MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Yes, it's Christmas again and our little house is alive with goodwill and greetings cards and (mostly Father Christmas) decorations. If you're passing, pop in; if you're not, let me take this opportunity to say
MERRY CHRISTMAS, DEAR FRIENDS, AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!
READING.
Alan Bennet.
I finished Alan Bennett's Untold Stories with mixed feelings.
Heartened yet faintly saddened best sums it up.
Can't say why.
Greatly respect the man. He impresses as a decent human being. He is well regarded; an intellectual; a talented playwright; a man who has twice been offered a knighthood and who, deep down, probably regrets at least one of his principled decisions to decline it.
My mixed feelings about the book were not helped when a friend enthused that she had read it twice and enjoyed it even more the second time because she had then picked up on things she seemed to have missed earlier.
Once was enough for me.
Don't think I could take all those churches and graveyards and encounters with celebrities a second time around.
Perhaps I'm just too godless.
J.K.Rowling.
Maybe it is the mood of the moment but I finished reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard with mixed feelings, too.
I can, and doubtless shall, read it a second - even third - time.
It's tiny enough.
But somehow I came out of the first encounter wondering whether these little tales served any other purpose than as a collection box for the Children's High Level Group charity.
Doesn't really matter.
It is obviously a very worthwhile charity and it is still the J.K.Rowling who, so far as I am concerned, can walk on water.
I just feel she may have got her feet a little wet this time.
HEALTH.
That magical damn cold.
I have had that damn cold again.
Coughing and oozing and thinking of applying for the number of handkerchiefs I could fill in one day to be added to the Guinness Book of Records.
So how did I come by it this time?
Wasn't difficult.
Grandson Ellis, who carried it around for a few weeks, decided the time had come to pass it on. At the same time he discovered the CD game Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets to be played on my computer with me as his assistant.
He simply said: "Expelliarmus!" and my immune system was disarmed.
Cough and cold transference was effortless.
Perhaps I should have said "Specialis Revelio!" to identify the ingredients or enchantments in his potion, but I didn't.
I didn't think to say "Finite Incantatum," which stops any current spells, either.
What? Oh, if it bothers you just look up Harry Potter - Spells: Veritaserum Book 7 on Google.
TELEVISION.
Maigret.
Have been watching the French Maigret, Bruno Cremer: very good in a Rupert Davies sort of way.
Georges Simenon was such a superb writer of detective fiction and to be given the chance to play his main character must be an actor's dream equalled only, I would suspect, with being offered the role of Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe (Dick Powell was the definitive) or Leslie Charteris's The Saint (George Sanders was never bettered).
Incidentally, Michael Gambon has played both Maigret and Philip Marlowe, but his Marlowe was the Dennis Potter version (Marlow) in The Singing Detective.
European detectives have been the vogue on British television of late starting with:-
Wallander.
A Swedish Maigret character played in a recent three part English tv series by Kenneth Branagh who looked, for the most part, as though he had just woken up and had slept in his clothes.
The unwashed, unshaven, tangle-haired look did quite suit him though.
Henning Mankell wrote the books and proved to be an interesting interviewee in a subsidiary documentary.
Simultaneously the BBC screened two Wallander films from Sweden good enough to make me forget I was reading subtitles. Swedish actor Krister Henriksson was a much less dishevilled version of the detective.
I enjoyed both depictions and will now buy the books which, I have to confess, had so far eluded me: the Swedish representation in my elderly library of thrillers runs to just a couple by Sjowall and Wahloo. Time to correct that.
Time, too, to look for Andrea Camilleri's books about:-
Montalbano.
Inspector Montalbano is a fictional Italian detective based in Sicily.
Played by Luca Zingaretti he swam onto our screens in Excursion To Tindari (BBC4) and immediately established himself as a thoroughly decent Maigret type and worthy bookshelf companion for Wallander.
I really must increase my crime library - though not so loudly as to alert my Leader of my intentions.
There's never enough shelf space for the books we already have!
DANCE.
Strictly Come Dancing.
I nearly gave this a miss. Not the programme (which surely had millions hooked) but writing about it.
You should never read the observations of someone like Carrie Dunn (Organ Grinder Blog) before you do your own thing. She will be way ahead of you.
Not only that...she'll be right. Dreadful girl!
At the risk of losing friends, here is an excerpt from my computer diary of the 20th December:-
In the evening we watched Simply Come Dancing - the final - which was won by an actor called Tom Chambers from the Holby City Hospital programme.
Second, and the better dancer, was singer Rachel Stevens.
Third was model and television presenter Lisa Snowdon (also a better dancer) who lost the viewers' sympathy early on with a tendency to tears which clearly disconcerted her professional partner, the talented but touchy New Zealander Brendan Cole.
So, by whatever means it was fixed, the tossers with telephones finally had their way.
Tom came across as a nice enough lad, though, and his final dance was quite a show stopper.
I just wish ol' Forsyth and the rest of 'em had refrained from comparing him and Camilla Dallerup with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.
The artistry of the latter pair will never be matched and they must be pirouetting in their graves!
LAST WORD.
Apologies.
If this year is to be remembered for anything much it will have to be for the number of apologies bandied about, mostly by the police and the BBC, in the (surely mistaken) belief that by saying sorry and admitting you were wrong you will probably be forgiven.
Latest - and hopefully last - grovel this year was at the weekend when Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner Bob Quick was required to retract comments he had made that the Conservative Party tried to undermine a Whitehall leaks enquiry.
I know nothing of A,C, Quick's private life. His wife's business affairs are no concern of mine and, since I don't read the office boy press, I shall remain blissfully unaware of them.
But if he says that any politician, of whatever party, is a corrupt rascal, he will be but telling the truth.
There should be no need to apologise for that.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
113. A cute picture and a few words
A-A-A-H!Our friend Jan Bennett forwarded us this Picture of The Year.
Don't know who first sent it or to whom.
