61. A nostalgic trip from Sherwood to New York

A SPLENDID FILM.

I watched Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves again at the weekend.
Director Kevin Reynolds. Year of release, 1991.
Doesn't seem possible..
Everyone except me is sixteen years older now.
It was, still is, a splendid film..
What a cast.
Kevin Costner and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio could not have had better fellow actors.
Dear ol' Brian Blessed shouted his way to an early demise. Only way to go, Brian.
Alan Rickman (even better than Basil Rathbone) again called off Christmas before smilingly making a dear departed of his incompetent fellow villain, Guy of Gisbourne, played by Michael Wincott.
Will Scarlett (Christian Slater) was the good - bad - good half-brother of Robin of Locksley.
Robin's friend, Azeem, was the redoubtable Morgan Freeman, upstaged by nobody.
Michael McShane made a massively impressive Friar Tuck and Nick Brimble a hugely likeable Little John.
There was Walter Sparrow, blindly blundering, Harold Innocent, sanctimoniously sneaking and a marvellously mad Mortianna in the barely recognizable form of Geraldine McEwan.
Then, finally, when Friar Tuck performed the Robin/Marian wedding ceremony at the end:
"If any man knows of any...(reason why these two should not be married)... let him speak now," he was answered by the only Scottish Richard The Lionheart in Christendom: "I have shomething to shay." And King Richard (Sean Connery) entered Stage R. on horseback.

I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed it the first time around.

NYPD BLUE (More4).
A while back some bright programme planners (huh!) decided that NYPD Blue was no longer suitable entertainment for current audiences.
Obviously cheap reality television and crap game shows were in.
So this once vaunted cop show was shoved further and further into the dark hours until you needed to be a night watchman or an insomniac to keep abreast of it.
Now it languishes on More4.
It has reached 17/20 Series 12.
Andy Sipowicz (Dennis Franz) has been made a uniformed Sergeant and is clearly not too happy.
Greg Medavoy (Gordon Clapp) has found a romantic interest and is seriously considering leaving the force.
Reckon Sipowicz back to Detective before the series ends?
Ah-h-h-h-h! Why should we care? Obviously the so-called programmers/schedulers - whatever - don't.

60. Thoughts on an Ellisless day

BABY BOO AND ME.

The baby Ellis (20 months) will not be in to see me today.
My Leader has gone to his house to be there if the delivery van arrives from a local DIY shop ("We will deliver from 8 am onwards"). Time was when trades people delivered at times requested but now they tell you what they will or won't do. We've become far too apathetic in this country.
Anyway, his mother (our Roz) is off doing her lollipop lady job and, as decreed by Sod's Law, will probably not be around when the van arrives.
Hence the change in the usual arrangement.
The usual arrangement is for Roz to arrive here each schoolday morning bringing daughter Jess (who is a pupil at the school across the road from us) and the baby Ellis who stays with us until his mother returns from work.
He has his own routine.
First he greets his grandmother who is always downstairs to meet them all.
The 'hallo' drops in the middle and rises again, the 'there' becomes 'air.'
"A-a-a-o-o-Oa-a-aiR."
He then climbs the stairs, unaided, comes to me, sitting in bed, and says : "A-a-o-O, Boo."
A month or so ago I was Daish (presumably his attempt at Dennis) and my Leader was, still is, Gosh (not a clue where that came from).
Now I am Boo.
How that happened is not exactly clear, either.
But I feel very flattered because Boo is Roz's pet name for him so I feel he associates it with someone who is loved.
My invariable reply is: "'Allo, baby Boo."
He then holds his arms wide and reaches up to give me a quick cuddle.
Next he turns to my bedside cabinet, picks up the recumbent phone and settles it on its stand.
If I have not donned my glasses he lifts them off the cabinet and ceremoniously hands them to me.
A Boo without spectacles is not a satisfactory Boo.
And then he turns and points up to where the biscuit tin resides on top of my chest of drawers.
You see, a Boo without spectacles might lose the location of the biscuit tin.
He dances on tippytoes as the biscuit tin comes down and applies maximum concentration to the choosing of the right biscuit.
Biscuit chosen he heads for the door, takes the ten stairs to the ground floor on his backside, and until his breakfast arrives settles in my armchair to watch Bob The Builder, Barney, Poo Bear, Balamory or that Octopus thingy on video.
His conversation about it all is constant and mostly unintelligible.
I think the cat Shadow understands him.
When baby Ellis croons: "Ah-h-h, ca-a-at..." it is time to curl up in a tighter ball or head for the catflap
Of course I sometimes sigh a heartfelt sigh of relief when the little bloke goes home.
But when he has gone a certain emptiness comes over the place.
It does not really wake up again until the next cry of:
"A-a-a-a-o-o-oha-a-a-aiR!"

I SHALL BE WATCHING...

BBC1 are showing the new drama Five Days over three nights this week and two nights next.
So far it has been a splendid example of what televiewing should be about.
The story is gripping.
The acting is superb.
The direction is faultless.
It is a thoroughly professional presentation.
I may tape anything which could arguably compete but I shall certainly be watching Five Days.

I SHALL NOT BE WATCHING...

