongside our terrace and there are no houses opposite, just a church wall.
My language stripped leaves off the trees in the churchyard.
I have never been much of a tough guy but had I been a few years younger and got my hands on him he'd have received a bloody good thumping.
Would have done no good, though. I'd have been charged with assault and the thieving little bastard would have got away with a caution.
Oh. we gave statements to a very decent young policeman and I guess that will be the end of it.
Anyway, you can't really cure thieves.
Back when I was an army boy a thief was caught in the act by his room-mates. They summarily stamped on his hands. Months later he was discovered to be stealing from the NAAFI shop and was discharged from the service. When his kit was checked and packed it was found to contain items of equipment belonging to just about every other boy in his barrack room.
No, you can't cure them.
But sometimes, awfully, I think the Arabs had the right idea.
AN ACTOR'S (BETWEEN DRAGS) VIEWPOINT.
According to the 29 September - 5 October edition of my ultimate digital TV and radio guide, Ken Stott, who plays Detective Inspector John Rebus, has decided that four months of dead bodies at a time has become too harrowing. It seems he may do something along the lines of a two-hour Rebus The Opera, Rebus On Ice or Rebus Christmas Special (my definitions, not his) in the future, but doubts he will do another series.
All this was conveyed between breaks taken for a quick drag at a cigarette.
Asked whether a role in a Harry Potter film would be of interest to him he made it very clear that it would not. It seems his viewpoint is that the Potter books are overrated and that if we are going to encourage children to read books it should be to read Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials, not J.K.Rowling.
Oh dear.
Perhaps, when the Pullman stories are eventually filmed, he will be sought to join the cast of Northern Lights, The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass. (Probably given the title Dark Materials 1, 2 and 3 by some genius.) He would make a splendid Lord Asriel. But he should take care if the producers are the Disney organization. He could find himself spending an entire series with Goofy or Donald Duck as his daemon and that would do little for his dignity.
I mock lightly.
This is a man who can walk alone down an empty beach, stand looking out to sea, and keep your interest throughout the entire mundane manoeuvre.
This is an actor.
EGGHEADS (BBC2)
Recently their winning run ended and the Eggheads saw £75000 handed over to a team of Oxford undergraduates. Better that than handing it to a team of lawyers or politicians, I suppose.
Oh, the challengers had only two team members left at the end, but they chose to be asked the first batch of questions (there's a surprise), struggled with the fact, but eventually guessed, that Nicosia was further south than Valetta and (what a surprise!) the Eggheads were then posed a question regarding how many States in America still carry the death penalty...38, 18 or 8?
They guessed 8. They should have guessed 38. My guess is that fewer than five out of 303 million Americans would have had the slightest idea.
I have experienced a sensation of deja vu, too.
I started to believe these programmes to be repeats when, £3,000 after that big loss, a bunch from Preston appeared and, lo and behold, the Eggheads were beaten again. There was something much too familiar about it. That's the trouble with being a goggle box gazer, you are sometimes sure you have seen it all before. Could be imagination. Could be coincidence. Could just be that you have. Who cares?
But it really is time the format was changed.
And the presenter!
MATCH OF THE DAY LIVE: (BBC1)
(England v Estonia - 13th October 2007)
The cat Shadow had predicted 'the same sort of win as last time' and, airing the view that England was still only a first half team, had gone to sleep.
Fortunately we had a welcome and unexpected guest who not only knows her football but has the added bonus of a ready sense of humour.
Just before the end of the game, with Englad 3 - 0 in the lead, she remarked dryly: "I think they should give Man of the Match to that Estonian who scored the marvellous own goal."
Now that really is a guest worth welcoming.
One evening a week or so back we were sitting at ease in our living room when there was an almighty crash at the back of the house.
"What the hell was that?" I wondered as I headed for the kitchen.
When I found out it was a bit of a shock.
In the sideway leading from the back door of the garage to the courtyard I made out a (probably teenage) figure.
He registered my appearance at the same moment I saw him and he turned tail.
We keep the kitchen door locked so by the time I had recovered the key and made my way outside he was well gone. The garage light was on and he had kicked open its locked back door, smashing the rimlock in the process. That had been the cause of the almighty crash. The actual garage door (electric) had been prised halfway up and dislodged from its runner on the mechanism side.
The road beyond was empty. It runs alongside our terrace and there are no houses opposite, just a church wall.
My language stripped leaves off the trees in the churchyard.
I have never been much of a tough guy but had I been a few years younger and got my hands on him he'd have received a bloody good thumping.
Would have done no good, though. I'd have been charged with assault and the thieving little bastard would have got away with a caution.
Oh. we gave statements to a very decent young policeman and I guess that will be the end of it.
Anyway, you can't really cure thieves.
Back when I was an army boy a thief was caught in the act by his room-mates. They summarily stamped on his hands. Months later he was discovered to be stealing from the NAAFI shop and was discharged from the service. When his kit was checked and packed it was found to contain items of equipment belonging to just about every other boy in his barrack room.
No, you can't cure them.
But sometimes, awfully, I think the Arabs had the right idea.
AN ACTOR'S (BETWEEN DRAGS) VIEWPOINT.
According to the 29 September - 5 October edition of my ultimate digital TV and radio guide, Ken Stott, who plays Detective Inspector John Rebus, has decided that four months of dead bodies at a time has become too harrowing. It seems he may do something along the lines of a two-hour Rebus The Opera, Rebus On Ice or Rebus Christmas Special (my definitions, not his) in the future, but doubts he will do another series.
All this was conveyed between breaks taken for a quick drag at a cigarette.
Asked whether a role in a Harry Potter film would be of interest to him he made it very clear that it would not. It seems his viewpoint is that the Potter books are overrated and that if we are going to encourage children to read books it should be to read Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials, not J.K.Rowling.
Oh dear.
Perhaps, when the Pullman stories are eventually filmed, he will be sought to join the cast of Northern Lights, The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass. (Probably given the title Dark Materials 1, 2 and 3 by some genius.) He would make a splendid Lord Asriel. But he should take care if the producers are the Disney organization. He could find himself spending an entire series with Goofy or Donald Duck as his daemon and that would do little for his dignity.
I mock lightly.
This is a man who can walk alone down an empty beach, stand looking out to sea, and keep your interest throughout the entire mundane manoeuvre.
This is an actor.
EGGHEADS (BBC2)
Recently their winning run ended and the Eggheads saw £75000 handed over to a team of Oxford undergraduates. Better that than handing it to a team of lawyers or politicians, I suppose.
Oh, the challengers had only two team members left at the end, but they chose to be asked the first batch of questions (there's a surprise), struggled with the fact, but eventually guessed, that Nicosia was further south than Valetta and (what a surprise!) the Eggheads were then posed a question regarding how many States in America still carry the death penalty...38, 18 or 8?
They guessed 8. They should have guessed 38. My guess is that fewer than five out of 303 million Americans would have had the slightest idea.
I have experienced a sensation of deja vu, too.
I started to believe these programmes to be repeats when, £3,000 after that big loss, a bunch from Preston appeared and, lo and behold, the Eggheads were beaten again. There was something much too familiar about it. That's the trouble with being a goggle box gazer, you are sometimes sure you have seen it all before. Could be imagination. Could be coincidence. Could just be that you have. Who cares?
But it really is time the format was changed.
And the presenter!
MATCH OF THE DAY LIVE: (BBC1)
(England v Estonia - 13th October 2007)
The cat Shadow had predicted 'the same sort of win as last time' and, airing the view that England was still only a first half team, had gone to sleep.
Fortunately we had a welcome and unexpected guest who not only knows her football but has the added bonus of a ready sense of humour.
Just before the end of the game, with Englad 3 - 0 in the lead, she remarked dryly: "I think they should give Man of the Match to that Estonian who scored the marvellous own goal."
Now that really is a guest worth welcoming.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
87. Blogs will become spiritual fish and chip paper
GILES'S PREDICTION.
On the rare occasion that I am in masochistic mood I visit the website of Giles Turnbull and linger long enough to be reminded how little I know about this computer lark.
Mr. Turnbull, who is also a husband, dad, freelance writer, singer and photographer, clearly knows a very great deal about computers. I despair. I have been driving a car for fifty years without knowing anything other than how to top up the windscreen washer water and shove some air into the tyres. If I turn the ignition key and it fails to start I curse and ring for help. It is unlikely that I will ever understand the computer.
What's more, I too am a husband, a dad, still have an old Box Brownie somewhere and nowadays have a singing voice about which the late Henry Root might have said: "He's no Michael Buble but he is bad."
None of which does anything to lift my depression when the knowledgeable Mr.T predicts, as he has recently, that in less time than it took to start a run on Northern Rock, all our blog stuff will be erased.
Sadly I had rather looked forward (when bucket kicking time arrives) to soaring through the ether and being hailed by a friendly shout of "Hi, Barney," (the army nickname) "been reading your blogstuff...there's a posse of politicians hell bent on keeping you out of their heaven!" and shouting back: "Thanks, mate, I've been relying on it."
But now it is not to be. The blogstuff will have disappeared like a forgotten celebrity. Someone in the ether will have wrapped their spiritual fish and chips in it.
I have Giles Turnbull's educated opinion and I'll bet he's right.
Ah well, I still drive the car when the engine sparks into life so I might as well still thump the computer keys when I have been welcomed to XP.
The results won't last forever, but nothing does.
And I will continue to visit http://gilest.org/. (surreptitiously) until the Blog Ed's blue pencil or intransigent time puts an end to it.
What?
Oh, I shall read the non technical stuff and look at the pictures.
I'm good at that.
DEPARTURE OF THE PORTUGUESE IN THE POSH OVERCOAT.
On the day that The Pensioner's manager departed I called to the cat Shadow: "Jose Mourinho has left Chelsea! It's been on the news!"
"Well that's no surprise," he said. "Word was out on the roof weeks back."
"Really? Saying what?" I asked.
"Saying that the Portuguese in the posh overcoat had taken to the track suit. 'He's on his way out,' they said."
"Because he'd taken to the track suit?" I jeered. "You're having a laugh."
"Change of image, change of team," he intoned sententiously.
I shook my head. "Come and have some breakfast," I spluttered.
Well, what can you say?
AGATHA CHRISTIE'S MARPLE. (ITV1 Sunday 23rd September)
This time it was At Bertram's Hotel, probably Agatha Christie's most nonsensical whodunnit (discounting anything to do with the ludicrous duo Tommy and Tuppence) and proof that even a very famous mystery writer should have avoided incorporating an institution like Brown's - which I believe was her favourite hotel and the model for Bertram's - into a story without making sure the plot was equal to the location.
Geraldine McEwan's Miss Marple was again completely different from the late Joan Hickson's definitive portrayal. I think the author would have liked Ms. McEwan little more than she liked Margaret Rutherford in the role, but I like her whoever she's playing.
Martine McCutcheon was fine as her volunteer assistant.
Francesca Annis, Peter Davison and the remainder of a hard working cast struggled gamely to make sense of it all and very nearly succeeded.
DOC MARTIN. (ITV1 Monday 24th September)
Martin Clunes is back as the Cornish village GP Martin Ellingham who is sickened by the sight of blood. This is Sunday night fare held over for a day. Daft storylines are rescued by the leading actors (see Monarch of the Glen, Heartbeat, The Royal etc.) and it makes perfect viewing for someone doing the quick crossword.
I like the fact that among the quaint characters, unbelievable love interests and barmpot story lines, Martin Clunes's former hospital consultant rings true if only for his pomposity and rudeness.
As an old boss of mine once said: "The most unbearable GPs are the failed consultants."
He was right, y'know.
WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE? NURSES SPECIAL.
(ITV1 Tuesday 25th September)
There was a large and sympathetic studio audience, doubtless a large and sympathetic viewing public and Chris Tarrant sucking in air through his teeth with a loud hissing noise. None of it helped much. Nerves clearly took over. One nurse won £20,000, two won £10,000 and, if general knowledge was anything to go by, your life was anything but safe in their hands.
Perhaps they were put off by ol' Tarrant's hissing, perhaps it was the sudden realization that they were frighteningly vulnerable away from the security of their hospital specialism, but one of them even had to check with the audience that a contusion was a bruise.
Never mind, they all took the money at the right time.
Hurray for that!
On the rare occasion that I am in masochistic mood I visit the website of Giles Turnbull and linger long enough to be reminded how little I know about this computer lark.
Mr. Turnbull, who is also a husband, dad, freelance writer, singer and photographer, clearly knows a very great deal about computers. I despair. I have been driving a car for fifty years without knowing anything other than how to top up the windscreen washer water and shove some air into the tyres. If I turn the ignition key and it fails to start I curse and ring for help. It is unlikely that I will ever understand the computer.
What's more, I too am a husband, a dad, still have an old Box Brownie somewhere and nowadays have a singing voice about which the late Henry Root might have said: "He's no Michael Buble but he is bad."
None of which does anything to lift my depression when the knowledgeable Mr.T predicts, as he has recently, that in less time than it took to start a run on Northern Rock, all our blog stuff will be erased.
Sadly I had rather looked forward (when bucket kicking time arrives) to soaring through the ether and being hailed by a friendly shout of "Hi, Barney," (the army nickname) "been reading your blogstuff...there's a posse of politicians hell bent on keeping you out of their heaven!" and shouting back: "Thanks, mate, I've been relying on it."
But now it is not to be. The blogstuff will have disappeared like a forgotten celebrity. Someone in the ether will have wrapped their spiritual fish and chips in it.
I have Giles Turnbull's educated opinion and I'll bet he's right.
Ah well, I still drive the car when the engine sparks into life so I might as well still thump the computer keys when I have been welcomed to XP.
The results won't last forever, but nothing does.
And I will continue to visit http://gilest.org/. (surreptitiously) until the Blog Ed's blue pencil or intransigent time puts an end to it.
What?
Oh, I shall read the non technical stuff and look at the pictures.
I'm good at that.
DEPARTURE OF THE PORTUGUESE IN THE POSH OVERCOAT.
On the day that The Pensioner's manager departed I called to the cat Shadow: "Jose Mourinho has left Chelsea! It's been on the news!"
"Well that's no surprise," he said. "Word was out on the roof weeks back."
"Really? Saying what?" I asked.
"Saying that the Portuguese in the posh overcoat had taken to the track suit. 'He's on his way out,' they said."
"Because he'd taken to the track suit?" I jeered. "You're having a laugh."
"Change of image, change of team," he intoned sententiously.
I shook my head. "Come and have some breakfast," I spluttered.
Well, what can you say?
AGATHA CHRISTIE'S MARPLE. (ITV1 Sunday 23rd September)
This time it was At Bertram's Hotel, probably Agatha Christie's most nonsensical whodunnit (discounting anything to do with the ludicrous duo Tommy and Tuppence) and proof that even a very famous mystery writer should have avoided incorporating an institution like Brown's - which I believe was her favourite hotel and the model for Bertram's - into a story without making sure the plot was equal to the location.
Geraldine McEwan's Miss Marple was again completely different from the late Joan Hickson's definitive portrayal. I think the author would have liked Ms. McEwan little more than she liked Margaret Rutherford in the role, but I like her whoever she's playing.
Martine McCutcheon was fine as her volunteer assistant.
Francesca Annis, Peter Davison and the remainder of a hard working cast struggled gamely to make sense of it all and very nearly succeeded.
DOC MARTIN. (ITV1 Monday 24th September)
Martin Clunes is back as the Cornish village GP Martin Ellingham who is sickened by the sight of blood. This is Sunday night fare held over for a day. Daft storylines are rescued by the leading actors (see Monarch of the Glen, Heartbeat, The Royal etc.) and it makes perfect viewing for someone doing the quick crossword.