And I'm not much of a believer.
But it's a gem, ain't it.
NOVEMBER AGAIN.
Yep! November again. The little front garden and the rear courtyard full of holy leaves from the nearby church, educated leaves from the school opposite and neighbourly leaves from further along the terrace.
Me sweeping, cursing, roundly objecting that I have no trees and fully aware that I am back to my autumn (US: fall) Groundhog Day.
Ah well, there are plently of poor old devils who cannot walk around their garden unaided, let alone sweep it.
I count myself lucky.
MAGIC FOR 75p.
My Leader came across it quite by chance.
It was hanging alone on a peg at the end of a sale line in M & S.
It was a Spiderman helmet/mask which had apparently lost its outfit and it was priced at 75 pence (which I think is currently 1.11 USD).
It was presented to Grandson Ellis (3) who is obtaining wicked enjoyment from it.
We now have Spiderman leaping from behind doors; crawling on his belly across floors which have imaginatively been transformed into the walls of skyscrapers; firing web strands at us from between the first and little fingers of each hand and happily answering to the name Peter Parker.
He has the full outfit - the pyjamas too - but never mind that: best of all he has what he cheerfully refers to as "My hat."
Oh, every now and then he pulls it off to reveal a beaming face and tell us, like LeClair in Allo Allo, "It's me!"
We look suitably surprised. Gosh! It's not Peter Parker!
75 pence worth of magic.
I MISS THIS SOFTLY SPOKEN ASSASSIN.
Some time ago Stephen Fry, who presumably only appeared for the money, explained why he disliked critics and persuaded Paul Merton to consign the outspoken critic and poet Tom Paulin to Room 101.
Even if he heard about it (and doubtless some unwell wisher will have told him) I cannot imagine that Dr.Paulin was unduly concerned.
He has faced far worse.
Since then, though, I have seen him but once on Newsnight Review (BBC2).
I wonder why.
Is he too busy at Oxford?
Has he felt that he must slow down?
Has he been declared persona non grata by some pillock in power at the BBC?
Whatever.
I miss this softly spoken assassin's amiable appearance at eleven o'clock of a Friday night.
His fellow critic Germaine Greer is seldom seen now, either.
Pity.
They could so be relied upon to disagree.
TWO SPECIAL SCORPIOS.
Last week my Leader reached the age of 65 and became entitled to monotonously moan about everybody and everything: forever.
Today our granddaughter Jess is thirteen and entitled to sulk for England for the next six years.
Neither of 'em will do any such thing of course.
Not in our house they won't.
THINGS PEOPLE SEND.
Jokes, pictures and trivia still arrive in my email as the above picture shows.
Most of it is amusing, some of it touching, a little of it irksome.
I am seldom shocked and quite often intrigued.
Try this if you have not already seen it:
Click Here:
Unusual Puzzle
And as the comedian Jimmy Wheeler used to say, "Aye aye, that's your lot!"
Sunday, October 26, 2008
112. Diary type stuff and that...
PONDERING PEPYS
"Have you thought about my diary idea for your blog?" asked the cat Shadow.
"Not really," I said."Now that I've read Alan Bennett's Diaries 1996 - 2004 in Untold Stories I don't think I'd have much to say."
"What, because you don't go pottering around churches or hobnobbing with acting luminaries?"
"Something like that, yes."
"OK, so you're not a church spotter and, as for actors, your man's a playwright so he's going to know plenty of them. It's like when you were in the NHS you knew a lot of doctors and other professionals. Bloody'ell, the only difference between church spotting and train spotting is that churches are marginally colder than railway stations."
"Oh, come on, how would you know that?"
"By popping up the road to St. Johns of course. There are people there who think I'm the church cat. Sometimes on a Sunday they bring me treats. Even the most mean little Christian can be quite generous if you look pious enough."
"I never know when to believe you," I said.
"Does anybody?" he said. "Just get on with the writing..."
25th OCTOBER.
Suddenly another year gone and time again for the AGM of the Flu Jab Club.
The club has a limited membership consisting of my Leader, and I and our friends Wendy and Mo.
This year, in keeping with the times, the surgery did not send out reminder letters but relied on us to read the County Press or make a phone call to find out when they would be administering whatever causative agent may currently be in vogue.
It was to be this Saturday or last and as Matt, son of Wendy and grandson of Mo, was home from University for the first time last weekend, the AGM was set for this weekend.
We are old hands by now and waft through the needle puncturing procedure like partying jet-setters half our age.
Afterwards we ignore the "sit fast for ten minutes" advice and repair to God's Providence House (so named because the plague of 1584 failed to claim its inhabitants) for tea or coffee and marvellous cheese scones.
We exchange family news. We have been friends for nearly thirty years and when we part company we may see them no more than a couple of times before next year's meeting.
It matters not.
Time is a sprinter.
Last year was yesterday. Next year is tomorrow.
26th OCTOBER.
This morning on The Politics Show (BBC1) there was a documentary about a new library/cafe/conference centre at Winchester, allied to discussion on whether a comment by Culture Secretary Andy Burnham (who?) that libraries should be about coffee and chatter carried any weight.
Viewers were invited to email or text their views on whether enticing people, by whatever means, into a place where they could encounter books, was necessarily a good thing and to text with what they thought would be a good title for a book on the "Future of Libraries."
I instantly thought of a title - "This Happy Read" - but didn't text it.
My wife and my daughter and my granddaughter and all their friends, they text.
I don't text. Don't know how.
Seldom remember to take my mobile phone when I leave the house, either.
I'm danger enough on the roads without fiddlin' with an effin' phone.
My Leader liked the "This Happy Read" title, though.
Who cares that it missed the tortuous texting?
27th OCTOBER.
The big sports news is that Harry Redknapp has left Portsmouth FC to become manager of Tottenham Hotspur.
It was very sudden and has left Pompey in a state of shock.