The world famous Australian cook John Torode (who?) famous, presumably, for his braised kangaroo and the greengrocer Gregg Wallace (who?) elevated to nutrition expert for a week, are back on BBC2 with their reality 'let's scoff their food and insult them' tele cook show.
I may watch something I've taped but I shall certainly not be watching MasterChef Goes Large.

59. Ruminations of the cat Shadow

MORE FOOTBALL COMMENT.

I went downstairs to the cat Shadow.
He was curled up on his big beanbag and appeared to be asleep.
He opened one eye.
"Where you been?" he demanded.
"Blog," I replied, trying not to sound too defensive.
He snorted.
"Y'know," I said, "you're the only cat I've ever come across who can snort."
"You missed the football," he said. "It was the team managed by that bloke who kicks boots at people when they lose. They lost. You'll be sorry you missed that."
He seldom gives Alex Ferguson a name, never mind Sir Alex. He is convinced that there walks one knight of the realm who would kick a football boot at a convenient cat if Manchester United lost.
"Up against Arsenal, weren't they?" I inquired.
"The unsmiling Frenchman. Him with Thierry Henri in his team: and still he can't smile."
"That's Arsene Wenger," I said. "He probably smiles inside."
"He must have done at the end of that game," the cat Shadow chortled. "In extra time ol' Henri rose head and shoulders above the very best in the Premiership to head the winner."
"I would have liked to see that," I admitted.
"Oh, just watch the footie programmes for a couple of weeks," he said. "It'll be repeated often enough."
"Didn't Arsenal beat them away, too?"
"Yep. It was the double. Talk about snow in Scotland. There was sure ice at the Emirates Stadium when those managers did the hypocritical handshake at the end. They didn't even look at each other."
"It's good to see the magnanimity of two sporting leaders," I said. "Lifts your heart."
"Don't it just," he said.

THEN THE WHOLE SPORTS THING.

I had barely got comfortable when he landed on my lap with all the arrogance of a cat who has owned you for long enough to know who's boss.
"Truth to tell," he ventured, "I don't have much time for sport. I think its benefits are greatly overrated."
"Go on, maestro," I said.
"Well, take the English. Not bad at games where they can be jolly good losers and tell themselves that it isn't the winning but the taking part that counts. Rubbish at sports where the only point in competing is to win and make money."
"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?" I said. "We started things like football and cricket. You can't expect to win all the time just because you invented something. Other countries will desperately want to beat us because we invented the game."
"Other countries will desperately want to beat us because they hate our guts." he said. "Look at the Scots with football. Look at the Welsh and French with rugger. Look at the Aussies with cricket. Don't even think about the Irish. And look at the whole of Europe with the Eurovision song contest."
That's neither sport nor entertainment," I objected.
"Whatever," he said. "If a sensible cat had been running things this country would have opted out of all sports. Sports are just wars waged on playing fields. We won the wars years ago. Why fight them again now?
"England should have refused to appear on a cricket pitch after Douglas Jardine and Harold Larwood polished off the Australians. They should have packed in football before the Hungarians came along. As for rugger, if they had done the right thing and expelled that boy who picked up the ball at Rugby School thousands of broken bones and cauliflower ears would have been avoided. Anyway, if you can't beat 'em don't play 'em. Sod sportsmanship, it doesn't exist."
"Snooker?" I suggested, cautiously.
"Club game made big by tele," he said. "The more money it attracts the less friendly it will become. You see."
I sighed.
I started to tell him that he was not in favour of sport because he was such a bad loser.
But he had already gone back to sleep.

58. Bloggerdom is a very big place indeed

THOSE CUSSED BLOGS OF NOTE.

I have allowed myself to be influenced by the BlogEd's cussed
Blogs Of Note again.
Fatal mistake.
I am still enjoying TrippingOnWords at least once a week and have been brought down to earth by the realization that Bloggerdom is a very big place indeed.
Not all of it is given over to advertisements, technical photographs and bloggerdegook.
Yesterday I sat enthralled at the Adventures of the Urban Cowgirl.
This lovely Londoner moved to New Zealand last year.
Her description of being swung above a gorge on some sort of rope and wire device is priceless.
Scared to tears, but fuck it, she'd paid for it.
Her search for a job took me back fifty years.
The BlogEds didn't stop there.
They put me on to gilest.org where the freelance writer Giles Turnbull had me laughing aloud at his experience with an old couple's narrow boat and head shaking with admiration at his determination to mend a washing machine.
Neither of these bloggers is just a keyboard tapper.
Both will have a go at something active.
Think I might take a stroll down town later on.

MORE MIDSOMER MURDERS.

Yep, they're back to their killing ways again. A new three part series of Midsomer Murders started last night on ITV1.
A walk up a long driveway still has dear old John Nettles sounding as though he has run a mile.
Dead bodies can appear in pairs.
Patrick Troughton's son, David, and the West's boy, Samuel, were (as they are in just about everything nowadays) welcome guests.
I wrestled with falling asleep because after ten I can do that,
My Leader shouted me awake a couple of times.
I enjoyed every waking moment..
They can keep their all too serious reality television.
At the same time I recorded NCIS followed by Law And Order; Criminal Intent.
Probably it will be more of Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) and Det Robert Goran (Vincent D'Onofrio) trying to convince me that murderers who have been set free by plea bargaining can gain access to any secure establishment in America and open fire on the hapless denizens.
I shall scoff at the notion.
I shall check on Mark Harmon's haircut.
I shall remark that there must be a competition going on between Vincent D'Onofrio and David Caruso for the title America's Most Mannered Actor.
And I shall enjoy the entire silliness of it all.