I like the fact that among the quaint characters, unbelievable love interests and barmpot story lines, Martin Clunes's former hospital consultant rings true if only for his pomposity and rudeness.
As an old boss of mine once said: "The most unbearable GPs are the failed consultants."
He was right, y'know.
WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE? NURSES SPECIAL.
(ITV1 Tuesday 25th September)
There was a large and sympathetic studio audience, doubtless a large and sympathetic viewing public and Chris Tarrant sucking in air through his teeth with a loud hissing noise. None of it helped much. Nerves clearly took over. One nurse won £20,000, two won £10,000 and, if general knowledge was anything to go by, your life was anything but safe in their hands.
Perhaps they were put off by ol' Tarrant's hissing, perhaps it was the sudden realization that they were frighteningly vulnerable away from the security of their hospital specialism, but one of them even had to check with the audience that a contusion was a bruise.
Never mind, they all took the money at the right time.
Hurray for that!
Sunday, September 16, 2007
86. One niggling little thing after another
HAVE BEEN NIGGLED BY....
I know I promised otherwise, but it is hard to resist having an occasional niggle when you really are a grumpy old git. Anyway, I'm fed up with midde-aged comics trotting out grumpy old people twaddle on television. Comedians on the box should be funny. If they can't be funny they should keep their traps shut. That's my first niggle sorted.
My second niggle is with the way jargon spouters mess up the English language. I remember the first time I heard the phrase 'at this moment in time.' It was at a meeting of yet another committee of self-important meddlers.
"Do you mean now?" I asked the speaker.
The disapproving look I received suggested I had been caught robbing the offertory.
I became well accustomed to that look over the following years as I dared to question such gems as: 'At grass roots level' ("Are we talking underground here?") 'Madam Chairman' ("Would that be a female male or a male female?") 'I am flying a flag in the direction of...' ("Since flags generally fly towards the rear do you mean you're talking out of your arse?")
Currently one of my pet dislikes is the word "Enjoy" used to round off a sales pitch. If somebody hopes you will enjoy a meal, or a particular experience, or a car, or any other bloody thing, why the hell don't they expand enough to say so? Truth to tell they don't give a toss. Their token "enjoy" means no more than does the token: "Have a nice day."
Niggle three:- Why are Graham Norton and Alan Titchmarsh chosen to present every other programme on television? Do they have hidden expertise in musical theatre, classical music etc. as well as a bit of a talent for listening to celebrity chatter and (in Titchy's case) remembering the Latin names of flowers? Do they have better agents than anybody else? Or is it just that they know where the bodies are buried?
Niggle four:- What twat convinced the directors/producers (whatever) of television competition programmes that the long...long...long...far too long pause between question and answer is 'good television?' It ain't. It's just a pain.
Latest sufferer is that pleasant chap Donny Osmond who hosts the programme Identity where, in a bid to win £10,000, contestants are required to guess the correct identity of a selection of participants chosen from a dozen possibilities.
When the contestant of the day has made a choice (e.g. Flatulence Sufferer From Farnborough), Donny points at the chosen participant and demands something along the lines of: "Number four! Flatulence Sufferer From Farnborough! Is that your identity?" There follows not only the long...long...long...far too long pause (during which the participant is allowed neither to say nor to indicate that the truth - let alone the wind - may be out), but then a silly suspense tune is incorporated to prolong the agony.
I just read my newspaper until Eggheads comes on. Then I get niggled with Dermot Murnaghan all over again.
And don't talk to me about on/off switches - you'll only get me niggled.
HAVE BEEN READING.
Wicked! by Jilly Cooper (Corgi 2007), a story about two schools, their pupils and their teachers. One of the schools is posh and the other is the sort of school I remember. The book is packed with inspired Jilly Cooper names, some new, some familiar to readers of her past fiction, many difficult to place without constant reference to her useful Cast Of Characters.
So is this another niggle?
Nope, this is Jilly Cooper.
This is a darned good read.
HAVE WATCHED.
Open Range, a western with Robert Duvall, Kevin Costner and Annette Bening. Great stuff in the mould of Lonesome Dove. My Leader and I enjoyed every moment. They even had Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore (Michael - now Sir Michael - Gambon) playing the Irish villain. Goes without saying, but I will say it anyway, the entire cast was excellent.
Dog Soldiers, a horror film set in Scotland, starred Sean Pertwee, Kevin McKidd, Liam Cunningham, Emma Cleasby and a strong supporting cast of squaddies and werewolves. Very British and very, very good.
HAVE BEEN PLEASED AT...
England's soccer performances agains Israel and Russia
"What do you think about it, then?" I asked the cat Shadow as he was leaving to beat the bounds. England were 3 - 0 in the lead against Russia.
"Pretty good," he said. "Now they only have to do the same in Moscow."
"Didn't have Becks, either," I said.
"I noticed," he said dryly. "Seem to remember giving you my opinion on that subject long ago."
"Oh, he'll be back," I said. "You can't leave the likes of him and Rooney out forever."
"Perhaps not. Let's just see how well they do when they meet Germany again," he said.
He can niggle me a bit sometimes.
He does it deliberately.
I know I promised otherwise, but it is hard to resist having an occasional niggle when you really are a grumpy old git. Anyway, I'm fed up with midde-aged comics trotting out grumpy old people twaddle on television. Comedians on the box should be funny. If they can't be funny they should keep their traps shut. That's my first niggle sorted.
My second niggle is with the way jargon spouters mess up the English language. I remember the first time I heard the phrase 'at this moment in time.' It was at a meeting of yet another committee of self-important meddlers.
"Do you mean now?" I asked the speaker.
The disapproving look I received suggested I had been caught robbing the offertory.
I became well accustomed to that look over the following years as I dared to question such gems as: 'At grass roots level' ("Are we talking underground here?") 'Madam Chairman' ("Would that be a female male or a male female?") 'I am flying a flag in the direction of...' ("Since flags generally fly towards the rear do you mean you're talking out of your arse?")
Currently one of my pet dislikes is the word "Enjoy" used to round off a sales pitch. If somebody hopes you will enjoy a meal, or a particular experience, or a car, or any other bloody thing, why the hell don't they expand enough to say so? Truth to tell they don't give a toss. Their token "enjoy" means no more than does the token: "Have a nice day."
Niggle three:- Why are Graham Norton and Alan Titchmarsh chosen to present every other programme on television? Do they have hidden expertise in musical theatre, classical music etc. as well as a bit of a talent for listening to celebrity chatter and (in Titchy's case) remembering the Latin names of flowers? Do they have better agents than anybody else? Or is it just that they know where the bodies are buried?
Niggle four:- What twat convinced the directors/producers (whatever) of television competition programmes that the long...long...long...far too long pause between question and answer is 'good television?' It ain't. It's just a pain.
Latest sufferer is that pleasant chap Donny Osmond who hosts the programme Identity where, in a bid to win £10,000, contestants are required to guess the correct identity of a selection of participants chosen from a dozen possibilities.
When the contestant of the day has made a choice (e.g. Flatulence Sufferer From Farnborough), Donny points at the chosen participant and demands something along the lines of: "Number four! Flatulence Sufferer From Farnborough! Is that your identity?" There follows not only the long...long...long...far too long pause (during which the participant is allowed neither to say nor to indicate that the truth - let alone the wind - may be out), but then a silly suspense tune is incorporated to prolong the agony.
I just read my newspaper until Eggheads comes on. Then I get niggled with Dermot Murnaghan all over again.
And don't talk to me about on/off switches - you'll only get me niggled.
HAVE BEEN READING.
Wicked! by Jilly Cooper (Corgi 2007), a story about two schools, their pupils and their teachers. One of the schools is posh and the other is the sort of school I remember. The book is packed with inspired Jilly Cooper names, some new, some familiar to readers of her past fiction, many difficult to place without constant reference to her useful Cast Of Characters.
So is this another niggle?
Nope, this is Jilly Cooper.
This is a darned good read.
HAVE WATCHED.
Open Range, a western with Robert Duvall, Kevin Costner and Annette Bening. Great stuff in the mould of Lonesome Dove. My Leader and I enjoyed every moment. They even had Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore (Michael - now Sir Michael - Gambon) playing the Irish villain. Goes without saying, but I will say it anyway, the entire cast was excellent.
Dog Soldiers, a horror film set in Scotland, starred Sean Pertwee, Kevin McKidd, Liam Cunningham, Emma Cleasby and a strong supporting cast of squaddies and werewolves. Very British and very, very good.
HAVE BEEN PLEASED AT...
England's soccer performances agains Israel and Russia
"What do you think about it, then?" I asked the cat Shadow as he was leaving to beat the bounds. England were 3 - 0 in the lead against Russia.
"Pretty good," he said. "Now they only have to do the same in Moscow."
"Didn't have Becks, either," I said.
"I noticed," he said dryly. "Seem to remember giving you my opinion on that subject long ago."
"Oh, he'll be back," I said. "You can't leave the likes of him and Rooney out forever."
"Perhaps not. Let's just see how well they do when they meet Germany again," he said.
He can niggle me a bit sometimes.
He does it deliberately.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
85. Mostly remembering George Woodman and Pavarotti
GEORGE WAS A VERY POSITIVE INFLUENCE.
The cat Shadow stretched languidly in my Leader's chair, secure in the knowledge that its customary occupant was visiting our solitary (and often unfairly maligned) hospital for an x-ray to make sure the persistent cough with which she has been plagued for several weeks holds no dire significance.
"Were you ever ambitious?" he asked.
"Yeah, I suppose so," I said, "but not for power. I never wanted to rule anybody and I have always opposed anybody who wants to rule me."
"What were your ambitions then?"
"Oh heck, there were loads of them - mostly daydreams - and they changed over the years."
"Go on," he coaxed.
"Well, when I was a kid I wanted to be a newspaper columnist like Cassandra of the Daily Mirror. That was after I got over wanting to be Johnny Mack Brown, the cowboy hero of Flaming Frontiers, or Wilson from The Truth About Wilson in the Wizard comic."
"What happened?"
"Oh, a wise uncle, bit of a negative influence, asked me if I could parse, or do shorthand, or even knew the parts of speech. I was twelve or thirteen and in a wartime elementary school. We were being groomed to be shop assistants, or to unplug sinks on sink estates or something equally useful. We knew there were nouns, verbs and adjectives and how to write 'Dear Sir' and 'Your obedient servant' on a job application form should we ever get to complete one. The wise uncle knew the score even before he asked the questions. He told me to forget a literary career."
"So you went into the army."
"From the age of fourteen until I was twenty six, yes."
"Any ambitions at that time?"
"To see my time out and to complete the correspondence course I'd started when I was about twenty four."
"You've not mentioned that before."
"No, well...it was never going to get me a qualification or a job, but it included a brush-up-your- English introduction from which I learned for the first time about those eight confounded parts of speech. It also acquainted me with the writer George Woodman who was my course tutor and a very positive influence. For a time George was the only Independent member of Whitstable Council. He had a lot of friends and I was fortunate enough to be included among them. We only ever met once, but our friendship by correspondence and the occasional phone call lasted right up until his death."
"Good writer?"
"Oh yes, his novel Taken At The Flood was published by Macmillan in 1957. Darned good yarn. I think it's out of print now, but I saw somewhere that We Remember Whitstable, written by George and his wife Greta and published by Pryor Publications, can still be obtained on the internet.
"So you just wanted to become a writer," he mused and with a glint of mischief in his eyes repeated: "What happened?"
I gave him a decidedly old-fashioned look. "I became a writer."
"I won't argue with that, mate," he said gently, "I don't know what I'd say without you."
AUTUMN LOOMS.
Suddenly it is September, two thirds of the way through the year and autumn looms. (Americans call it the fall, one of the few agreeable modifications they have made to our language.)
I dread it.
We have no trees in our tiny front garden or in the courtyard at the back, but the church along the way has loads of them and the school opposite is not short of them; a couple of gardens further down from our courtyard have them, too.
We find ourselves to be the solitary dead leaf depository for the entire neighbourhood.
So each year I get out and sweep and shovel and swear and, for the umpteenth time, point out to uninterested listeners that we have no trees.
"I do not care," I snarl, glaring in the direction of the church,"whether or not they are holy leaves; they are a ...king nuisance and if my drains get blocked I'll sue somebody."
Most of the time my drains do not get blocked and I don't think a lawyer would advise litigation, not even if they did and I knew who was responsible. However, by the time the last leaf has fallen I am quite prepared to repay what my solicitor would call "An act of God" by suing God.
Meantime, we drive out into the country - a stone's throw away - and admire the russets and browns and yellows and reds of the shrubs and trees in all their breath-taking autumnal majesty. We remark upon their beauty and give thanks for it. We say yet again that we must one day visit New England in the fall and know that we probably never will. And we return home gratefully aware there are billions of fallen leaves that did not come to rest in our garden. But don't tell me that when I'm sweeping the buggers up.
LUCIANO PAVAROTTI.
There will be so much written and said about this great tenor. I never had the good fortune to see him on stage but, thanks to television and film, everybody with any interest in singing knew the big man with the big voice, the big smile and the white handkerchief.
His death at 71 was sad but not unexpected.
His legacy will surely last forever
The cat Shadow stretched languidly in my Leader's chair, secure in the knowledge that its customary occupant was visiting our solitary (and often unfairly maligned) hospital for an x-ray to make sure the persistent cough with which she has been plagued for several weeks holds no dire significance.
"Were you ever ambitious?" he asked.
"Yeah, I suppose so," I said, "but not for power. I never wanted to rule anybody and I have always opposed anybody who wants to rule me."
"What were your ambitions then?"
"Oh heck, there were loads of them - mostly daydreams - and they changed over the years."
"Go on," he coaxed.
"Well, when I was a kid I wanted to be a newspaper columnist like Cassandra of the Daily Mirror. That was after I got over wanting to be Johnny Mack Brown, the cowboy hero of Flaming Frontiers, or Wilson from The Truth About Wilson in the Wizard comic."
"What happened?"
"Oh, a wise uncle, bit of a negative influence, asked me if I could parse, or do shorthand, or even knew the parts of speech. I was twelve or thirteen and in a wartime elementary school. We were being groomed to be shop assistants, or to unplug sinks on sink estates or something equally useful. We knew there were nouns, verbs and adjectives and how to write 'Dear Sir' and 'Your obedient servant' on a job application form should we ever get to complete one. The wise uncle knew the score even before he asked the questions. He told me to forget a literary career."
"So you went into the army."
"From the age of fourteen until I was twenty six, yes."
"Any ambitions at that time?"
"To see my time out and to complete the correspondence course I'd started when I was about twenty four."
"You've not mentioned that before."
"No, well...it was never going to get me a qualification or a job, but it included a brush-up-your- English introduction from which I learned for the first time about those eight confounded parts of speech. It also acquainted me with the writer George Woodman who was my course tutor and a very positive influence. For a time George was the only Independent member of Whitstable Council. He had a lot of friends and I was fortunate enough to be included among them. We only ever met once, but our friendship by correspondence and the occasional phone call lasted right up until his death."
"Good writer?"
"Oh yes, his novel Taken At The Flood was published by Macmillan in 1957. Darned good yarn. I think it's out of print now, but I saw somewhere that We Remember Whitstable, written by George and his wife Greta and published by Pryor Publications, can still be obtained on the internet.
"So you just wanted to become a writer," he mused and with a glint of mischief in his eyes repeated: "What happened?"