In lieu of any comment from the cat Shadow, who highly rates ol' Harry, I shall have to rely on the personal view that he took a struggling side, made something of it, and was probably never going to better the FA Cup win of last year.
Now he has returned to his London origins, will certainly be paid more than the million-or-so a year he was getting with The Blues and stands, if he stays lucky, to go out on an enormous high. Good luck to him.
28th OCTOBER.
Today was Spycatchers' Lunch day.
I was lucky enough to be invited to join this Island group just after I retired in 1989. We meet for lunch once a month, usually on the last Tuesday and at a different pub each time.
We have a pretty darned good idea which pubs are currently serving the best food and which to avoid.
It makes for a pleasant two or three hours and it hurts nobody.
29th OCTOBER.
Somebody has finally found the excuse they have been looking for to curb the lewdly ebullient Jonathan Ross and oust the constantly outrageous Russell Brand.
Their sheer bad taste was presumably proving too much of an embarrassment to somebody up there and a foolishly teenage kind of non-joke involving phoning the actor Andrew Sachs about his granddaughter's sexual activities has provided the opportunity to kill off two highly expensive birds with one sanctimonious stone.
I think it's the same sort of daft reasoning that saw off Greg Dyke.
Neither of these lads is my sort of broadcaster (you have to be a bit elderly to remember Alvar Liddell, Stuart Hibberd and Bruce Belfrage) but at worst I can only regard them as a couple of tiresome tossers.
And now the Prime Minister has had to butt in.
Why?
Because he hopes to take our minds off the economy?
30th OCTOBER.
"What do you think?" I asked the cat Shadow, recumbent on my Epson printer."Reckon this diary thing works?"
"It's all right," he said unconvincingly. "Bit like your usual, but with dates instead of headings. Y'know, I think we may have had this conversation before."
"It's not easy writing currently about current affairs" I said. "And Ross and Brand were well covered by Peter Tatchell - for want of a better way of putting it - in The Guardian this morning."
"Yeah, but your views are free Nobody has to pay national newspaper prices for them."
I sighed: "Nobody would pay ten quid to read them in paperback, either."
"Never mind, mate," he said. "You've mentioned a few celebs, all you need now is a church or two. Why not pop up the road to St. Johns?"
AND A BIT OF LIGHT RELIEF.
Friends Sheila and Anonymous John have sent us the following Fw from a friend of theirs.
It has a decided charm in an Always look on the Bright Side of Life sort of way.
It is certainly worth the couple of minutes or so of viewing/listening time.
Give it a try:
http://dingo.care2.com/cards/flash/5409/galaxy.swf
"Have you thought about my diary idea for your blog?" asked the cat Shadow.
"Not really," I said."Now that I've read Alan Bennett's Diaries 1996 - 2004 in Untold Stories I don't think I'd have much to say."
"What, because you don't go pottering around churches or hobnobbing with acting luminaries?"
"Something like that, yes."
"OK, so you're not a church spotter and, as for actors, your man's a playwright so he's going to know plenty of them. It's like when you were in the NHS you knew a lot of doctors and other professionals. Bloody'ell, the only difference between church spotting and train spotting is that churches are marginally colder than railway stations."
"Oh, come on, how would you know that?"
"By popping up the road to St. Johns of course. There are people there who think I'm the church cat. Sometimes on a Sunday they bring me treats. Even the most mean little Christian can be quite generous if you look pious enough."
"I never know when to believe you," I said.
"Does anybody?" he said. "Just get on with the writing..."
25th OCTOBER.
Suddenly another year gone and time again for the AGM of the Flu Jab Club.
The club has a limited membership consisting of my Leader, and I and our friends Wendy and Mo.
This year, in keeping with the times, the surgery did not send out reminder letters but relied on us to read the County Press or make a phone call to find out when they would be administering whatever causative agent may currently be in vogue.
It was to be this Saturday or last and as Matt, son of Wendy and grandson of Mo, was home from University for the first time last weekend, the AGM was set for this weekend.
We are old hands by now and waft through the needle puncturing procedure like partying jet-setters half our age.
Afterwards we ignore the "sit fast for ten minutes" advice and repair to God's Providence House (so named because the plague of 1584 failed to claim its inhabitants) for tea or coffee and marvellous cheese scones.
We exchange family news. We have been friends for nearly thirty years and when we part company we may see them no more than a couple of times before next year's meeting.
It matters not.
Time is a sprinter.
Last year was yesterday. Next year is tomorrow.
26th OCTOBER.
This morning on The Politics Show (BBC1) there was a documentary about a new library/cafe/conference centre at Winchester, allied to discussion on whether a comment by Culture Secretary Andy Burnham (who?) that libraries should be about coffee and chatter carried any weight.
Viewers were invited to email or text their views on whether enticing people, by whatever means, into a place where they could encounter books, was necessarily a good thing and to text with what they thought would be a good title for a book on the "Future of Libraries."
I instantly thought of a title - "This Happy Read" - but didn't text it.
My wife and my daughter and my granddaughter and all their friends, they text.
I don't text. Don't know how.
Seldom remember to take my mobile phone when I leave the house, either.
I'm danger enough on the roads without fiddlin' with an effin' phone.
My Leader liked the "This Happy Read" title, though.
Who cares that it missed the tortuous texting?
27th OCTOBER.
The big sports news is that Harry Redknapp has left Portsmouth FC to become manager of Tottenham Hotspur.
It was very sudden and has left Pompey in a state of shock.
In lieu of any comment from the cat Shadow, who highly rates ol' Harry, I shall have to rely on the personal view that he took a struggling side, made something of it, and was probably never going to better the FA Cup win of last year.
Now he has returned to his London origins, will certainly be paid more than the million-or-so a year he was getting with The Blues and stands, if he stays lucky, to go out on an enormous high. Good luck to him.
28th OCTOBER.
Today was Spycatchers' Lunch day.