57. A Connecticut Yankee in King Kos's Court

BUT FIRST THE SCOTS.

Taggart was back on the box last night. A new one-off (ITV1).
This is a Scottish thriller for Scots.
White Heather Club it ain't.
What it is, in case you are anti thriller or living in another dimension, is Detective Chief Inspector Matt Burke (Alex Norton) and his unglamorous crew taking on an assortment of hardcase Scottish villains.
There are no sympathetic characters (except perhaps the gay Detective Constable Stuart Fraser played by Colin McCredie) and the grim, generally ugly, locations chosen by the makers of the show are well matched by the grim, generally ugly, appearance of most of the cast.
It seethes with violence and resentment.
It has incomprehensible plots with stark endings.
It is snarled out in a broad Scottish brogue.
It defies you to be critical and if you are: stuff you!
You're probably a Sassenach anyway.
I love it.

BLOG WARS.

This was a sort of Connecticut Yankee in King Kos's court documentary in the Storyville series on BBC4 and told of the remarkable influence wielded by bloggers like Kos in the Connecticut Democratic Senatorial primary race of the 2006 mid-term elections. (Whatever all that may mean.)
I have about as much faith in politicians as I do in clergymen or estate agents or tabloid journalists.
So I did find it rather sad, and no little disturbing, that one young woman sat cross-legged (the lotus position?) mouthing a relentless diatribe about anybody who dared to criticise the glorious leader of her faultless country. There was something of the automaton about it.
The politician the bloggers were bent on deposing was clearly a smug tosser.
The one they had chosen to replace him was clearly a wealthy tosser.
I wondered what everybody over there was on.
It could almost have been written by Mark Twain.
I was reminded again that we are divided by a common language.
I remembered the unwittingly funny comment by the 1963 - 69 U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson that he never arrived in another country without thinking that the people there would like to be Americans.
What a smug, dog-ear-pulling President that one was!
I am an admirer of many things American.
But much of what they have exported they should have kept to themselves.

THAT CELEBRITY BIG BROTHER THING.

Was this an American import?
After all the free publicity gained from accusations of bullying I gather that the recently mediocre viewing figures for this dire crap shot up by a couple of million last night.
No, I wasn't one of them.
Channel 4 will be overjoyed of course.
They will probably be planning yet another series.
There's no justice.

56. Up, Up and Away!

BACK AGAIN WITH HIGH HOPES.

Late this afternoon I found myself back in touch with the world without resorting to magic.
I think both Merlin and Albus Dumbledore would have been impressed by the tortuous route I had been taking to break out of the Outlook Express/Blogger prison in which I found myself.
But at last I appear to be free.
So as Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, once said: " Publish and be damned!"
My thanks as ever go to my long-suffering son and, this time, to the Broadband Band at Tesco's broadbandsupport, too.
I am back again - with high hopes!

BULLIES ARE STILL SCUM.

The news in the last couple of days has included an item about a Bollywood star in the Big Brother house who, it is alleged, has been mercilessly bullied by fellow occupants.
Viewers have complained of racial discrimination and ceaseless mockery.
As I have remarked before, I do not watch any of this unreal reality crap.
So why a girl from any film world would choose to join such a show is beyond me.
Are they paid that much to have some voyeuristic little prick who calls himself a television producer train a camera on them day and night?
And so far as the guilty housemates are concerned, bullies really are scum.
Surely it is time now to drop this excuse for entertainment altogether.
Pay a few more actors.
Make a few more films and plays.
Bring back variety.
Gawdalmighty! Go mad if you have to!
Teach Jade Goody to juggle!

55. At last 2007!

MADE IT!

I did complete a post.
Took me the entire afternoon last Monday.
Came to the Publish bit and everything went haywire.
The computer had been intermittently playing silly baskets since the beginning of the year and it chose that moment to lose the lot.
Nothing went right after that.
Until today.
Today Neil, the Cornish guru, studied the problem via Skype.
I pointed our camera at the screen while he dispensed instructions and did some educated guesswork.
Worked surprisingly well.
He has Emailed me a possible solution.
Within minutes of our parting company my broadband problem service rang.
I must admit that after a couple of days I had begun to think that the biggest problems were (1) to contact them and (2) to understand them when you did.
This time it was a readily understandable chap with a degree in patience and tact.
It took ages, mind, and left me feeling somewhat ashamed of my intolerance with all the previous waiting.
I suppose they're dealing with lengthy problems and difficult customers every day.
It's just that when you have been told you will be in a queue, or given a time to expect a call...Ah well.
In the end, though, problem sorted.
So I'm up and running in 2007.
Unless this whole thing goes pear shaped on me as soon as I try to publish.