I gave him a decidedly old-fashioned look. "I became a writer."
"I won't argue with that, mate," he said gently, "I don't know what I'd say without you."
AUTUMN LOOMS.
Suddenly it is September, two thirds of the way through the year and autumn looms. (Americans call it the fall, one of the few agreeable modifications they have made to our language.)
I dread it.
We have no trees in our tiny front garden or in the courtyard at the back, but the church along the way has loads of them and the school opposite is not short of them; a couple of gardens further down from our courtyard have them, too.
We find ourselves to be the solitary dead leaf depository for the entire neighbourhood.
So each year I get out and sweep and shovel and swear and, for the umpteenth time, point out to uninterested listeners that we have no trees.
"I do not care," I snarl, glaring in the direction of the church,"whether or not they are holy leaves; they are a ...king nuisance and if my drains get blocked I'll sue somebody."
Most of the time my drains do not get blocked and I don't think a lawyer would advise litigation, not even if they did and I knew who was responsible. However, by the time the last leaf has fallen I am quite prepared to repay what my solicitor would call "An act of God" by suing God.
Meantime, we drive out into the country - a stone's throw away - and admire the russets and browns and yellows and reds of the shrubs and trees in all their breath-taking autumnal majesty. We remark upon their beauty and give thanks for it. We say yet again that we must one day visit New England in the fall and know that we probably never will. And we return home gratefully aware there are billions of fallen leaves that did not come to rest in our garden. But don't tell me that when I'm sweeping the buggers up.
LUCIANO PAVAROTTI.
There will be so much written and said about this great tenor. I never had the good fortune to see him on stage but, thanks to television and film, everybody with any interest in singing knew the big man with the big voice, the big smile and the white handkerchief.
His death at 71 was sad but not unexpected.
His legacy will surely last forever
Saturday, August 25, 2007
84. Back from abroad, untanned but refreshed.
ANNUAL OVERSEAS JAUNT SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED.
Yes, another annual jaunt has been successfully completed. My Leader and I and granddaughter Jess went abroad again.
Same exotic location as last year: Cornwall। Visited daughter-in-law Pauline and son Neil। Basked in their warm welcome, in the sublime scenery of The Lizard and in the joy of once more meeting our friends, Anne and Peter, who have almost reached the completion of their stunning new home at Mylor, Falmouth (above).
Yes, another annual jaunt has been successfully completed. My Leader and I and granddaughter Jess went abroad again.
Same exotic location as last year: Cornwall। Visited daughter-in-law Pauline and son Neil। Basked in their warm welcome, in the sublime scenery of The Lizard and in the joy of once more meeting our friends, Anne and Peter, who have almost reached the completion of their stunning new home at Mylor, Falmouth (above).
Pauline and Neil have not been idle, either. The building of their art studio is practically finished and will provide the perfect facility for Pauline to resume her pottery business and for Neil to continue with the painting and allied art work which has been his gift since early school days.
Our journeys to and fro were uneventful: the modified A30 is a joy.
We stopped at a Little Chef in Winterbourne Abbas, Dorchester, on the way down for a couple of all day breakfasts - masquerading as Early Starters - and a baked potato with cheese for Jess (her choice).
The staff were young and friendly and efficient. They provided a takeaway container for Jess's unfinished Fanta drink and we departed full of goodwill and unaccustomed fried bread.
On the way back the following week we stopped off at the Little Chef, Shute, Axminster, for drinks and were impressed not only by the concern to please of the young staff but by the impeccable cleanliness of the place. Current owners of Little Chef please note that a fresh coat of paint on the outside of the building and attention to doors in the Ladies from which the old locks have been removed to be replaced by bolts (my wife commented) is all that needs to be done to make this spotless establishment absolutely top grade.
We enjoyed the break and returned refreshed. The roads in and from Cornwall were pristine. Wightlink gently ferried us across to the Island where we ruefully reflected that had we been kidnapped and blindfolded we would instantly have known to where we had been taken: the roads here are a disgrace.
HOME AGAIN.
When we came across the courtyard from the garage we were amused to find the cat Shadow and his pal Manners waiting in the kitchen like a reception party. Manners departed right away. He still knows me as that man who used to ask: "Wotter-youdoin'ere?" in an unfriendly voice. My subsequent blandishments have been rejected. Quite right too.
Shadow ate a hearty meal (leaving just enough for Manners to see off later) and took root on my lap for the evening. He can't be having with all that indignant at being left business.
I switched on the computer the following day to find a load of e-mails including pleasant comment about the last blog stuff from John (Anonymous) A.
Thanks again, John, you're such a nice change from all the invitations to buy stuff!
MATCH OF THE DAY LIVE - ENGLAND v GERMANY (BBC1)
Twenty minutes before the end, with England trailing 1 - 2, the cat Shadow stood pointedly by the front door.
It was an unnecessary question but I had to ask it: "You want to go out...now?"
"Why not?" he said. "There'll be nothing more to see here."
"But England could still manage a draw," I ventured, unconvincingly.
"Not them. They couldn't score if all the Germans were sent off."
"It's a friendly, though. Steve McClaren's still trying people out."
"It's never a friendly against Germany," he said. "They come here for an unfriendly. And as for trying people out, there are probably less than half a dozen worthwhile English strikers in the entire Premiership. Two of them, Owen and Rooney, spend more time on the physio's table than they do on the field. Be real, man, the current England team is relying on midfielders to score goals. It prays that Becks will do something special. If he doesn't, it doesn't. Tonight he didn't."
"Well that all sounds positively negative," I said.
"Sad but true. We're very good losers. We'll get nowhere until we became very bad losers."
"You really are a rotten sport," I growled.
"That's right," he said. "But I usually win. Now kindly open the bloody door."
ROBBIE COLTRANE: B-ROAD BRITAIN (ITV1)
This is another of those "extract the urine from a celebrity" documentary series in which the powers behind a television programme put a well-known and probably unsuspecting public figure through a series of mostly pointless, frequently undignified and often personally frightening experiences. For what? Because they imagine it to be good television?
Robbie Coltrane (the giant Hagrid in the Harry Potter films if you are an immigrant from outer space) drives around the B-roads in a fifties open-topped Jaguar. He is a big man who seems to have some difficulty getting about once he leaves the car. He remains affable and professional, however, whatever nonsense he is called upon to attempt.
I think he has suffered this particular nonsense for long enough now. He should take the Director and the Producer to one side and fall on them.
MIDSOMER MURDERS (ITV1)
Yesterday I was reminded again of daughter Roz's assertion that she would not set up home within fifty miles of Cabot Cove or Midsomer.
Midsomer Murders was back with a repeat of a programme entitled The Straw Woman. It contained the usual helping of far-fetched killings, religious weirdos, village bigots, the slightly breathless Tom Barnaby, a slightly lovesick DS Scott, and Doc Bullard played by Barry Jackson. For good measure, Keith Barron was in it, too.
Daft but still watchable.
Our journeys to and fro were uneventful: the modified A30 is a joy.
We stopped at a Little Chef in Winterbourne Abbas, Dorchester, on the way down for a couple of all day breakfasts - masquerading as Early Starters - and a baked potato with cheese for Jess (her choice).
The staff were young and friendly and efficient. They provided a takeaway container for Jess's unfinished Fanta drink and we departed full of goodwill and unaccustomed fried bread.
On the way back the following week we stopped off at the Little Chef, Shute, Axminster, for drinks and were impressed not only by the concern to please of the young staff but by the impeccable cleanliness of the place. Current owners of Little Chef please note that a fresh coat of paint on the outside of the building and attention to doors in the Ladies from which the old locks have been removed to be replaced by bolts (my wife commented) is all that needs to be done to make this spotless establishment absolutely top grade.
We enjoyed the break and returned refreshed. The roads in and from Cornwall were pristine. Wightlink gently ferried us across to the Island where we ruefully reflected that had we been kidnapped and blindfolded we would instantly have known to where we had been taken: the roads here are a disgrace.
HOME AGAIN.
When we came across the courtyard from the garage we were amused to find the cat Shadow and his pal Manners waiting in the kitchen like a reception party. Manners departed right away. He still knows me as that man who used to ask: "Wotter-youdoin'ere?" in an unfriendly voice. My subsequent blandishments have been rejected. Quite right too.
Shadow ate a hearty meal (leaving just enough for Manners to see off later) and took root on my lap for the evening. He can't be having with all that indignant at being left business.
I switched on the computer the following day to find a load of e-mails including pleasant comment about the last blog stuff from John (Anonymous) A.
Thanks again, John, you're such a nice change from all the invitations to buy stuff!
MATCH OF THE DAY LIVE - ENGLAND v GERMANY (BBC1)
Twenty minutes before the end, with England trailing 1 - 2, the cat Shadow stood pointedly by the front door.
It was an unnecessary question but I had to ask it: "You want to go out...now?"
"Why not?" he said. "There'll be nothing more to see here."
"But England could still manage a draw," I ventured, unconvincingly.
"Not them. They couldn't score if all the Germans were sent off."
"It's a friendly, though. Steve McClaren's still trying people out."
"It's never a friendly against Germany," he said. "They come here for an unfriendly. And as for trying people out, there are probably less than half a dozen worthwhile English strikers in the entire Premiership. Two of them, Owen and Rooney, spend more time on the physio's table than they do on the field. Be real, man, the current England team is relying on midfielders to score goals. It prays that Becks will do something special. If he doesn't, it doesn't. Tonight he didn't."
"Well that all sounds positively negative," I said.
"Sad but true. We're very good losers. We'll get nowhere until we became very bad losers."
"You really are a rotten sport," I growled.
"That's right," he said. "But I usually win. Now kindly open the bloody door."
ROBBIE COLTRANE: B-ROAD BRITAIN (ITV1)
This is another of those "extract the urine from a celebrity" documentary series in which the powers behind a television programme put a well-known and probably unsuspecting public figure through a series of mostly pointless, frequently undignified and often personally frightening experiences. For what? Because they imagine it to be good television?
Robbie Coltrane (the giant Hagrid in the Harry Potter films if you are an immigrant from outer space) drives around the B-roads in a fifties open-topped Jaguar. He is a big man who seems to have some difficulty getting about once he leaves the car. He remains affable and professional, however, whatever nonsense he is called upon to attempt.
I think he has suffered this particular nonsense for long enough now. He should take the Director and the Producer to one side and fall on them.
MIDSOMER MURDERS (ITV1)
Yesterday I was reminded again of daughter Roz's assertion that she would not set up home within fifty miles of Cabot Cove or Midsomer.
Midsomer Murders was back with a repeat of a programme entitled The Straw Woman. It contained the usual helping of far-fetched killings, religious weirdos, village bigots, the slightly breathless Tom Barnaby, a slightly lovesick DS Scott, and Doc Bullard played by Barry Jackson. For good measure, Keith Barron was in it, too.
Daft but still watchable.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
83. The Usual Price of Fame
THINGS SHOULD LOOK UP AGAIN (EVEN IF I HAVE FINISHED THE LAST HARRY POTTER BOOK).
I know, just lately these posts have contained some irksome blogger niggles.
First there was my disillusionment with the NHS (not down to the majority of its staff who try like hell despite shadowy, frequently shitty, management); then there was my irritation at some of the blatantly uncharitable manoevres of an old established charity organization (well I do think they should know better) and finally there was my doubt that there exists such thing as a personhood of bloggers.
It reached the stage where our old friend John 'Anonymous' A. asked my leader: "Does he feel better now that he's got that lot off his chest?"
Oh dear.
Truth to tell, though, I do.
So things should look up again, even if I have finished the last Harry Potter book.
First thing I'll do is re-open the letters page to (preferably friendly) comment. Them as don't read me need not bother, nor need them as have decided not to like me (though they probably don't read me anyway).
A tiny Jess (aged about three) once said to my Leader (a pre 'Allo 'Allo Edith who had burst into song): "Stop it now."
They do get it right, don't they, kids...
I'll stop it now.
LAST WEEK IN VIEW.
Do you still buy a tele listings magazine? If you do, have you wondered why?
Last week my ultimate digital tv and radio guide informed me that on Thursday, 9th August, at 8 pm on BBC1, I could see the first of a new series of The Inspector Lynley Mysteries. Yes, "the much-loved detective drama" would be back.
Eager for a change from the usual diet of wheeler dealers, new home seekers, property developers, television cooks (chefs, huh!) and auctioneers, I was ten minutes into the new dim aristo Lynley and bright pleb Havers concoction before I realized I'd seen it all before. I looked at the Today's Choices page and found the series to be firmly unloved by the senior critic. Had the new stuff been dropped for that reason? Surely not. Were they worried about nine o'clock competition from Mock The Week? Well that's repeated on Fridays at 11.35 pm, so presumably not.
Big Brother was on at nine, too, but surely only the committed (or those who should be) watch that any more?
I retired baffled. Perhaps the infamous programme muddlers will trot out the new series next week and the ultimate digital tv and radio guide will list it as "brought over from last week."
Makes a bit of a farce out of keying those numbers into your video/DVD recorder though, doesn't it?
Never mind, earlier in the evening we had seen Top Wild Dives with Tanya Streeter. Ms. Streeter is the world champion freediver; a brave young woman who clearly loves the sea and most of the creatures it contains. She is also singularly graceful under water and very watchable. On Friday 10th we watched Ganges, River of Life, the second of a three part exploration. Fascinating stuff on BBC2.
On Saturday we saw Carry On Up The Khyber (Channel 4) for the umpteenth time and laughed aloud yet again at the wonderful dinner party where Peter Butterworth gives a master class in comic genius as a terrified missionary.
Later, on the same channel, we were all at sea again. Swimming With Sharks was the story of two divers who were swept away while exploring in the South Pacific off the Solomon Islands and found themselves undergoing a nightmare marathon swim in shark infested waters. It was a true story and, though told by the protagonists, kept you on edge for their well-being from start to finish.
If you add to the weekend Law & Order: Special Victims' Unit and Angela's Eyes (Saturday on Five) together with Vanished and Killer Instinct (Sunday), I reckon, all in all, you will have had reasonable square eyes entertainment..
What's more, football's with us again.
Last of the Summer Wine is back, too. Love it or hate it, it's got staying power. I love it, but I love anything written by the splendidly lugubrious Roy Clarke.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE FAMOUS?
"Would you..." demanded the cat Shadow suddenly, "like to be famous?"
I pondered. "Might have done when I was younger," I said eventually. "Not now unless it made me very rich."
"All those talented people you've seen over the years, though, they must have been famous."
"Some more than others, but most of them were, yes."
"So wouldn't you enjoy being instantly recognized and asked for your autograph and that?"
"Not really. When the sonwriters Betty Comden, Adolph Green and Julie Styne wrote Make Someone Happy they counselled ...Fame - if you win it/Comes and goes - in a minute...and they were right. It can be a very fleeting thing can fame."
"Bit like popularity?"
"Lot like popularity."
"I'm popular," he said immodestly. "On sunny days when I sit on the wall out front lots of people make a fuss of me."
"I know, I've seen them. Whole families: grannies, little children, the lot. It's very nice."
"If we'd lived in the right place I'd have been an actor," he said. "Then I'd have been really famous and on a roof in Coronation Street or something."
"I don't think soap stardom's all it's cracked up to be," I said. "Anyway, what do you know about Coronation Street? We never watch it."
"I see it at Manners's Manor sometimes," he said airily. "Mrs. Manners's Manor watches it all the time."
"No bloody wonder he's always round here," I said. "No, mate, you wouldn't want show business. You'd finish up being a manky old character part cat,"
"You can be very negative at your worst," he grumbled. "I think I'll go out."