I was lucky enough to be invited to join this Island group just after I retired in 1989. We meet for lunch once a month, usually on the last Tuesday and at a different pub each time.
We have a pretty darned good idea which pubs are currently serving the best food and which to avoid.
It makes for a pleasant two or three hours and it hurts nobody.
29th OCTOBER.
Somebody has finally found the excuse they have been looking for to curb the lewdly ebullient Jonathan Ross and oust the constantly outrageous Russell Brand.
Their sheer bad taste was presumably proving too much of an embarrassment to somebody up there and a foolishly teenage kind of non-joke involving phoning the actor Andrew Sachs about his granddaughter's sexual activities has provided the opportunity to kill off two highly expensive birds with one sanctimonious stone.
I think it's the same sort of daft reasoning that saw off Greg Dyke.
Neither of these lads is my sort of broadcaster (you have to be a bit elderly to remember Alvar Liddell, Stuart Hibberd and Bruce Belfrage) but at worst I can only regard them as a couple of tiresome tossers.
And now the Prime Minister has had to butt in.
Why?
Because he hopes to take our minds off the economy?
30th OCTOBER.
"What do you think?" I asked the cat Shadow, recumbent on my Epson printer."Reckon this diary thing works?"
"It's all right," he said unconvincingly. "Bit like your usual, but with dates instead of headings. Y'know, I think we may have had this conversation before."
"It's not easy writing currently about current affairs" I said. "And Ross and Brand were well covered by Peter Tatchell - for want of a better way of putting it - in The Guardian this morning."
"Yeah, but your views are free Nobody has to pay national newspaper prices for them."
I sighed: "Nobody would pay ten quid to read them in paperback, either."
"Never mind, mate," he said. "You've mentioned a few celebs, all you need now is a church or two. Why not pop up the road to St. Johns?"
AND A BIT OF LIGHT RELIEF.
Friends Sheila and Anonymous John have sent us the following Fw from a friend of theirs.
It has a decided charm in an Always look on the Bright Side of Life sort of way.
It is certainly worth the couple of minutes or so of viewing/listening time.
Give it a try:
http://dingo.care2.com/cards/flash/5409/galaxy.swf
Sunday, October 12, 2008
111. Decidedly not a celebrity diary.
WHY KEEP A DIARY?
The cat Shadow has found an unchallenged armchair in the dining room where, free from the inconvenience of casual visitors and slightly suspect small admirers, he can sleep the day away. As a consequence our recent conversations have been limited.
Today, however, he did open one eye as I headed for the stairs.
"I'm going to do some blogging and I know I'm late again," I said defensively.
"You should do it daily instead of your computer diary, mate," he muttered, and sensibly went back to sleep.
Perhaps he's right.
I have thought about it.
Of course I have.
But mine is not a celebrity diary.
Mine could never boast throwaway lines like: Met Maggie Smith in Tesco today and we talked about... or...I thought Albert Schweitzer would be impressive and when I came across him in 1953 I was not disappointed...
No, my diary is more your: Went down to Somerfield in a drizzle...shouted a hallo to that nice little bloke Oz in the chip shop as I went by...and...One of those lovely women from the card shop asked Ellis: "Is Granddad looking after you well today, then?" and was haughtily put right with: "He's not Granddad, he's Boo."
Which reminds one that, even in the kindest way, a three year old should never be patronised...
Anyway, nobody would want too much of that.
I seldom look back in my diary and nobody else is encouraged to read it.
So why do I bother?
Dunno.
But sitting on a park bench doing nothing would bore me daft.
Even on a beautiful day like today.
Today the sun is shining, the temperature is mild, pretty girls wearing short-sleeved tops and skimpy shorts are strolling past the house.
It's marvellous.
So bugger worrying about global warming.
That's a diary entry worth making on Sunday 12th October, 2008.
I may read it again and again.
BOOKS.
Clarissa Dickson Wright's autobiography Spilling The Beans was a jolly good read.
There was quite a lot with which I did not agree and plenty that did not agree with me: but equally there was much to admire.
There is certainly more to her than an English upper crust tendency to pronounce out and about as eight and abate.
She comes across as a good friend.
My late father would have described her as a big party with a big heart.
I have read again Lee Harper's American classic To Kill A Mocking Bird.
For an English child of the nineteen thirties, this wonderful depiction of life in the Deep South at that time - sensitively portrayed through the eyes of the little girl Scout Finch - is a fascinating, moving and at times hilarious insight into life in another world.
Loved it first time out. Still do.
I finally came to the end of The Silent World Of Nicholas Quinn by Colin Dexter.
Saw the television adaptation again, too. Very good.
All the Morse stories converted well to film, though.
It is my problem that I preferred the films to the books.
Anyway, all I have left to finish now is Untold Stories by Alan Bennett.
My Leader will kill me if I don't finish it soon.
Turns out she has been patiently waiting to read it. No of course I didn't know.
She's the mind reading one in our marriage: I'm the one who is surprised by nothing.
TELE.
ITV1 recently screened The Island, a 2005 film starring Ewan McGregor, Scarlett Johanssen and Sean Bean, a futuristic fantasy.
It was somewhat Soylent Green in concept, with the added attraction of wonderful action scenes. We enjoyed every minute of it.
Have been watching The Lord of the Rings on C4. Glorious locations in New Zealand, excellent casting which included Elijah Wood, Sean Astin, Ian McKellen, and a splendid array of fellow stars.
Immaculately directed by Peter Jackson, this is a trilogy to be savoured over and over again.
I shall do just that.
I have the DVDs.
What? No, you can't borrow them. Buy your own.
My leader and I enjoyed Lost in Austen, a brand new slant on the classic Pride and Prejudice. Amanda Price (Jemima Rooper) was transported (via a magical door in her bathroom) into the novel to transform it in a way that really must have had Jane Austen spinning in her grave.
It was beaurifully acted tosh and great fun.
