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!
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
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
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