"It's raining," I told him.
"Oh bugger," he said and I thought: how very Noel Coward.
He headed back to my Leader's vacant chair.
All he needed was the dressing gown and cigarette holder.
I know, just lately these posts have contained some irksome blogger niggles.
First there was my disillusionment with the NHS (not down to the majority of its staff who try like hell despite shadowy, frequently shitty, management); then there was my irritation at some of the blatantly uncharitable manoevres of an old established charity organization (well I do think they should know better) and finally there was my doubt that there exists such thing as a personhood of bloggers.
It reached the stage where our old friend John 'Anonymous' A. asked my leader: "Does he feel better now that he's got that lot off his chest?"
Oh dear.
Truth to tell, though, I do.
So things should look up again, even if I have finished the last Harry Potter book.
First thing I'll do is re-open the letters page to (preferably friendly) comment. Them as don't read me need not bother, nor need them as have decided not to like me (though they probably don't read me anyway).
A tiny Jess (aged about three) once said to my Leader (a pre 'Allo 'Allo Edith who had burst into song): "Stop it now."
They do get it right, don't they, kids...
I'll stop it now.
LAST WEEK IN VIEW.
Do you still buy a tele listings magazine? If you do, have you wondered why?
Last week my ultimate digital tv and radio guide informed me that on Thursday, 9th August, at 8 pm on BBC1, I could see the first of a new series of The Inspector Lynley Mysteries. Yes, "the much-loved detective drama" would be back.
Eager for a change from the usual diet of wheeler dealers, new home seekers, property developers, television cooks (chefs, huh!) and auctioneers, I was ten minutes into the new dim aristo Lynley and bright pleb Havers concoction before I realized I'd seen it all before. I looked at the Today's Choices page and found the series to be firmly unloved by the senior critic. Had the new stuff been dropped for that reason? Surely not. Were they worried about nine o'clock competition from Mock The Week? Well that's repeated on Fridays at 11.35 pm, so presumably not.
Big Brother was on at nine, too, but surely only the committed (or those who should be) watch that any more?
I retired baffled. Perhaps the infamous programme muddlers will trot out the new series next week and the ultimate digital tv and radio guide will list it as "brought over from last week."
Makes a bit of a farce out of keying those numbers into your video/DVD recorder though, doesn't it?
Never mind, earlier in the evening we had seen Top Wild Dives with Tanya Streeter. Ms. Streeter is the world champion freediver; a brave young woman who clearly loves the sea and most of the creatures it contains. She is also singularly graceful under water and very watchable. On Friday 10th we watched Ganges, River of Life, the second of a three part exploration. Fascinating stuff on BBC2.
On Saturday we saw Carry On Up The Khyber (Channel 4) for the umpteenth time and laughed aloud yet again at the wonderful dinner party where Peter Butterworth gives a master class in comic genius as a terrified missionary.
Later, on the same channel, we were all at sea again. Swimming With Sharks was the story of two divers who were swept away while exploring in the South Pacific off the Solomon Islands and found themselves undergoing a nightmare marathon swim in shark infested waters. It was a true story and, though told by the protagonists, kept you on edge for their well-being from start to finish.
If you add to the weekend Law & Order: Special Victims' Unit and Angela's Eyes (Saturday on Five) together with Vanished and Killer Instinct (Sunday), I reckon, all in all, you will have had reasonable square eyes entertainment..
What's more, football's with us again.
Last of the Summer Wine is back, too. Love it or hate it, it's got staying power. I love it, but I love anything written by the splendidly lugubrious Roy Clarke.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE FAMOUS?
"Would you..." demanded the cat Shadow suddenly, "like to be famous?"
I pondered. "Might have done when I was younger," I said eventually. "Not now unless it made me very rich."
"All those talented people you've seen over the years, though, they must have been famous."
"Some more than others, but most of them were, yes."
"So wouldn't you enjoy being instantly recognized and asked for your autograph and that?"
"Not really. When the sonwriters Betty Comden, Adolph Green and Julie Styne wrote Make Someone Happy they counselled ...Fame - if you win it/Comes and goes - in a minute...and they were right. It can be a very fleeting thing can fame."
"Bit like popularity?"
"Lot like popularity."
"I'm popular," he said immodestly. "On sunny days when I sit on the wall out front lots of people make a fuss of me."
"I know, I've seen them. Whole families: grannies, little children, the lot. It's very nice."
"If we'd lived in the right place I'd have been an actor," he said. "Then I'd have been really famous and on a roof in Coronation Street or something."
"I don't think soap stardom's all it's cracked up to be," I said. "Anyway, what do you know about Coronation Street? We never watch it."
"I see it at Manners's Manor sometimes," he said airily. "Mrs. Manners's Manor watches it all the time."
"No bloody wonder he's always round here," I said. "No, mate, you wouldn't want show business. You'd finish up being a manky old character part cat,"
"You can be very negative at your worst," he grumbled. "I think I'll go out."
"It's raining," I told him.
"Oh bugger," he said and I thought: how very Noel Coward.
He headed back to my Leader's vacant chair.
All he needed was the dressing gown and cigarette holder.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
82. Don't Rely on a Personhood of Bloggers
COMMENT IF YOU MUST - BUT EXPECT NOTHING.
I was talking to son Neil on the webcam last week and he expressed regret that my year of blogging seems to have attracted little by way of comment.
But, y'know, I am not sure that either the proffering or the receiving of comment is necessarily a welcome addition to anybody's blog. (See my post Not Everybody Will Like You.) The first thing to bear in mind is that there is no brotherhood/sisterhood/personhood (curse all that bloody P.C. stuff) that will guarantee a favourable response should you approach another blogger.
If, for example, your one hobby is patchwork quilting it is unlikely that you will find much in common with a football fanatic or a jazz fiend or a train spotter. If you don't know your website from your blogsite you are unlikely to obtain anything but instant deletion from a computer buff. If you are an old guy who plays all the Harry Potter PC games and reads J.K. Rowling you will probably be regarded as retarded by the younger blogger who plays chess and reads Marcus Aurelius.
From the little I have gleaned in the last year, bloggers are understandably suspicious of any encroachment upon their blog space. If a complete stranger crossed the road and sought to enter your life, that stranger would probably be advised to depart and multiply; so why should you react differently to an unexpected arrival at your blogsite?
Bloggers see most unsolicited approaches as attempts to gain oblique advertising.
And even if you appear to have everything in common with one of them, don't be fooled.
Bloggers are writers - well, some of 'em are - and you should never judge a writer by his writing. Some very accomplished writers have been far from likeable human beings (think of Somerset Maugham, Evelyn Waugh and Randolph Churchill for a start), so I would neither expect, nor necessarily give, a hail-fellow-well-met response to blog comment, no matter how well meaning. That having been said, I have made the mistake once or twice.
But I constantly bear in mind the words of the playwright John Eliot in his book MOGUL, The Making Of A Myth (1970). "Writers...live in shells, sucking nourishment from the world and only giving out squirts of ink. They brood. They harbour grievances. They are subject to fits of depression; and are tortuous and difficult to know. They are cast down by criticism and elated by praise, but secretly, and it goes into their work."
After one of the films in which he appeared it was remarked of the actor Charles Laughton that he stood around the edge of the set waiting to be offended.
In my experience, quite a lot of writers are like that, too.
I don't intend to be one of them.
Can't speak for you.
A CERTAIN AGE.
On the 26th July it was our daughter Jac's birthday. On the 31st July J.K.Rowling reached the same age. According to Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, each of them on that particular day became The Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything.
Jac is a teacher at a primary school and Jo is an internationally famous author. I think Mr. Adams was right on both counts.
Oh, neither of them looks anything like their age, either, but I won't say so for fear of being labelled smarmy.
THERE ARE FEW THINGS MORE CERTAIN.
In this life there are few certainties.
I can think of but three:
If you have gone up to the attic there will be a knock at the front door.
If you are using the lavatory the phone will ring and
If you have finally broken your links with your car insurers...
It was obvious that I was not going to receive my No Claims Bonus details from Age Concern's motor insurance people once I had told them I had found another insurer. I sent a SAE with the request which they returned with a note telling me in so many words that they'd deal with the matter when they got around to it. My letter to them went on 24th June, my new insurance started on 6th July. It is now August 5th.
Not so much as a kiss my...
Am I surprised? No.
I'm sure I'll manage without them.
MORE SPORTING WORDS WITH THE CAT.
"That was a helluva result for England, 62 - 5 against Wales at Twickenham," I said to the cat Shadow.
He was in dozing mode on my lap.
"I think you'll find it was the Welsh second team," he said. "But yeah, it was a helluva result."
"Good to see names like Lawrence Dallaglio and Jonny Wilkinson back in the England side, too."
"Be better still when you feel they can win without names like Dallaglio and Wilkinson in the side," he said.
"Did you go round to one of your mates to watch it on Sky?" I asked
"Na-a-ah. I stayed here for the Women's British Open at St. Andrews. I sleep much sounder with the golf. Mexican girl, Lorena Ochoa was in the lead when I dropped off. She was looking good." He grinned his cat grin. "Playing well, too."
"A lot of them look good now," I said. "I think the days of statuesque golfers like Dame Joan Hammond are long gone."
"Didn't you once say she was a singer?"
"Yeah, she was. Healthiest looking Mimi I ever saw on stage."
"Good was she?"
"Bloody marvellous. Her One Fine Day from Madame Butterfly could last me all week."
"Can't see any of today's bunch being that versatile," he said. "You've seen some remarkably talented people over the years, haven't you?"
I have indeed. He didn't need a reply.
I sighed contentedly and he went back to sleep.
I was talking to son Neil on the webcam last week and he expressed regret that my year of blogging seems to have attracted little by way of comment.
But, y'know, I am not sure that either the proffering or the receiving of comment is necessarily a welcome addition to anybody's blog. (See my post Not Everybody Will Like You.) The first thing to bear in mind is that there is no brotherhood/sisterhood/personhood (curse all that bloody P.C. stuff) that will guarantee a favourable response should you approach another blogger.
If, for example, your one hobby is patchwork quilting it is unlikely that you will find much in common with a football fanatic or a jazz fiend or a train spotter. If you don't know your website from your blogsite you are unlikely to obtain anything but instant deletion from a computer buff. If you are an old guy who plays all the Harry Potter PC games and reads J.K. Rowling you will probably be regarded as retarded by the younger blogger who plays chess and reads Marcus Aurelius.
From the little I have gleaned in the last year, bloggers are understandably suspicious of any encroachment upon their blog space. If a complete stranger crossed the road and sought to enter your life, that stranger would probably be advised to depart and multiply; so why should you react differently to an unexpected arrival at your blogsite?
Bloggers see most unsolicited approaches as attempts to gain oblique advertising.
And even if you appear to have everything in common with one of them, don't be fooled.
Bloggers are writers - well, some of 'em are - and you should never judge a writer by his writing. Some very accomplished writers have been far from likeable human beings (think of Somerset Maugham, Evelyn Waugh and Randolph Churchill for a start), so I would neither expect, nor necessarily give, a hail-fellow-well-met response to blog comment, no matter how well meaning. That having been said, I have made the mistake once or twice.
But I constantly bear in mind the words of the playwright John Eliot in his book MOGUL, The Making Of A Myth (1970). "Writers...live in shells, sucking nourishment from the world and only giving out squirts of ink. They brood. They harbour grievances. They are subject to fits of depression; and are tortuous and difficult to know. They are cast down by criticism and elated by praise, but secretly, and it goes into their work."
After one of the films in which he appeared it was remarked of the actor Charles Laughton that he stood around the edge of the set waiting to be offended.
In my experience, quite a lot of writers are like that, too.
I don't intend to be one of them.
Can't speak for you.
A CERTAIN AGE.
On the 26th July it was our daughter Jac's birthday. On the 31st July J.K.Rowling reached the same age. According to Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, each of them on that particular day became The Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything.
Jac is a teacher at a primary school and Jo is an internationally famous author. I think Mr. Adams was right on both counts.
Oh, neither of them looks anything like their age, either, but I won't say so for fear of being labelled smarmy.
THERE ARE FEW THINGS MORE CERTAIN.
In this life there are few certainties.
I can think of but three:
If you have gone up to the attic there will be a knock at the front door.
If you are using the lavatory the phone will ring and
If you have finally broken your links with your car insurers...
It was obvious that I was not going to receive my No Claims Bonus details from Age Concern's motor insurance people once I had told them I had found another insurer. I sent a SAE with the request which they returned with a note telling me in so many words that they'd deal with the matter when they got around to it. My letter to them went on 24th June, my new insurance started on 6th July. It is now August 5th.
Not so much as a kiss my...
Am I surprised? No.
I'm sure I'll manage without them.
MORE SPORTING WORDS WITH THE CAT.
"That was a helluva result for England, 62 - 5 against Wales at Twickenham," I said to the cat Shadow.
He was in dozing mode on my lap.
"I think you'll find it was the Welsh second team," he said. "But yeah, it was a helluva result."
"Good to see names like Lawrence Dallaglio and Jonny Wilkinson back in the England side, too."
"Be better still when you feel they can win without names like Dallaglio and Wilkinson in the side," he said.
"Did you go round to one of your mates to watch it on Sky?" I asked
"Na-a-ah. I stayed here for the Women's British Open at St. Andrews. I sleep much sounder with the golf. Mexican girl, Lorena Ochoa was in the lead when I dropped off. She was looking good." He grinned his cat grin. "Playing well, too."
"A lot of them look good now," I said. "I think the days of statuesque golfers like Dame Joan Hammond are long gone."
"Didn't you once say she was a singer?"
"Yeah, she was. Healthiest looking Mimi I ever saw on stage."
"Good was she?"
"Bloody marvellous. Her One Fine Day from Madame Butterfly could last me all week."
"Can't see any of today's bunch being that versatile," he said. "You've seen some remarkably talented people over the years, haven't you?"
I have indeed. He didn't need a reply.
I sighed contentedly and he went back to sleep.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
81. A bit of a C.V.
THINGS NOT TO DO IN RETIREMENT.
At the end of March 1989, faced with yet another unnecessary change in the structure of the National Health Service, I retired. I was fifty eight and had been in the business for thirty two years. I was glad to see the back of it.
Since 1974 there had been several pointless major changes, clearly politically motivated and obviously designed to give bigger empires to ambitious little creeps in the civil service. None of the changes had ever benefited the patient.
The NHS was a mess and still is.
As soon as politicians sense the political gain to be made from mindlessly meddling with a public service you can be sure they will turn it into an administrative nightmare. Currently the NHS is controlled by bunches of faceless, unelected yes-persons called Trusts. I wouldn't trust any of them to control off-peak traffic in a remote village.
Anyway, there was I, retired and still young enough to do something other than go out and sit on a park bench or stay in and watch television.
"Lots of retired blokes play golf," I said to my Leader. "Perhaps I should learn to play golf."
She dismissed the notion instantly.
"I don't think so. You would very soon find that you were not going to become another Faldo or Ballesteros. You'd be in a permanently bad temper and your blood pressure would suffer."
I knew she was right. Always erratic at games, I've never been much of an outdoor type.
I needed an indoor hobby.
"How about the piano then? I had a couple of lessons when I was little. I can still play Drink To Me Only with both hands."
"But you'd never get to play Rachmaninov 2 like John Ogden or the Grieg like Philip Fowke. Think how frustrating that would be for you."
I sighed: I knew she was right.
"Why not try art classes or something?" she prompted. "Or maybe get a little part-time job."
So I obtained - worked at for three years, then took my second and final retirement from - a little part time job.