When it comes to tosh, we are also enjoying the new series Merlin on BBC1.
This Saturday night warm up for Strictly Come Dancing so rewrites Arthurian legend as to make Merlin roughly the same teen age as Arthur.
Never mind, it has Richard Wilson, Anthony Head, the Voice of the Dragon provided byJohn Hurt and a pleasant couple of youngsters in the leading roles.
Everybody seems to be having a good time and all it lacks is Sgt. Joe Friday coming in at the end to say: "The story you have just been told is a rewritten legend - only the names have not been changed..."
Another short series of Agatha Christie's Poirot has been running on ITV1.
All right I suppose, but I think he should by now be doing something about the mysterious disappearance of Captain Hastings, Miss Lemon and dear old Inspector Japp.
When all's said and done, these people were his closest television companions.
If he has not yet missed them what sort of a bloody sleuth is he?
By contrast, Patrick Harbinson's adaptation of Val McDermid's Place of Execution cleared up a few questions.
For example, what really did happen to Stan Shunpike (Lee Ingleby) after he was pulled off his bus conductor job in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and unfairly imprisoned?
Well, it seems that, at Harry's insistence, he was released to re-invent himself as DS John Bacchus, assistant to George Gently.
That worthy kindly saved him from further ignominy and he moved up the police ladder to reappear in Place of Execution as DI George Bennett whose older self, ex Chief Constable Old George Bennett, is also (wake up, Poirot!) former Chief Inspector James Japp (Philip Jackson).
Don't you just love the complexities of cop show casting?
Whatever, this was a darned good mystery yarn perfectly acted and directed.
Last Thursday that amiable and commendably outspoken little chap Ian Hislop presented a documentary on BBC4 about the demise of British railways.
Ian Hislop Goes Off The Rails told how, in the early sixties, the benighted Richard Beeching, installed by the manipulative Ernest Marples, closed so many so-called 'unprofitable' branch railway lines that the rail network was virtually halved.
Motorways were then constructed to be quickly transformed into clogged up miles of unattended cones.
Gawd bless far-sighted government.
WRITERS.
ITV3 had a corker of an idea for rehashing old programmes with its Crime Thriller 2008 competition.
The awards ceremony was shown on Monday 6th October.
The writers who somehow came to be in contention were Colin Dexter, P.D.James, Lynda LaPlante, Val McDermid, Ian Rankin and Ruth Rendell.
Nothing wrong with that.
The eventual winner was Colin Dexter, however, and I felt there was something vaguely wrong with that.
In my computer diary I wondered why none of the (decidedly more compelling) top women writers had been chosen and added:- When the result was announced, Ruth Rendell and Val McDermid exchanged "would you fucking credit it?" looks that said it all. I think dear old P.D.James probably felt it less, but she had been suitably compensated with one of those "all time great" sops that showbiz dishes out to anybody old enough to be considered suitable for sainthood.
Oh, the programme was presented by Alan Davies and he did an excellent job.
N.B. More Jonathan Creek, please, David Renwick.
AND LASTLY, POLITICS.
Well. as my friends will appreciate, nothing comes more lastly to me than politics.
Together with all the other aliens, however, I am finding it quite impossible to ignore the final lap of the race to become President of America.
Why, I find myself asking, despite constant exhortation, should I barrack Obama? I don't even know the man.
As for this fellow McCain; the oven chips, if they are his, are OK, but they are no more impressive than those of Aunt Bessie.
(Sorry America, I think that's a British Joke.)
Frankly, I don't think the appointment of either gentleman is going to benefit the rest of the world.
And I happen to live in the rest of the world.
(Sorry again, America, but until one of your leaders has it completely wiped out, it does exist.)
The cat Shadow has found an unchallenged armchair in the dining room where, free from the inconvenience of casual visitors and slightly suspect small admirers, he can sleep the day away. As a consequence our recent conversations have been limited.
Today, however, he did open one eye as I headed for the stairs.
"I'm going to do some blogging and I know I'm late again," I said defensively.
"You should do it daily instead of your computer diary, mate," he muttered, and sensibly went back to sleep.
Perhaps he's right.
I have thought about it.
Of course I have.
But mine is not a celebrity diary.
Mine could never boast throwaway lines like: Met Maggie Smith in Tesco today and we talked about... or...I thought Albert Schweitzer would be impressive and when I came across him in 1953 I was not disappointed...
No, my diary is more your: Went down to Somerfield in a drizzle...shouted a hallo to that nice little bloke Oz in the chip shop as I went by...and...One of those lovely women from the card shop asked Ellis: "Is Granddad looking after you well today, then?" and was haughtily put right with: "He's not Granddad, he's Boo."
Which reminds one that, even in the kindest way, a three year old should never be patronised...
Anyway, nobody would want too much of that.
I seldom look back in my diary and nobody else is encouraged to read it.
So why do I bother?
Dunno.
But sitting on a park bench doing nothing would bore me daft.
Even on a beautiful day like today.
Today the sun is shining, the temperature is mild, pretty girls wearing short-sleeved tops and skimpy shorts are strolling past the house.
It's marvellous.
So bugger worrying about global warming.
That's a diary entry worth making on Sunday 12th October, 2008.
I may read it again and again.
BOOKS.
Clarissa Dickson Wright's autobiography Spilling The Beans was a jolly good read.
There was quite a lot with which I did not agree and plenty that did not agree with me: but equally there was much to admire.
There is certainly more to her than an English upper crust tendency to pronounce out and about as eight and abate.
She comes across as a good friend.
My late father would have described her as a big party with a big heart.
I have read again Lee Harper's American classic To Kill A Mocking Bird.
For an English child of the nineteen thirties, this wonderful depiction of life in the Deep South at that time - sensitively portrayed through the eyes of the little girl Scout Finch - is a fascinating, moving and at times hilarious insight into life in another world.
Loved it first time out. Still do.