The job was with Age Concern, a registered charity.
CHARITY IS A SHREWD BUSINESS.
One of the first things you have to understand as an employee new to a national charity is that you are not working for a benign benefactor you are working for a shrewd business.
Charities have honed their collecting techniques over the years and there are now few lucrative avenues left for them to explore. They have become landlords, shopkeepers and insurance brokers. Their manipulation of self-serving politicians is experienced and clever. The vast office blocks from which most of them operate and the plethora of high street charity shops and local administrative offices under their control are not subject to normal business council tax.
They appeal to the well-meaning and are an irresistable draw to publicity conscious celebrities.
I was the district organizer (known here as The Secretary) of Age Concern, Isle of Wight. I worked weekday mornings, was on a small honorarium which barely covered my travel to and from the office, parking and the telephone calls which I frequently made from home in the afternoon. But I was happy enough.
As time went by I came to meet district organizers from across the water; a bloke from Hampshire who I soon learned not to take at face value - either of them - and a nice chap in Portsmouth who had once been a Catholic Monsignor or something and had abandoned his calling to get married. I liked him. I found that they (and hundreds more like them within the organization) were full-timers on very decent salaries. Nothing wrong with that. They were, after all, working for a sacred cow.
I think it was Robert Townsend in his book Up The Organization who maintained that three years was enough time for a manager who gives fully to his job: the rascal should then go gracefully or be carried out kicking and screaming.
I decided it was time to depart.
I wrote a letter to my Chairperson recommending the direction in which Age Concern, Isle of Wight, should head: it included the appointment of a full-time Organizer (which, I stipulated, would not be me) a move from the coastal town of Ryde to the capital town of Newport and the setting up of an Island A.C. shop which at that time it did not have.
I had done all I could. I departed gracefully.
My only connection with Age Concern from then on was through the car insurance which I took out with them in the early nineties and, because I paid monthly by direct debit, was too apathetic to change.
Recently I became disenchanted with their insurance branch. It had developed cunning plans for levying additional revenue. These included turning over the customer's direct debit to a credit company (which, of course, charged interest) and exacting a payment (usually £10) whenever any change was made to the customer's computer details.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't completely dismiss Age Concern. I just started to take their concern for the aged cum grano salis.
So this year I found a far better car insurance deal on the internet.
It pleases me to report that all my recommendations for A.C. Isle of Wight were later implemented.
I wonder who took the credit for them?
BRIEF CHAT WITH A SLEEPY CAT.
"Bit dire without the golf," the cat Shadow ventured, snug and half asleep in my Leader's chair.
"Good, wasn't it, Padraig Harrington winning the Open?" I said. "Nice to have an Irishman as champion again."
"Were you alive when the last one won it?"
"1947, Fred Daly. He was the only other Irishman. Yeah, I was alive."
"Did you follow it?"
"No, all I can remember about golf then was Norman Von Nida throwing his clubs over hedges."
"South African was he?"
"Australian: I think they named a tournament after him."
"Funny how they always honour the bad tempered buggers," he said. "I'm surprised they've not renamed Wimbledon McEnroe Fortnight and had the finalists competing for the You Cannot Be Serious Cup."
I pointed out that ol' Mac has mellowed a lot over the years and that Norman, who died in May this year aged 93, was probably a lovely bloke away from the golf course...
Then I heard a faint snore mixed with the purr and it was clear that he had dropped off again.
His conversations can be quite brief.
At the end of March 1989, faced with yet another unnecessary change in the structure of the National Health Service, I retired. I was fifty eight and had been in the business for thirty two years. I was glad to see the back of it.
Since 1974 there had been several pointless major changes, clearly politically motivated and obviously designed to give bigger empires to ambitious little creeps in the civil service. None of the changes had ever benefited the patient.
The NHS was a mess and still is.
As soon as politicians sense the political gain to be made from mindlessly meddling with a public service you can be sure they will turn it into an administrative nightmare. Currently the NHS is controlled by bunches of faceless, unelected yes-persons called Trusts. I wouldn't trust any of them to control off-peak traffic in a remote village.
Anyway, there was I, retired and still young enough to do something other than go out and sit on a park bench or stay in and watch television.
"Lots of retired blokes play golf," I said to my Leader. "Perhaps I should learn to play golf."
She dismissed the notion instantly.
"I don't think so. You would very soon find that you were not going to become another Faldo or Ballesteros. You'd be in a permanently bad temper and your blood pressure would suffer."
I knew she was right. Always erratic at games, I've never been much of an outdoor type.
I needed an indoor hobby.
"How about the piano then? I had a couple of lessons when I was little. I can still play Drink To Me Only with both hands."
"But you'd never get to play Rachmaninov 2 like John Ogden or the Grieg like Philip Fowke. Think how frustrating that would be for you."
I sighed: I knew she was right.
"Why not try art classes or something?" she prompted. "Or maybe get a little part-time job."
So I obtained - worked at for three years, then took my second and final retirement from - a little part time job.
The job was with Age Concern, a registered charity.
CHARITY IS A SHREWD BUSINESS.
One of the first things you have to understand as an employee new to a national charity is that you are not working for a benign benefactor you are working for a shrewd business.
Charities have honed their collecting techniques over the years and there are now few lucrative avenues left for them to explore. They have become landlords, shopkeepers and insurance brokers. Their manipulation of self-serving politicians is experienced and clever. The vast office blocks from which most of them operate and the plethora of high street charity shops and local administrative offices under their control are not subject to normal business council tax.
They appeal to the well-meaning and are an irresistable draw to publicity conscious celebrities.
I was the district organizer (known here as The Secretary) of Age Concern, Isle of Wight. I worked weekday mornings, was on a small honorarium which barely covered my travel to and from the office, parking and the telephone calls which I frequently made from home in the afternoon. But I was happy enough.
As time went by I came to meet district organizers from across the water; a bloke from Hampshire who I soon learned not to take at face value - either of them - and a nice chap in Portsmouth who had once been a Catholic Monsignor or something and had abandoned his calling to get married. I liked him. I found that they (and hundreds more like them within the organization) were full-timers on very decent salaries. Nothing wrong with that. They were, after all, working for a sacred cow.
I think it was Robert Townsend in his book Up The Organization who maintained that three years was enough time for a manager who gives fully to his job: the rascal should then go gracefully or be carried out kicking and screaming.
I decided it was time to depart.
I wrote a letter to my Chairperson recommending the direction in which Age Concern, Isle of Wight, should head: it included the appointment of a full-time Organizer (which, I stipulated, would not be me) a move from the coastal town of Ryde to the capital town of Newport and the setting up of an Island A.C. shop which at that time it did not have.
I had done all I could. I departed gracefully.
My only connection with Age Concern from then on was through the car insurance which I took out with them in the early nineties and, because I paid monthly by direct debit, was too apathetic to change.
Recently I became disenchanted with their insurance branch. It had developed cunning plans for levying additional revenue. These included turning over the customer's direct debit to a credit company (which, of course, charged interest) and exacting a payment (usually £10) whenever any change was made to the customer's computer details.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't completely dismiss Age Concern. I just started to take their concern for the aged cum grano salis.
So this year I found a far better car insurance deal on the internet.
It pleases me to report that all my recommendations for A.C. Isle of Wight were later implemented.
I wonder who took the credit for them?
BRIEF CHAT WITH A SLEEPY CAT.
"Bit dire without the golf," the cat Shadow ventured, snug and half asleep in my Leader's chair.
"Good, wasn't it, Padraig Harrington winning the Open?" I said. "Nice to have an Irishman as champion again."
"Were you alive when the last one won it?"
"1947, Fred Daly. He was the only other Irishman. Yeah, I was alive."
"Did you follow it?"
"No, all I can remember about golf then was Norman Von Nida throwing his clubs over hedges."
"South African was he?"
"Australian: I think they named a tournament after him."
"Funny how they always honour the bad tempered buggers," he said. "I'm surprised they've not renamed Wimbledon McEnroe Fortnight and had the finalists competing for the You Cannot Be Serious Cup."
I pointed out that ol' Mac has mellowed a lot over the years and that Norman, who died in May this year aged 93, was probably a lovely bloke away from the golf course...
Then I heard a faint snore mixed with the purr and it was clear that he had dropped off again.
His conversations can be quite brief.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
80. A week of Pottering
POTTER IS STILL WORTH THE WATCHING...
We made it to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on the day after the opening. Five of us went and four enjoyed it. Well, I reckon if you manage to please 80% of your audience you've not done badly.
I thought it was like the other films, good so long as you didn't expect a replica of the book: I enjoyed it. Mind you, I did not believe it to be that much better or worse than the previous four Potter outings. True there is an increasing darkness in the narrative, but that only reflects the mood of the books.
I cannot see why some critics have chosen to unfavourably compare Chris Columbus's direction of Philosopher's Stone and Chamber of Secrets with the later offerings of other directors. Not only had he the task of transforming a bunch of inexperienced children into actors but he had also to set the standard for later productions. I think he did a splendid job.
My apologies now if you have not seen any of the films. Currently there are some good DVD offers on the internet.
Probably my favourite of the series so far has been The Prisoner of Azkaban. Just how much director Alfonso Cuaron had to do with it I don't know, but the recounting of J.K.s clever idea about Hermione using a Time-Turner to transport her and Harry back to where they thought Buckbeak had been executed and thence to the lakeside where Sirius had been magically saved from the Dementors was excellent, as was the earlier scene where Hermione, much to the amazement and admiration of Harry and Ron, punched Draco Malfoy on the nose.
I thought The Goblet of Fire was a bit truncated but it was quite a long book so I suppose director Mike Newell, faced with obvious time constraints, had to resort to some massive scene and character cutting.
This also applied to The Order of the Phoenix which is but a shadow of the book. The director, David Yates, has also been chosen to direct The Half Blood Prince and shooting should commence in September.
It is thought that Deathly Hallows should be out around 2010.
That's my eightieth year but I don't mind waiting.
AND THE READING
I have just finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: allegedly the last book in the Potter saga.
It is a combination of rip-roaring action and stultifying inaction.
My son, fearful of spoilers, read it over the weekend. The action, he opined, was written with a canny eye to the film adaptation. The inaction (my opinion) was either a deliberate ploy to influence the mood of the reader at that point in the narrative or an example of J.K. treading water whilst she determined in which direction to swim next. He thinks definitely the latter.
We are agreed that publishers Bloomsbury need not worry too much about the permanent departure of their famous son. Even if Harry does not come back, Hogwarts will.
Incidentally, without spoiling anything, I knew right away by whom the silver doe Patronus had been sent. Long ago guessed the sender's secret, too. It was a lovely notion and it has kept me a bit smugly know-all since the very first book.
Heck, Jo, I've been reading whodunnits since I was nine years old.
On the lightest of notes, it has rained throughout most of my reading time. When I left the house for the shops the other day I realized that I could remember neither Hermione's spell, finite incantatum, nor Arthur Weasley's meteolojinx recanto (both rain stoppers, courtesy of J.K.) so I pointed my umbrella skywards and formed my own incantation, rainomoroverus, which I terminated suddenly when it dawned on me that I could get back home to find I had brought to an abrupt end the reign of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly woman who has done me no harm).
Joanne Rowling, if by magic you should ever read this, you remain high on my list of favourite writers. Even in the talent blind world of publishing somebody would have had to find you. I'm glad they did it in my lifetime.
We made it to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on the day after the opening. Five of us went and four enjoyed it. Well, I reckon if you manage to please 80% of your audience you've not done badly.
I thought it was like the other films, good so long as you didn't expect a replica of the book: I enjoyed it. Mind you, I did not believe it to be that much better or worse than the previous four Potter outings. True there is an increasing darkness in the narrative, but that only reflects the mood of the books.
I cannot see why some critics have chosen to unfavourably compare Chris Columbus's direction of Philosopher's Stone and Chamber of Secrets with the later offerings of other directors. Not only had he the task of transforming a bunch of inexperienced children into actors but he had also to set the standard for later productions. I think he did a splendid job.
My apologies now if you have not seen any of the films. Currently there are some good DVD offers on the internet.
Probably my favourite of the series so far has been The Prisoner of Azkaban. Just how much director Alfonso Cuaron had to do with it I don't know, but the recounting of J.K.s clever idea about Hermione using a Time-Turner to transport her and Harry back to where they thought Buckbeak had been executed and thence to the lakeside where Sirius had been magically saved from the Dementors was excellent, as was the earlier scene where Hermione, much to the amazement and admiration of Harry and Ron, punched Draco Malfoy on the nose.
I thought The Goblet of Fire was a bit truncated but it was quite a long book so I suppose director Mike Newell, faced with obvious time constraints, had to resort to some massive scene and character cutting.
This also applied to The Order of the Phoenix which is but a shadow of the book. The director, David Yates, has also been chosen to direct The Half Blood Prince and shooting should commence in September.
It is thought that Deathly Hallows should be out around 2010.
That's my eightieth year but I don't mind waiting.
AND THE READING
I have just finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: allegedly the last book in the Potter saga.
It is a combination of rip-roaring action and stultifying inaction.
My son, fearful of spoilers, read it over the weekend. The action, he opined, was written with a canny eye to the film adaptation. The inaction (my opinion) was either a deliberate ploy to influence the mood of the reader at that point in the narrative or an example of J.K. treading water whilst she determined in which direction to swim next. He thinks definitely the latter.
We are agreed that publishers Bloomsbury need not worry too much about the permanent departure of their famous son. Even if Harry does not come back, Hogwarts will.
Incidentally, without spoiling anything, I knew right away by whom the silver doe Patronus had been sent. Long ago guessed the sender's secret, too. It was a lovely notion and it has kept me a bit smugly know-all since the very first book.
Heck, Jo, I've been reading whodunnits since I was nine years old.
On the lightest of notes, it has rained throughout most of my reading time. When I left the house for the shops the other day I realized that I could remember neither Hermione's spell, finite incantatum, nor Arthur Weasley's meteolojinx recanto (both rain stoppers, courtesy of J.K.) so I pointed my umbrella skywards and formed my own incantation, rainomoroverus, which I terminated suddenly when it dawned on me that I could get back home to find I had brought to an abrupt end the reign of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly woman who has done me no harm).
Joanne Rowling, if by magic you should ever read this, you remain high on my list of favourite writers. Even in the talent blind world of publishing somebody would have had to find you. I'm glad they did it in my lifetime.
Monday, July 09, 2007
79. Floods, fanatics and a film.
FLOODS AND LETHAL FREAKS.
What a week. First of all the floods which left thousands of people in desperate straits, then the attempts at mass murder by religious maniacs.
The floods are proof of just how wicked nature can be and the terrorists' activities are a reminder of the depths to which depraved humanity can descend.
Only time, a massive effort by the social services, a determination by government at all levels to spend more of the taxpayer's money on the needs of the taxpayer and less on unnecessary wars, quangos and pointless consultancies, will enable us to overcome similar or worse flooding in the future. The cure will be up to the politicians
They will doubtles appoint a quango to report and teams of consultants to advise...
I fear there is no cure for the mind of the twisted fanatic, either.
On Tuesday it became clear that the majority of those intent on indiscriminate killing were - and in some cases still are - employees of the National Health Service.
Doctors, would you believe?
In my time in the NHS all doctors took the Hippocratic oath which bound them to a code of medical ethics. I thought the standards of some of them tended more towards hypocritical than Hippocratic but I seldom experienced any evil in the medical profession. Minor larceny, lechery, arrogance, indifference and political connivance, yes; evil, no.