I finally came to the end of The Silent World Of Nicholas Quinn by Colin Dexter.
Saw the television adaptation again, too. Very good.
All the Morse stories converted well to film, though.
It is my problem that I preferred the films to the books.
Anyway, all I have left to finish now is Untold Stories by Alan Bennett.
My Leader will kill me if I don't finish it soon.
Turns out she has been patiently waiting to read it. No of course I didn't know.
She's the mind reading one in our marriage: I'm the one who is surprised by nothing.
TELE.
ITV1 recently screened The Island, a 2005 film starring Ewan McGregor, Scarlett Johanssen and Sean Bean, a futuristic fantasy.
It was somewhat Soylent Green in concept, with the added attraction of wonderful action scenes. We enjoyed every minute of it.
Have been watching The Lord of the Rings on C4. Glorious locations in New Zealand, excellent casting which included Elijah Wood, Sean Astin, Ian McKellen, and a splendid array of fellow stars.
Immaculately directed by Peter Jackson, this is a trilogy to be savoured over and over again.
I shall do just that.
I have the DVDs.
What? No, you can't borrow them. Buy your own.
My leader and I enjoyed Lost in Austen, a brand new slant on the classic Pride and Prejudice. Amanda Price (Jemima Rooper) was transported (via a magical door in her bathroom) into the novel to transform it in a way that really must have had Jane Austen spinning in her grave.
It was beaurifully acted tosh and great fun.
When it comes to tosh, we are also enjoying the new series Merlin on BBC1.
This Saturday night warm up for Strictly Come Dancing so rewrites Arthurian legend as to make Merlin roughly the same teen age as Arthur.
Never mind, it has Richard Wilson, Anthony Head, the Voice of the Dragon provided byJohn Hurt and a pleasant couple of youngsters in the leading roles.
Everybody seems to be having a good time and all it lacks is Sgt. Joe Friday coming in at the end to say: "The story you have just been told is a rewritten legend - only the names have not been changed..."
Another short series of Agatha Christie's Poirot has been running on ITV1.
All right I suppose, but I think he should by now be doing something about the mysterious disappearance of Captain Hastings, Miss Lemon and dear old Inspector Japp.
When all's said and done, these people were his closest television companions.
If he has not yet missed them what sort of a bloody sleuth is he?
By contrast, Patrick Harbinson's adaptation of Val McDermid's Place of Execution cleared up a few questions.
For example, what really did happen to Stan Shunpike (Lee Ingleby) after he was pulled off his bus conductor job in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and unfairly imprisoned?
Well, it seems that, at Harry's insistence, he was released to re-invent himself as DS John Bacchus, assistant to George Gently.
That worthy kindly saved him from further ignominy and he moved up the police ladder to reappear in Place of Execution as DI George Bennett whose older self, ex Chief Constable Old George Bennett, is also (wake up, Poirot!) former Chief Inspector James Japp (Philip Jackson).
Don't you just love the complexities of cop show casting?
Whatever, this was a darned good mystery yarn perfectly acted and directed.
Last Thursday that amiable and commendably outspoken little chap Ian Hislop presented a documentary on BBC4 about the demise of British railways.
Ian Hislop Goes Off The Rails told how, in the early sixties, the benighted Richard Beeching, installed by the manipulative Ernest Marples, closed so many so-called 'unprofitable' branch railway lines that the rail network was virtually halved.
Motorways were then constructed to be quickly transformed into clogged up miles of unattended cones.
Gawd bless far-sighted government.
WRITERS.
ITV3 had a corker of an idea for rehashing old programmes with its Crime Thriller 2008 competition.
The awards ceremony was shown on Monday 6th October.
The writers who somehow came to be in contention were Colin Dexter, P.D.James, Lynda LaPlante, Val McDermid, Ian Rankin and Ruth Rendell.
Nothing wrong with that.
The eventual winner was Colin Dexter, however, and I felt there was something vaguely wrong with that.
In my computer diary I wondered why none of the (decidedly more compelling) top women writers had been chosen and added:- When the result was announced, Ruth Rendell and Val McDermid exchanged "would you fucking credit it?" looks that said it all. I think dear old P.D.James probably felt it less, but she had been suitably compensated with one of those "all time great" sops that showbiz dishes out to anybody old enough to be considered suitable for sainthood.
Oh, the programme was presented by Alan Davies and he did an excellent job.
N.B. More Jonathan Creek, please, David Renwick.
AND LASTLY, POLITICS.
Well. as my friends will appreciate, nothing comes more lastly to me than politics.
Together with all the other aliens, however, I am finding it quite impossible to ignore the final lap of the race to become President of America.
Why, I find myself asking, despite constant exhortation, should I barrack Obama? I don't even know the man.
As for this fellow McCain; the oven chips, if they are his, are OK, but they are no more impressive than those of Aunt Bessie.
(Sorry America, I think that's a British Joke.)
Frankly, I don't think the appointment of either gentleman is going to benefit the rest of the world.
And I happen to live in the rest of the world.
(Sorry again, America, but until one of your leaders has it completely wiped out, it does exist.)
Thursday, September 04, 2008
110. CSI: Isle of Wight
And now, for a bit more fun, CSI IW Series 2, preceded by a leaf taken from the tele people:-
(Revised Repeat) CSI: IW Series 1
(A tense change from the original)
Executive Producer: Dennis Barnden
Director; Jessica White.
Episode 1/1: - Crushem Gets The Needle.
Will Crushem and his Isle of Wight CSI team were investigating a messy murder in a seaside apartment which contained a corpse, ample lighting and an in-credit electricity account.
They searched for clues by torchlight.
The victim was a young woman. Her clothing was in disarray and from the lapel of her dishevelled jacket Crushem recovered the pointed half of a needle which he dropped into a plastic bag.
Crushem's GFA (Glamorous Female Assistant) spotted a pink crumb on the four hundred square feet of bloodstained carpet: she recovered the crumb with tweezers and it, too, went into a plastic bag.