So what the hell has driven some apparently intelligent professional people to become monsters?
Who knows?
When it comes to analysing lethal freaks in pursuit of a divine mission I defer to the experts. Writing in The Independent, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown and Johann Hari gave reasoned opinions as to what had motivated the abortive bomb attacks in London and Glasgow.
I carefully digested their views and I am trying to be level-headed.
But my conclusion is that the bomb happy bastards are mad.
FAREWELL WIMBLEDON
The cat Shadow stirred on my lap, lifted a sleepy head, inquired: "Is it over?"
"Yes. And you're getting very heavy. Want your dinner?"
He stretched languidly, got to the floor, scratched behind an ear, said: "Who won?"
He is convinced that tennis was invented as an armchair cure for insomnia.
"The women's was won by Venus Williams, an American," I related patiently. "The men's was won by a Swiss called Roger Federer."
"Just as well Andy Murray couldn't make it," he said. "He's too young, anyway. He'd have finished up like Tim Henman."
"Murray's older brother, Jamie, did very well," I informed him. "He and a Serb called Jelena Jankovic won the mixed doubles."
"Get away. Really?"
"Really. They were wild cards and they won 6-4, 3-6, 6-1 against a Swede and an Australian who were No. 5 seeds."
"Great." He started towards the kitchen: "Dinner."
I followed him.
"A Scot amongst the winners, eh?" he said. "Someone else to be described as British by the media."
I forbore the usual trite cliche about sarcasm.
He's right.
I gave him an extra helping of his most expensive cat food.
HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX
The film opens here on the 12th. We shall not book seats for that day. We'll let the over-priced sweets and drinks brigade fill the place with excitement and litter and wait to hear how much they enjoyed it. We'll go at a later date in a slightly quieter atmosphere. We'll sit back in comfort and make up our own minds.
Ah-h-h, my mind is made up already. I'm going to hate Dolores Umbridge, adore Linda Lovegood and revel in the rest of the superb cast playing roles they have made their own.
So that makes me childish?
Of course it does.
So what.
What a week. First of all the floods which left thousands of people in desperate straits, then the attempts at mass murder by religious maniacs.
The floods are proof of just how wicked nature can be and the terrorists' activities are a reminder of the depths to which depraved humanity can descend.
Only time, a massive effort by the social services, a determination by government at all levels to spend more of the taxpayer's money on the needs of the taxpayer and less on unnecessary wars, quangos and pointless consultancies, will enable us to overcome similar or worse flooding in the future. The cure will be up to the politicians
They will doubtles appoint a quango to report and teams of consultants to advise...
I fear there is no cure for the mind of the twisted fanatic, either.
On Tuesday it became clear that the majority of those intent on indiscriminate killing were - and in some cases still are - employees of the National Health Service.
Doctors, would you believe?
In my time in the NHS all doctors took the Hippocratic oath which bound them to a code of medical ethics. I thought the standards of some of them tended more towards hypocritical than Hippocratic but I seldom experienced any evil in the medical profession. Minor larceny, lechery, arrogance, indifference and political connivance, yes; evil, no.
So what the hell has driven some apparently intelligent professional people to become monsters?
Who knows?
When it comes to analysing lethal freaks in pursuit of a divine mission I defer to the experts. Writing in The Independent, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown and Johann Hari gave reasoned opinions as to what had motivated the abortive bomb attacks in London and Glasgow.
I carefully digested their views and I am trying to be level-headed.
But my conclusion is that the bomb happy bastards are mad.
FAREWELL WIMBLEDON
The cat Shadow stirred on my lap, lifted a sleepy head, inquired: "Is it over?"
"Yes. And you're getting very heavy. Want your dinner?"
He stretched languidly, got to the floor, scratched behind an ear, said: "Who won?"
He is convinced that tennis was invented as an armchair cure for insomnia.
"The women's was won by Venus Williams, an American," I related patiently. "The men's was won by a Swiss called Roger Federer."
"Just as well Andy Murray couldn't make it," he said. "He's too young, anyway. He'd have finished up like Tim Henman."
"Murray's older brother, Jamie, did very well," I informed him. "He and a Serb called Jelena Jankovic won the mixed doubles."
"Get away. Really?"
"Really. They were wild cards and they won 6-4, 3-6, 6-1 against a Swede and an Australian who were No. 5 seeds."
"Great." He started towards the kitchen: "Dinner."
I followed him.
"A Scot amongst the winners, eh?" he said. "Someone else to be described as British by the media."
I forbore the usual trite cliche about sarcasm.
He's right.
I gave him an extra helping of his most expensive cat food.
HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX
The film opens here on the 12th. We shall not book seats for that day. We'll let the over-priced sweets and drinks brigade fill the place with excitement and litter and wait to hear how much they enjoyed it. We'll go at a later date in a slightly quieter atmosphere. We'll sit back in comfort and make up our own minds.
Ah-h-h, my mind is made up already. I'm going to hate Dolores Umbridge, adore Linda Lovegood and revel in the rest of the superb cast playing roles they have made their own.
So that makes me childish?
Of course it does.
So what.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
78. In the Wettest June on Record
GLASTONBURY (BBC)
Lest anybody be in doubt as to the two main reasons for the recent appalling weather one of them is Glastonbury, a joyful mud bath which attracts big musical names from all over the world. This year was no exception. Starting with the likes of Rufus Wainwright (a vision in Pierrot stripe) through to Dame Shirley Bassey (a vision in split-skirted pink) and rounded off by The Who (no vision but their set included Pete Townshend's Who Are You and Baba O'Riley which are used to introduce CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and CSI.NY respectively) it just had to be a winner.
The Beeb gave it considerable coverage and, from what I saw, Ol' Shirl. alone was worth whatever it cost them. From her designer rainwear (DSB for Dame Shirley Bassey prominent on the wellies) to her this is what a star should look like stage dress she was queen of all she surveyed. I thought she was great. I love the Dame bit, too. OK, so they're all Dames now: Shirley, Judi Dench, Helen Mirren, Elton John...
But you can't begrudge them. They are fine entertainers who invariably support a plethora of charities.
So now to the second reason for the appalling weather : -
WIMBLEDON (BBC)
I was reading when the cat Shadow came in.
"I've got a couple of poems for you," he said.
"We wrote them between us up there on the roof."
I eyed him suspiciously: "Go on then."
He struck a poetic pose.
"Poem one: Wimbledon Is Here Again."
Wimbledon is here again.
It will rain and rain and rain
Drowning the alarm bells meant to ring
To warn that Cliff is going to sing.
There'll be strawberries and cream
And there'll be champagne
And lots of Sue and bloody rain.
He looked at me. I grunted in my best non-committal way.
"Poem two, Prime Ministers," he announced : -
BLAIR'S RESIGNATION (ALL CHANNELS)
Goodbye, Tone.
It's the other one, Brown,
Who's now the coolest dude in Town
No jaw-dropping,
All smiles,
No frown.
Promising Government of Renown.
(The price of cat food won't come down.)
He had a quick wash before enquiring: "What d' ya think?"
"Definitely doggerel and decidedly not Andrew Motion," I replied.
"Knew you'd be impressed. Can I tell the guys on the roof?"
"Feel free."
"Great. A bit of praise cheers them up no end."
I went back to my book : -
HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE
This is the penultimate book in Jo Rowling's super series and the one to read before the Deathly Hallows comes out on July 21st. Did not matter that I had read it twice before, once I got started I was hooked again. Now I shall be properly prepared for the last story, which I shall try to read less quickly than I have read the others (how do you do that with a book you know will be a page-turner?) because, like every Potter fan, I want it never to end.
There is a bonus, though. The film Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix will be released on July 12th. Then we'll have the Half Cut Prince (sorry, J.K.) and the final film still to come.
Meantime, July 2007 is Potter month. Hurray!
Oh, one last thing: keep writing, J.K., keep writing!
Lest anybody be in doubt as to the two main reasons for the recent appalling weather one of them is Glastonbury, a joyful mud bath which attracts big musical names from all over the world. This year was no exception. Starting with the likes of Rufus Wainwright (a vision in Pierrot stripe) through to Dame Shirley Bassey (a vision in split-skirted pink) and rounded off by The Who (no vision but their set included Pete Townshend's Who Are You and Baba O'Riley which are used to introduce CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and CSI.NY respectively) it just had to be a winner.
The Beeb gave it considerable coverage and, from what I saw, Ol' Shirl. alone was worth whatever it cost them. From her designer rainwear (DSB for Dame Shirley Bassey prominent on the wellies) to her this is what a star should look like stage dress she was queen of all she surveyed. I thought she was great. I love the Dame bit, too. OK, so they're all Dames now: Shirley, Judi Dench, Helen Mirren, Elton John...
But you can't begrudge them. They are fine entertainers who invariably support a plethora of charities.
So now to the second reason for the appalling weather : -
WIMBLEDON (BBC)
I was reading when the cat Shadow came in.
"I've got a couple of poems for you," he said.
"We wrote them between us up there on the roof."
I eyed him suspiciously: "Go on then."
He struck a poetic pose.
"Poem one: Wimbledon Is Here Again."
Wimbledon is here again.
It will rain and rain and rain
Drowning the alarm bells meant to ring
To warn that Cliff is going to sing.
There'll be strawberries and cream
And there'll be champagne
And lots of Sue and bloody rain.
He looked at me. I grunted in my best non-committal way.
"Poem two, Prime Ministers," he announced : -
BLAIR'S RESIGNATION (ALL CHANNELS)
Goodbye, Tone.
It's the other one, Brown,
Who's now the coolest dude in Town
No jaw-dropping,
All smiles,
No frown.
Promising Government of Renown.
(The price of cat food won't come down.)
He had a quick wash before enquiring: "What d' ya think?"
"Definitely doggerel and decidedly not Andrew Motion," I replied.
"Knew you'd be impressed. Can I tell the guys on the roof?"
"Feel free."
"Great. A bit of praise cheers them up no end."
I went back to my book : -
HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE
This is the penultimate book in Jo Rowling's super series and the one to read before the Deathly Hallows comes out on July 21st. Did not matter that I had read it twice before, once I got started I was hooked again. Now I shall be properly prepared for the last story, which I shall try to read less quickly than I have read the others (how do you do that with a book you know will be a page-turner?) because, like every Potter fan, I want it never to end.
There is a bonus, though. The film Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix will be released on July 12th. Then we'll have the Half Cut Prince (sorry, J.K.) and the final film still to come.
Meantime, July 2007 is Potter month. Hurray!
Oh, one last thing: keep writing, J.K., keep writing!
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
77. Books, practices, praise and Becks
WHERE MY BOOKMARKS ARE RESTING
A month or so back I finished The Once and Future King by T.H.White.
Book 5, The Book of Merlyn, did contain much of the material used in Book 1, The Sword in the Stone, but that which was original was moving and a fitting conclusion to an epic work.
It was commendable, too, that T.H.White and his publishers did not play the trick played many years ago by the author Leslie Charteris (in collusion with Hodder and Stoughton and his American publishers) of renaming books previously published and presenting them, with a miniscule reference to the change, as new material.
I am thinking of Meet The Tiger (Later called The Saint Meets The Tiger) The Last Hero (The Saint Closes the Case), Knight Templar (The Avenging Saint), She Was A Lady (The Saint Meets His Match) and The Holy Terror which later became The Saint versus Scotland Yard. That, by the way, is to name, or rename, just a few.
My father regarded the whole thing as a blatant deception. He eventually forgave me for remarking that he should have read the small print. He never forgave Mr. Charteris and he discontinued looking for the Sign of the Saint.
Coincidentally I have just finished a Saint short story, The Smart Detective, which is contained in my current bedtime read The Television Detectives' Omnibus edited by Peter Haining (Orion 1992). Had my father been alive to read it he would no doubt have remarked that any plot which depends on the hero being that lucky is not a plot at all.
He would have been right. Sadly, a similar criticism can be levelled at many of the stories in this collection.
Never mind, in preparation for the publication of J.K.Rowling's Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows next month, I am reading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince yet again.
Now there's a darned good read.
DID IT ALL START IN AMERICA ?
In this country we used not to applaud between the movements of a symphony or a concerto. Who started doing that? Was it the Americans? We certainly didn't. We did not leap to our feet at the end of an act or a song or a recital to applaud the turn or the soloist or the orchestra, either. We sat in a sensible fashion and applauded just as heartily without drawing unnecessary attention to ourselves. I mean, why would we stand? To applaud each other? To make sure everybody knew we were there? To be sure we were ready for the national anthem?
Did it all start in America? Perhaps I unfairly malign Americans. Perhaps it wasn't them at all. They do have some cranky ideas though.
Who else would invite the three tenors to perform and then induce them to sing a selection of ancient movie numbers so that creaking musical has-beens in the audience could take a bow? Who else would conclude a concert by Andrea Bocelli with a totally incongruous diving and firework display, presumably on the grounds that he wouldn't see it? Who else?
Well, not us, I hope. Though we do become dafter every day. Latest craze is to sing the national anthem during play at international soccer matches. Why? The Queen is not a football supporter. The late, great, Tommy Cooper is said to have asked her if he could have her Cup Final ticket. Perhaps it's because Land Of Hope And Glory is not PC enough and too few people know the words to This Royal Throne Of Kings.
I dunno: and if you think you do I'll thank you not to tell me.
UNQUALIFIED PRAISE
Noel Coward once said: "I can take any amount of criticism, so long as it is unqualified praise."
Good old Noel, just about anything he didn't say was said by Oscar Wilde. For that matter, pretty much anything done by Oscar Wilde was done by good old Noel. Only he wasn't caught.
Where was I?
Oh, yes: unqualified praise. If you looked in earlier you may have seen another kind comment from John 'Anonymous' A. It now rests elsewhere. I transferred it on the grounds that the publication of one nice comment is fine but more, too soon on, will have you looking askance and me looking in mirrors. [Nowadays I avoid reflections - not quite sure who the old guy is.]
But thanks again, John.
And at the risk of sounding like a letters editor: this correspondence is now closed.
BECKS VICTORIOUS
I was pleased to see that Becks finished his Real Madrid stint on a high.
The cat Shadow was pleased, too, though I think he was marginally more pleased to see the four expensive boxes of cat food bought for him by my Leader on her last trip to Marks & Sparks.
I worry that he may become too grand for ordinary grub.
Anyway, good luck to Becks in America. He's still a winner so he should do well.
A month or so back I finished The Once and Future King by T.H.White.
Book 5, The Book of Merlyn, did contain much of the material used in Book 1, The Sword in the Stone, but that which was original was moving and a fitting conclusion to an epic work.
It was commendable, too, that T.H.White and his publishers did not play the trick played many years ago by the author Leslie Charteris (in collusion with Hodder and Stoughton and his American publishers) of renaming books previously published and presenting them, with a miniscule reference to the change, as new material.
I am thinking of Meet The Tiger (Later called The Saint Meets The Tiger) The Last Hero (The Saint Closes the Case), Knight Templar (The Avenging Saint), She Was A Lady (The Saint Meets His Match) and The Holy Terror which later became The Saint versus Scotland Yard. That, by the way, is to name, or rename, just a few.
My father regarded the whole thing as a blatant deception. He eventually forgave me for remarking that he should have read the small print. He never forgave Mr. Charteris and he discontinued looking for the Sign of the Saint.
Coincidentally I have just finished a Saint short story, The Smart Detective, which is contained in my current bedtime read The Television Detectives' Omnibus edited by Peter Haining (Orion 1992). Had my father been alive to read it he would no doubt have remarked that any plot which depends on the hero being that lucky is not a plot at all.