Crushem's GMA (Glamorous Male Assistant) watched her admiringly. He was in love with her, but wisely refrained from telling her so on the grounds that same-job relationships were a mistake. He knew, too, that telling her would quite certainly result in her being dead before the series ended.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Looks like pink shortbread," she replied.
"Crumbs!" he exclaimed.
"Well...one, anyway," said Crushem.
(Cue theme song - The Who's newly adapted: Blimey O'Reilly, Who Are You Foolin' Again?)
In her laboratory, Crushem's KFG (Kookie Forensic Genius) quickly reached a startling conclusion: this was not blood- soaked ordinary shortbread, this really was pink shortbread. It was only marketed a fortnight ago and was sold in just one shop.
To date a mere two people had bought it (we were told by the KFG's male colleague who was in love with her) and one of them had been sent to prison a week ago.
So the other was either the victim or the perpetrator...
What fun.
In the path lab Crushem's EDC&F (Eccentric Doctor Colleague and Friend) found no trace of shortbread in or on the vic.
What he did find was a strand of hay in the vic's shoe and the hay (according to the KFG) was particular to one farm in the West Wight.
So now we knew. The perp, not the vic, had bought the shortbread.
Furthermore, the KFG's besotted colleague told us, the perp was known to the shopkeeper who sold said shortbread. The perp was (surprise, surprise) a farmer in the West Wight.
The Team moved in.
They cornered the farmer in his hay barn in broad daylight. They were wearing body armour and helmets with lighted torches affixed to them. They had pistols at the ready.
"She shouldn't 'ave turned me and me shortbread down," he shouted, brandishing a shotgun in their direction. "Cost me a ...king fortune that shortbread did. An' then, when I ate the lot in front of 'er, she called me a greedy pig! Shouldn'ta said that, not when I was carryin' me brand new riphook...I mean, ain't that askin' for trouble?"
So saying he aimed his shotgun at the GMA, fired and (despite the fact that he unfailingly killed game on the run and birds on the wing with a single shot) missed.
There was a hail of return gunfire and he landed lifeless in the hay.
(CU bullets tearing through specially prepared carcass from local butcher's shop.)
Crushem reached him first and plucked the other half of the needle found in the vic's lapel from the sleeve of his tweed jacket.
"Looks like you just found a needle in a haystack, C," said the GFA.
"Half of one, anyway," said Crushem.
(A disclaimer regarding events, characters and any degree of realism was shown. Notice was given that any likeness to any living person should result in that person seeking immediate psychiatric help.)
(New Series)
CSI: IW Series 2
Executive Producer: Dennis Barnden
Director: Jessica White
Characters:
'C'......Will Crushem
Glamorous Female Assistant......Karensa Darling
Glamorous Male Assistant.....Chuck Aspanarin
Eccentric Doctor Colleague & Friend......Rhys K. B. Haver
EDC&Fs Assistant..... Ernest Youngman
Kookie Forensic Genius......Mada Zanatter
KFGs Colleague......Phil D. Fluter
Head Marquise Agent WICIS......Win Bienimenes
HMAs Deputy......Wendi Times-Wright
Corpse......O. Lee Moses
Shady Brother 1......Ed Down
Shady Brother 2......Bern Down
Episode 1/2 :- The Ultimate Sting.
In the early hours a drunk lurches along the esplanade of a small seaside resort.
(CU this proves to be a non-speaking male extra who will spend the next twenty years replaying a cherished video recording of the scene to any of his family who will still watch it.)
His attention is attracted by a lone figure on the beach.
He staggers onto the sand to investigate.
(Zoom to outline of naked male figure doing a perfect headstand but with the head entirely buried in the sand.)
The drunk reels back to the esplanade...
(fade out...)
Crime scene tapes are in place and Will Crushem's team is at work on the beach.
Though the area is floodlit they are working by torchlight.
The corpse has been draped with a sheet bearing the CSI logo to protect its modesty and forestall complaints from any dinosaur left over from the National Viewers' and Listeners' Association.
Crushem's Glamorous Female Assistant, Karensa, is collecting samples of water and sand in vials.
Crushem's Glamorous Male Assistant, Chuck, is holding a camera with which he has photographed the corpse from every conceivable angle and his glamorous colleague from likewise because he is covertly in love with her.
(She is wearing a suit by Karen Millen and shoes thought to have been purloined from Imelda Marcos but actually discarded by Imelda Staunton.)
Crushem walks to the water's edge: stares moodily out to sea: casually adjusts his double bridge metal aviator sunglasses by Marc Jacobs and says: "There's something too ritualistic about this setup. A vic frozen solid and apparently covered in bee stings. Placed here with his head in the sand. Somebody's trying to tell us something..."
(Cue theme song - The Who's newly adapted: Blimey O'Reilly Who Are You Foolin' Again)
"I think somebody's trying to tell us something, Will," says Crushem's EDC&F (Eccentric Doctor Colleague and Friend) later.
"Any idea what, Doc?" asks Crushem.
"Something to do with the Ostrich Syndrome? Who knows."
The supine corpse is on a table in the path lab.
Nearby, the EDC&F's likeable young assistant, Ernie, has prepared it for autopsy.
He is holding a visiting card.
He says: "Either the vic hid this or the perp has a macabre sense of humour."
Doc takes the card and reads aloud: "O. Lee Moses."
He stares at Ernie."I hardly dare ask, but where...?"
"It wasn't in his mouth."
"Thank God for plastic gloves, eh Ern?" says Crushem.
"You think there may be fingerprints on the card, Will?" says Doc.
"That too, Doc," replies Crushem wryly. "Stick it in a bag and get it over to Forensic, Ern. Be interesting to see if whoever disliked the poor guy this badly left any prints behind - for want of a better way of putting it."