He would have been right. Sadly, a similar criticism can be levelled at many of the stories in this collection.
Never mind, in preparation for the publication of J.K.Rowling's Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows next month, I am reading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince yet again.
Now there's a darned good read.
DID IT ALL START IN AMERICA ?
In this country we used not to applaud between the movements of a symphony or a concerto. Who started doing that? Was it the Americans? We certainly didn't. We did not leap to our feet at the end of an act or a song or a recital to applaud the turn or the soloist or the orchestra, either. We sat in a sensible fashion and applauded just as heartily without drawing unnecessary attention to ourselves. I mean, why would we stand? To applaud each other? To make sure everybody knew we were there? To be sure we were ready for the national anthem?
Did it all start in America? Perhaps I unfairly malign Americans. Perhaps it wasn't them at all. They do have some cranky ideas though.
Who else would invite the three tenors to perform and then induce them to sing a selection of ancient movie numbers so that creaking musical has-beens in the audience could take a bow? Who else would conclude a concert by Andrea Bocelli with a totally incongruous diving and firework display, presumably on the grounds that he wouldn't see it? Who else?
Well, not us, I hope. Though we do become dafter every day. Latest craze is to sing the national anthem during play at international soccer matches. Why? The Queen is not a football supporter. The late, great, Tommy Cooper is said to have asked her if he could have her Cup Final ticket. Perhaps it's because Land Of Hope And Glory is not PC enough and too few people know the words to This Royal Throne Of Kings.
I dunno: and if you think you do I'll thank you not to tell me.
UNQUALIFIED PRAISE
Noel Coward once said: "I can take any amount of criticism, so long as it is unqualified praise."
Good old Noel, just about anything he didn't say was said by Oscar Wilde. For that matter, pretty much anything done by Oscar Wilde was done by good old Noel. Only he wasn't caught.
Where was I?
Oh, yes: unqualified praise. If you looked in earlier you may have seen another kind comment from John 'Anonymous' A. It now rests elsewhere. I transferred it on the grounds that the publication of one nice comment is fine but more, too soon on, will have you looking askance and me looking in mirrors. [Nowadays I avoid reflections - not quite sure who the old guy is.]
But thanks again, John.
And at the risk of sounding like a letters editor: this correspondence is now closed.
BECKS VICTORIOUS
I was pleased to see that Becks finished his Real Madrid stint on a high.
The cat Shadow was pleased, too, though I think he was marginally more pleased to see the four expensive boxes of cat food bought for him by my Leader on her last trip to Marks & Sparks.
I worry that he may become too grand for ordinary grub.
Anyway, good luck to Becks in America. He's still a winner so he should do well.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
76. A good week and a festive weekend
ISLE OF WIGHT FESTIVAL (8 - 10 JUNE 2007)
The older I get the faster these annual events come around. Granddaughter Jessie is at the IW Festival this year. She has gone with her father. They have thoroughly enjoyed the music and the atmosphere to date. The weather has been wonderful, too.
Yesterday (9th June) the Red Arrows did a marvellous display for them which was unlisted, lasted half an hour and included sketching out in the sky the shape of a bow and of a heart with an arrow through it. Jess will leave early tonight because she has to be back at school tomorrow. Sadly she will miss the top-of-the-bill Rolling Stones.
When told she said: "Who?"
Perhaps it won't be that much of a miss after all.
DIRTY DALI: A PRIVATE VIEW (Channel 4)
I was left wondering whether art critic Brian Sewell, reflecting back to his early twenties, did not get to know the outrageous genius Salvador Dali just a little too well. Whatever: it is unlikely that anyone else alive knew the man in quite the same way. Forthright as ever, Sewell pulled no punches. Dali was a sexual deviant, a poseur and an egomaniac. He was also, at his best, one of the greatest artists in the world and undoubtedly the most famous of the surrealists.
This was a fresh insight into the real world of a world famous personality. It is doubtful that Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dali i Domenech (1904 - 1989) will ever again be subjected to so sensitive a scrutiny.
But it was in the main a kindly study and I think he would have loved every minute of it.
Of course he would.
It was about him.
PAUL MERTON IN CHINA. (Five)
Had Paul Merton been left to ask tactful questions of his Chinese hosts, to comment sensibly on the replies he was given and to behave in an adult fashion throughout, this could have been every bit as good as the Victoria Wood series Victoria's Empire. But all too often he was prevailed upon (presumably by his producers) to act the silly ass Englishman.
Pity, because he is obviously a pleasant and astute observer with a lively curiosity.
He deserved better and so did we.
DIANA: THE WITNESSES IN THE TUNNEL (CHANNEL 4)
As common sense foretold, there was no conspiracy, no hard-on-the-heels posse of paparazzi, no secret service assassins. There was a swerve to avoid a slow moving car, a loss of control at speed and a collision with a pillar. It was an accident.
Now can we please leave this poor young woman and those who died with her to rest in peace?
ESTONIA v ENGLAND (BBC1)
"Nil - three to England," I said to the cat Shadow. "Good ol' Becks!"
"So now he'll play the equivalent of First Division football in America, eh?" he replied. "That will be like playing permanently against the likes of Estonia and they hadn't scored in their last seven matches. No, his international career was kicked out from under his feet when England were dumped from the World Cup. This comeback won't last too long if McClaren has anything to do with it."
"Got nobody to replace him though, have they?" I said.
"When did that matter? He pulled the manager out of a hole again this time and he'll be thanked in the same way he was thanked last time. First opportunity he'll be dropped. You see."
"I never reckoned you to be such a pessimist."
"Oh I'm not, mate, but I am a realist."
I hope he's wrong this time.
He seldom is, though.
YOU CAN CHOOSE YOUR FRIENDS (ITV1)
This strange piece of fluff, billed as a comedy drama, starred Julia McKenzie and Anton Rogers with Robert Daws, Claire Skinner, Rebecca Front and Gordon Kennedy in strong support.
My Leader and I sat through it together and when it was over she said: "Just as well it was a one-off. If it had been a pilot I'd not bother to watch the series."
Too right, Mrs. Lady, I thought: too darned right.
AND, LASTLY, AN E-MAIL THAT GAVE ME A SMILE
(Forwarded by our friend Jan Bennett)
Council tax re-evaluers want to charge us more if we live in a nice area.
That ought to mean discounts for those of us who live in rough areas.
We have a huge council house in our street. The extended family is run by a grumpy old woman with a pack of fierce dogs. Her car isn't taxed or insured, and doesn't even have a number plate, but the police still do nothing. Her bad tempered old man is famous for upsetting foreigners with racist comments. A shopkeeper blames him for ordering the murder of his son and his son's girlfriend, but nothing has been proved yet. All their kids have broken marriages except the youngest, who everyone thought was gay.Two grandsons are meant to be in the Army but are always seen out in nightclubs. The family's odd antics are always in the papers.
They are out of control. ..
Honestly - who'd live near Windsor Castle?
The older I get the faster these annual events come around. Granddaughter Jessie is at the IW Festival this year. She has gone with her father. They have thoroughly enjoyed the music and the atmosphere to date. The weather has been wonderful, too.
Yesterday (9th June) the Red Arrows did a marvellous display for them which was unlisted, lasted half an hour and included sketching out in the sky the shape of a bow and of a heart with an arrow through it. Jess will leave early tonight because she has to be back at school tomorrow. Sadly she will miss the top-of-the-bill Rolling Stones.
When told she said: "Who?"
Perhaps it won't be that much of a miss after all.
DIRTY DALI: A PRIVATE VIEW (Channel 4)
I was left wondering whether art critic Brian Sewell, reflecting back to his early twenties, did not get to know the outrageous genius Salvador Dali just a little too well. Whatever: it is unlikely that anyone else alive knew the man in quite the same way. Forthright as ever, Sewell pulled no punches. Dali was a sexual deviant, a poseur and an egomaniac. He was also, at his best, one of the greatest artists in the world and undoubtedly the most famous of the surrealists.
This was a fresh insight into the real world of a world famous personality. It is doubtful that Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dali i Domenech (1904 - 1989) will ever again be subjected to so sensitive a scrutiny.
But it was in the main a kindly study and I think he would have loved every minute of it.
Of course he would.
It was about him.
PAUL MERTON IN CHINA. (Five)
Had Paul Merton been left to ask tactful questions of his Chinese hosts, to comment sensibly on the replies he was given and to behave in an adult fashion throughout, this could have been every bit as good as the Victoria Wood series Victoria's Empire. But all too often he was prevailed upon (presumably by his producers) to act the silly ass Englishman.
Pity, because he is obviously a pleasant and astute observer with a lively curiosity.
He deserved better and so did we.
DIANA: THE WITNESSES IN THE TUNNEL (CHANNEL 4)
As common sense foretold, there was no conspiracy, no hard-on-the-heels posse of paparazzi, no secret service assassins. There was a swerve to avoid a slow moving car, a loss of control at speed and a collision with a pillar. It was an accident.
Now can we please leave this poor young woman and those who died with her to rest in peace?
ESTONIA v ENGLAND (BBC1)
"Nil - three to England," I said to the cat Shadow. "Good ol' Becks!"
"So now he'll play the equivalent of First Division football in America, eh?" he replied. "That will be like playing permanently against the likes of Estonia and they hadn't scored in their last seven matches. No, his international career was kicked out from under his feet when England were dumped from the World Cup. This comeback won't last too long if McClaren has anything to do with it."
"Got nobody to replace him though, have they?" I said.
"When did that matter? He pulled the manager out of a hole again this time and he'll be thanked in the same way he was thanked last time. First opportunity he'll be dropped. You see."
"I never reckoned you to be such a pessimist."
"Oh I'm not, mate, but I am a realist."
I hope he's wrong this time.
He seldom is, though.
YOU CAN CHOOSE YOUR FRIENDS (ITV1)
This strange piece of fluff, billed as a comedy drama, starred Julia McKenzie and Anton Rogers with Robert Daws, Claire Skinner, Rebecca Front and Gordon Kennedy in strong support.
My Leader and I sat through it together and when it was over she said: "Just as well it was a one-off. If it had been a pilot I'd not bother to watch the series."
Too right, Mrs. Lady, I thought: too darned right.
AND, LASTLY, AN E-MAIL THAT GAVE ME A SMILE
(Forwarded by our friend Jan Bennett)
Council tax re-evaluers want to charge us more if we live in a nice area.
That ought to mean discounts for those of us who live in rough areas.
We have a huge council house in our street. The extended family is run by a grumpy old woman with a pack of fierce dogs. Her car isn't taxed or insured, and doesn't even have a number plate, but the police still do nothing. Her bad tempered old man is famous for upsetting foreigners with racist comments. A shopkeeper blames him for ordering the murder of his son and his son's girlfriend, but nothing has been proved yet. All their kids have broken marriages except the youngest, who everyone thought was gay.Two grandsons are meant to be in the Army but are always seen out in nightclubs. The family's odd antics are always in the papers.
They are out of control. ..
Honestly - who'd live near Windsor Castle?
Sunday, June 03, 2007
75. Favourites, hoaxers and welcome encouragement
ENGLAND v BRAZIL (BBC1).
"What did you think, then?" I asked the cat Shadow. "1 - 1 with Brazil and our lot should have won."
He had spent the Friday night match curled up in my Leader's chair, she having taken convenient leave of absence to visit relatives on the mainland.
He stretched: "Why do friendlies nearly always end in a draw?" he asked. "Is it compulsory to gift the away team a goal with barely a minute to spare?"
"Didn't really matter did it?" I said. "Ol' Becks was back and he played a blinder."
He eyed me quizzically. "Steven Gerrard was named man of the match, wasn't he? And John Terry didn't have a bad game, either."
"Yes, well..." I started, but he was ahead of me as usual.
"All right, all right," he said. "Even if one Becks may not make a summer, one Becks did make this game."
Then, to restrain further comment, he added: "Pity they all fell asleep in the first half, though. In no time at all, so did I."
NCIS (Five)
This coincided with the football on BBC1 so thank technology for the old video recorder. I'll record on DVD when I can work out how or, failing that, when baby Boo becomes old enough to show me. Give it another couple of years.
Anyway, Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) and his crew were under pressure from the customary hard-headed female defence lawyer and from yet another unwell-wisher who can magically stalk their H.Q. without the slightest difficulty. (I know...)
Lovely, quirky Abby (Pauley Perrette) is again the victim of unwelcome attentions in Bloodbath and eventually sorts things out in her own unbelievable way.
At 21/24 of series three these favourites are going far too quickly.
DOCTOR WHO (BBC1)
The conclusion of The Family of Blood. A great romp with lethal scarecrows. This continues to be a completly different Dr. Who from its predecessors and truly deserves all the plaudits it has received. It is becoming hard to think of the Doctor as anyone other than David Tennant now and Freema Agyeman is perfect as his travelling companion. If this cracking standard is maintained, who knows? One day Doctor Who could rival The Mousetrap.
EVEN THE HOAX WAS MORONIC.
So now the Big Brother producers say that their sick idea about a woman donating her kidneys to a fellow house member of her choice was a hoax designed to draw awareness to the shortage of donors in Holland. Well, even the hoax was moronic and my original opinion of them has not altered. Twats!
YOU SHOULD NEVER SHUN ENCOURAGEMENT.
Way back last December I commented (apropos an anonymous comment by some apparent malcontent to the TrippingOnWords girls) that I would delete out of hand any anonymous comments sent to me. Well, I have drawn the line at deleting my old friend John A. for obvious reasons. (1) I know who he is and (2) his comments are encouraging and you should never shun encouragement. What's more, he tells me that he is unable to record a comment on my posts without signing in as anonymous. I assume that's maybe a Blog Ed manoeuvre to warn me from which direction the arrows are coming. If so, thanks Blog Ed whomsoever, whatsoever and wheresoever you may be. If not, no matter, thanks anyway.
My e-mails this week have included encouraging murmurs from daughter Jac and from nephew Phil. So what they're relatives...their pleasant words were much appreciated. Like I said, you should never shun encouragement.
"What did you think, then?" I asked the cat Shadow. "1 - 1 with Brazil and our lot should have won."
He had spent the Friday night match curled up in my Leader's chair, she having taken convenient leave of absence to visit relatives on the mainland.
He stretched: "Why do friendlies nearly always end in a draw?" he asked. "Is it compulsory to gift the away team a goal with barely a minute to spare?"
"Didn't really matter did it?" I said. "Ol' Becks was back and he played a blinder."
He eyed me quizzically. "Steven Gerrard was named man of the match, wasn't he? And John Terry didn't have a bad game, either."
"Yes, well..." I started, but he was ahead of me as usual.
"All right, all right," he said. "Even if one Becks may not make a summer, one Becks did make this game."
Then, to restrain further comment, he added: "Pity they all fell asleep in the first half, though. In no time at all, so did I."
NCIS (Five)
This coincided with the football on BBC1 so thank technology for the old video recorder. I'll record on DVD when I can work out how or, failing that, when baby Boo becomes old enough to show me. Give it another couple of years.
Anyway, Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) and his crew were under pressure from the customary hard-headed female defence lawyer and from yet another unwell-wisher who can magically stalk their H.Q. without the slightest difficulty. (I know...)
Lovely, quirky Abby (Pauley Perrette) is again the victim of unwelcome attentions in Bloodbath and eventually sorts things out in her own unbelievable way.
At 21/24 of series three these favourites are going far too quickly.
DOCTOR WHO (BBC1)
The conclusion of The Family of Blood. A great romp with lethal scarecrows. This continues to be a completly different Dr. Who from its predecessors and truly deserves all the plaudits it has received. It is becoming hard to think of the Doctor as anyone other than David Tennant now and Freema Agyeman is perfect as his travelling companion. If this cracking standard is maintained, who knows? One day Doctor Who could rival The Mousetrap.
EVEN THE HOAX WAS MORONIC.
So now the Big Brother producers say that their sick idea about a woman donating her kidneys to a fellow house member of her choice was a hoax designed to draw awareness to the shortage of donors in Holland. Well, even the hoax was moronic and my original opinion of them has not altered. Twats!
YOU SHOULD NEVER SHUN ENCOURAGEMENT.
Way back last December I commented (apropos an anonymous comment by some apparent malcontent to the TrippingOnWords girls) that I would delete out of hand any anonymous comments sent to me. Well, I have drawn the line at deleting my old friend John A. for obvious reasons. (1) I know who he is and (2) his comments are encouraging and you should never shun encouragement. What's more, he tells me that he is unable to record a comment on my posts without signing in as anonymous. I assume that's maybe a Blog Ed manoeuvre to warn me from which direction the arrows are coming. If so, thanks Blog Ed whomsoever, whatsoever and wheresoever you may be. If not, no matter, thanks anyway.
My e-mails this week have included encouraging murmurs from daughter Jac and from nephew Phil. So what they're relatives...their pleasant words were much appreciated. Like I said, you should never shun encouragement.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
74. A bit more of the usual
VIEWING FOR TOTAL MORONS.
At first I thought it was a very bad taste April Fool's joke. Then I realized it is May and what I was hearing was no joke. Seems that the latest example of appalling reality television will be screened in Holland where a fatally ill Dutch woman in a Big Brother house is to decide which of her house companions should be given her kidneys when she dies.
Anybody who has read my blog will know just how much I detest reality television.
To my mind all the cheapjack producers and staff concerned with this particular version should be put down and their kidneys given to those in immediate need. At least they might then have done something worthwhile in their misbegotten lives.
I would like to think that even the voyeuristic goggle eyes of the average Big Brother watcher will shun it.
Somehow I doubt that, though.
But only total morons will watch it.
BANK HOLIDAY TELE.
Wouldn't be English without first mentioning the bank holiday weather. It was a soaking wet day here on Sunday but Baby Boo, now two years old, came here with his parents and brightened up our entire weekend. Takes half an hour to clear up after he's gone and we don't begrudge a minute of it.
Now to the tele.
Doctor Who (BBC1 - Saturday) was the first of a two part story finishing next Saturday. At the start of this adventure the Doctor has mysteriously become John Smith, a master at a public school in 1913. Body-snatching aliens, similar to those in the 1956 classic film Invasion of the Body Snatchers, have appeared on strange beams of light. They are searching for 'A time lord.' I have no idea how it will unravel but I shall be there next week to find out.
Lusitania: Murder on the Atlantic (BBC1 - Sunday) starred three of our most dependable actors: John Hannah, Kenneth Cranham and Michael Feast. Nothing has ever been proven, of course, but it seems mightily strange that one torpedo from a First World War U-boat sank such a vast ship as the Lusitania in under twenty minutes if that ship was not carrying anything other than innocent passengers and cargo. The Establishment whitewashed itself spotlessly clean of course. It seems Churchill took his customary clinical stance and wrote off the incident as probably of value to the allied cause. Well, greatest ever Englishman or not, he was just another bloody politician after all. This was an excellent programme.
Kingdom (ITV1 - Sunday) Last of this first series starring Stephen Fry. It will be back. Have to be. Cast and Sunday night casual viewability too good to lose.
Springwatch (BBC2 - Monday onward) Yep, it's ol' Bill Oddy and his co-presenter Kate Humble gently twittering on as fledgelings devour each other and long, long, long minutes are spent waiting for another non-appearance of those deuced unco-operative Badgers. The move is still on to get rid of Simon King, too. This time they've banished him to the Hebrides. It'll run for at least three weeks.
Celebrity Master Chef (BBC1 - Monday onward) It's back. Say no more.
New Tricks (BBC1 - Monday) The last of the series. Just as well, it was beginning the slippery slide towards soap. The writers really do need to find some fresh old cases before the well chosen cast returns.
AND FOOTBALL...
"Becks is back!" I shouted to the cat Shadow. "He's been chosen for the Brazil friendly!"
"When's that then?" he asked.
"Friday night I think."
"Well don't get too excited ," he said. "One Becks may not make a summer."
At first I thought it was a very bad taste April Fool's joke. Then I realized it is May and what I was hearing was no joke. Seems that the latest example of appalling reality television will be screened in Holland where a fatally ill Dutch woman in a Big Brother house is to decide which of her house companions should be given her kidneys when she dies.
Anybody who has read my blog will know just how much I detest reality television.
To my mind all the cheapjack producers and staff concerned with this particular version should be put down and their kidneys given to those in immediate need. At least they might then have done something worthwhile in their misbegotten lives.
I would like to think that even the voyeuristic goggle eyes of the average Big Brother watcher will shun it.
Somehow I doubt that, though.
But only total morons will watch it.
BANK HOLIDAY TELE.
Wouldn't be English without first mentioning the bank holiday weather. It was a soaking wet day here on Sunday but Baby Boo, now two years old, came here with his parents and brightened up our entire weekend. Takes half an hour to clear up after he's gone and we don't begrudge a minute of it.
Now to the tele.
Doctor Who (BBC1 - Saturday) was the first of a two part story finishing next Saturday. At the start of this adventure the Doctor has mysteriously become John Smith, a master at a public school in 1913. Body-snatching aliens, similar to those in the 1956 classic film Invasion of the Body Snatchers, have appeared on strange beams of light. They are searching for 'A time lord.' I have no idea how it will unravel but I shall be there next week to find out.
Lusitania: Murder on the Atlantic (BBC1 - Sunday) starred three of our most dependable actors: John Hannah, Kenneth Cranham and Michael Feast. Nothing has ever been proven, of course, but it seems mightily strange that one torpedo from a First World War U-boat sank such a vast ship as the Lusitania in under twenty minutes if that ship was not carrying anything other than innocent passengers and cargo. The Establishment whitewashed itself spotlessly clean of course. It seems Churchill took his customary clinical stance and wrote off the incident as probably of value to the allied cause. Well, greatest ever Englishman or not, he was just another bloody politician after all. This was an excellent programme.
Kingdom (ITV1 - Sunday) Last of this first series starring Stephen Fry. It will be back. Have to be. Cast and Sunday night casual viewability too good to lose.
Springwatch (BBC2 - Monday onward) Yep, it's ol' Bill Oddy and his co-presenter Kate Humble gently twittering on as fledgelings devour each other and long, long, long minutes are spent waiting for another non-appearance of those deuced unco-operative Badgers. The move is still on to get rid of Simon King, too. This time they've banished him to the Hebrides. It'll run for at least three weeks.
Celebrity Master Chef (BBC1 - Monday onward) It's back. Say no more.
New Tricks (BBC1 - Monday) The last of the series. Just as well, it was beginning the slippery slide towards soap. The writers really do need to find some fresh old cases before the well chosen cast returns.
AND FOOTBALL...
"Becks is back!" I shouted to the cat Shadow. "He's been chosen for the Brazil friendly!"
"When's that then?" he asked.
"Friday night I think."
"Well don't get too excited ," he said. "One Becks may not make a summer."
Sunday, May 20, 2007
73. The P.M., the Tele Week, Eggheads and a Cat Burglar
I SUPPOSE SOMEBODY WILL BE HAPPY.
So it's official then. The jaw-dropping Chancellor will become Prime Minister. Well there's a surprise.
Seems nobody could get enough Brownie points to stand against Brown. To me that says less about his competence to do the job than it does about the number of his colleagues filling their boots at the thought of being listed as his enemies. I suppose somebody will be happy, though, even if it is only him.
I suppose he will win the next election, too. He should. Currently the Blair clone Cameron and his cohorts have decided to announce their disfavour of the grammar school system. It seems that in my lifetime the Socialists have become the Tories and the Tories have become the Socialists. I cannot believe either have executed such a total about face without a liberal measure of vote seeking cynicism. They have not an iota of integrity between them.
However, I seem to remember making a birthday resolution last year that I would never again tax your patience or my blood pressure with politics, politicians or their civil service bosses. As it is there are more than enough Westminster weasels spouting claptrap every day.
ON YOUR BEEB LAST WEEK.
Dalziel and Pascoe finished in even more confusion than it started. Richard E Grant's ability as a hypnotist failed him when it was most needed. Warren Clarke and Colin Buchanan floundered through the quagmire like two actors looking for their parts. Everybody else just sank. Oh well, you can't win 'em all.
Victoria's Empire came to an end with Victoria Wood discovering that big-mouthed radio presenters in New Zealand are no different from those throughout the rest of the world: she then visited Tasmania to learn how colonialism wiped out all the original native inhabitants. By the time she reached Zambia it was clear that a modern English traveller abroad should have learned how to apologize in almost every language known to man. A good series, though.
Holby Blue I missed in favour of Return of the Tribe (an excellent series on Five). I didn't bother to video Holby, either: but true to my word I picked up a Mail On Sunday to find that the excellent Jaci Stephen had given it just a few dismissive lines. I was a bit smug on Sunday.
EGGHEADS (BBC 2)
If I was an Egghead I would decline a contract for the next series unless some changes were made to the current format.. It is clear that every pub quiz prizefighter and every up-to-the-neck-in-debt undergraduate in the country has finally hit upon the magic formula: "If we choose to go first, take on C.J. at Geography, Kevin at Food and Drink, Chris at Entertainment. Daphne at Sport and Judith at almost anything, we stand a good chance of knocking out at least two of them. All we have to do then is applaud noisily every correct answer given by one of our team, applaud even more noisily any incorrect answer by one of their team and play up to the presenter who, from the outset, will be on our side."
No, if I was an Egghead I would stipulate that before I signed for another series the only subject in all the head-to-heads would be General Knowledge. Choice of going first or second would be decided by the spin of a coin. And Dermot, the opposition cheer leader, would have to go. That would even things up a bit.
But, lucky Dermot, I'm not an Egghead and it won't ever happen.
Shame.
THE F.A.CUP FINAL. (BBC1)
There was a scuffling and pattering on the stairs to the top floor and I got up slowly from my chair in the computer room on the first (American second) floor. Well, I thought, if it's a burglar he might be tough and you don't want to go too fast towards trouble.
When I reached the doorway the burglar was coming back down the stairs. It was the large white and tabby cat from elsewhere in the neighbourhood. In my Leader's absence he had been up to her top floor workroom to visit the cat Shadow. My Leader calls him Manners because Shadow regularly leaves some food in the cat dish for him. We don't know his real name or where he comes from. He has been about for a long time but still regards me with extreme caution due to my forbidding stare and habit of addressing him as Wotter-youdoin'ere?
I said: "Wotter-youdoin'ere?"
He took off down the stairs to the ground (American first) floor, out through the catflap and across the back courtyard as though I had put out a contract on him.
Moments later the cat Shadow came down.
He eyed me suspiciously. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened. He just left."
"You sure?"
"Positive. Now, it's the Cup Final on the box. Want to watch it?"
"Bloody hell no, not while it's sunny outside. I'm off for a stroll."
And he went.
He came back in time to see the winning goal, to remark that the Pensioners probably deserved to win this time and to say that he thought by fifteen minutes into the game the new Wembley pitch resembled a cat's used litter tray.
I've no idea where he went to see what the pitch was like fifteen minutes into the game.
Perhaps to Manners's place?
So it's official then. The jaw-dropping Chancellor will become Prime Minister. Well there's a surprise.
Seems nobody could get enough Brownie points to stand against Brown. To me that says less about his competence to do the job than it does about the number of his colleagues filling their boots at the thought of being listed as his enemies. I suppose somebody will be happy, though, even if it is only him.
I suppose he will win the next election, too. He should. Currently the Blair clone Cameron and his cohorts have decided to announce their disfavour of the grammar school system. It seems that in my lifetime the Socialists have become the Tories and the Tories have become the Socialists. I cannot believe either have executed such a total about face without a liberal measure of vote seeking cynicism. They have not an iota of integrity between them.
However, I seem to remember making a birthday resolution last year that I would never again tax your patience or my blood pressure with politics, politicians or their civil service bosses. As it is there are more than enough Westminster weasels spouting claptrap every day.
ON YOUR BEEB LAST WEEK.
Dalziel and Pascoe finished in even more confusion than it started. Richard E Grant's ability as a hypnotist failed him when it was most needed. Warren Clarke and Colin Buchanan floundered through the quagmire like two actors looking for their parts. Everybody else just sank. Oh well, you can't win 'em all.
Victoria's Empire came to an end with Victoria Wood discovering that big-mouthed radio presenters in New Zealand are no different from those throughout the rest of the world: she then visited Tasmania to learn how colonialism wiped out all the original native inhabitants. By the time she reached Zambia it was clear that a modern English traveller abroad should have learned how to apologize in almost every language known to man. A good series, though.
Holby Blue I missed in favour of Return of the Tribe (an excellent series on Five). I didn't bother to video Holby, either: but true to my word I picked up a Mail On Sunday to find that the excellent Jaci Stephen had given it just a few dismissive lines. I was a bit smug on Sunday.
EGGHEADS (BBC 2)
If I was an Egghead I would decline a contract for the next series unless some changes were made to the current format.. It is clear that every pub quiz prizefighter and every up-to-the-neck-in-debt undergraduate in the country has finally hit upon the magic formula: "If we choose to go first, take on C.J. at Geography, Kevin at Food and Drink, Chris at Entertainment. Daphne at Sport and Judith at almost anything, we stand a good chance of knocking out at least two of them. All we have to do then is applaud noisily every correct answer given by one of our team, applaud even more noisily any incorrect answer by one of their team and play up to the presenter who, from the outset, will be on our side."
No, if I was an Egghead I would stipulate that before I signed for another series the only subject in all the head-to-heads would be General Knowledge. Choice of going first or second would be decided by the spin of a coin. And Dermot, the opposition cheer leader, would have to go. That would even things up a bit.
But, lucky Dermot, I'm not an Egghead and it won't ever happen.
Shame.
THE F.A.CUP FINAL. (BBC1)
There was a scuffling and pattering on the stairs to the top floor and I got up slowly from my chair in the computer room on the first (American second) floor. Well, I thought, if it's a burglar he might be tough and you don't want to go too fast towards trouble.
When I reached the doorway the burglar was coming back down the stairs. It was the large white and tabby cat from elsewhere in the neighbourhood. In my Leader's absence he had been up to her top floor workroom to visit the cat Shadow. My Leader calls him Manners because Shadow regularly leaves some food in the cat dish for him. We don't know his real name or where he comes from. He has been about for a long time but still regards me with extreme caution due to my forbidding stare and habit of addressing him as Wotter-youdoin'ere?
I said: "Wotter-youdoin'ere?"
He took off down the stairs to the ground (American first) floor, out through the catflap and across the back courtyard as though I had put out a contract on him.
Moments later the cat Shadow came down.
He eyed me suspiciously. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened. He just left."
"You sure?"
"Positive. Now, it's the Cup Final on the box. Want to watch it?"
"Bloody hell no, not while it's sunny outside. I'm off for a stroll."
And he went.
He came back in time to see the winning goal, to remark that the Pensioners probably deserved to win this time and to say that he thought by fifteen minutes into the game the new Wembley pitch resembled a cat's used litter tray.
I've no idea where he went to see what the pitch was like fifteen minutes into the game.
Perhaps to Manners's place?
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