"I've never seen so many lumps on a cadaver, C," says the assistant. "What a helluva way to be despatched."
"Bee venom may have medicinal properties," says Doc. "But moderation in everything is the byword."
"Investigating the ultimate sting are we?" says a voice from the doorway.
A tall, slim, attractive woman in a tweed suit and Philip Treacy hat is standing there. Unsurprised (nobody is ever surprised when an uninvited outsider gains casual access to a CSI establishment) the men turn to face her.
Crushem eyes her carefully. "Hallo Win," he says, "what's Wickeds got to do with this?"
Win Bienimenes is HMA (Head Marquise Agent) of the Women's Institute Criminal Investigative Service (WICIS) popularly known as Wickeds, a law enforcement agency founded to deal with crimes involving persons and property associated with the National Federation of Women's Institutes or anything faintly connected with Jam and Jerusalem.
She strolls across, eyes the corpse, sighs: "Poor old O. Lee. One of ours. Good undercover operator. Everybody liked him."
"Except the person responsible for this, presumably," remarks Doc.
"Ah...and that will be somebody who knew he had an acute allergy to bee stings," says the HMA.
"Anaphylaxis!" exclaims Doc. "Of course! But to deliberately cause a death by anaphylactic reaction to insect stings is positively Machiavellian. Who would do something like that?
"Somebody devilish enough to then freeze the body for display?" suggests Ernie.
"Exactly, Ernest. Get that card over to Forensic right away," mutters Doc peevishly.
"We must go, too," says Crushem. "I think you and I had better have a chat in my office, Win."
They leave, passing through the Administration Department on their way to Crushem's office. Chuck and Karensa are busy at their respective desks.
Chuck gazes after them.
"Who is that woman who looks like Meryl Streep?" he whispers.
Karensa shrugs: "Glenn Close?"
(Flash stock shots from films featuring both named actresses)
What larks.
Crushem and the HMA are seated in the former's sparsely furnished and seldom used office. "Now, Win, you obviously know more than I do, tell me what we've got here," Crushem says.
"What we've got is the murder of WI Agent O. Lee Moses," she replies.
"Yes, but any idea who by or why?"
She eyes him speculatively: "Shouldn't that be by whom? Anyway, he has just negotiated a bulk purchase of jam for us. All quite mundane so far as I know"
"Bulk purchase? But surely WI members make their own jam?"
"Traditionally yes, but since the government decided we should strictly adhere to EU regulations it has become almost impossible to present home-made produce for public sale without risking prohibitive penalties under Health and Safety."
"So you're doing away with members' own jams and switching to mass-produced stuff?"
"On a trial basis we're going to supply to the Institutes, yes. Me, I'd be quite happy if WI Enterprises only sold things like President's Brooches..." she indicates the neat silver brooch in her lapel..."and local Women's Institutes continued to do just what they have always done. But the Powers That Be are concerned at the vulnerability of local enterprises now and are looking for ways to nullify the risk."
"Looking for ways to be very unpopular I would have thought. Is this jam to be ready bottled?"
"Yes, everything except the labels. Each institute would add its own labels."
Crushem shakes his head in bewilderment.
"So how has all this brought about your man's death? And how come this man is in the WI anyway?"
"The Powers That Be again.They recommended I recruit him for overseas dealings on the WI's behalf. He was perfect. He'd travelled extensively, had national and international contacts and spoke a dozen languages including Kurdish and Arabic. He was an instant success with the girls, particularly with my deputy Wendi Times-Wright. They quickly became something of an item. "
The intercom buzzes and the voice of Crushem's Kookie Forensic Genius can be heard calling a hallo.
He says: "What have you got, Mada?"
"All is not well, Crushem," she replies. "Doc found a smidgin of raspberry jam under the deceased's finger nails and sent it over for testing. He thinks poison."
"I'll be right with you."
"I shall have to go and tell Wendi all this," says the HMA sadly."You'll keep me in touch,Will?"
"Of course," nods Crushem.
Episode 2/2
"Have we any notion what poison?" Crushem asks Mada in the Forensic Laboratory,
"Definitely one of the deadliest," she says.
"So we're talking Ricin...Tetrodotoxin...Compound 1080 or suchlike..."
"Any of them, yes: or Botulinum or Thallium," she adds.
"And that pair would leave the victim either wrinkle free and dead or bald and dead," says her male colleague. "I expect most of the ladies would prefer the wrinkle free Botulinum."
Crushem eyes him narrowly and he quickly returns to work.
"We have an interesting analysis on the body ice, though" says Mada quickly. "It is made with spring water from a spring on Vectice Company land and used solely by them."
"I know of them," says Crushem."Factory up by Beacon Alley."
"The Vectice Company!" he shouts as he re-enters the Administration Department. "Details if you please."
"Run by the Down brothers, Ed and Bern," proffers Chuck. "Ice Cubes for the Discerning Cocktail Drinker."
"They have a house on the plot alongside the factory," adds Karensa."And an apiary."
Crushem's cellphone rings with the opening bars of Who Are You by Pete Townshend.
Win Bienimenes is on the line: "Bit of a problem. I passed on the news about O.Lee to Wendi Times-Wright. She showed little reaction until I mentioned the calling card. Then she swore and went to her office. I thought she just wanted to be on her own. But she and her car have gone missing now; and she's armed, Will."
"Well first we have a priority to deal with here," advises Crushem. "Have you any knowledge of the Vectice Company?"
"Shady couple of brothers somewhere out Beacon Alley way."
"That's them. We're just off to pay them a visit. I'll be in touch."
Crushem flips shut the phone, grabs a loaded FN Five-seveN Tactical pistol from an unlocked drawer, shouts: "Let's be off, people!" and marches out through the unlocked main door.
(Show shots of Wightlink Ferry, Vectis Buses, Round the Island Yacht Race, The Who performing at Isle of Wight Festival and Power Boats at full speed: none of it will advance the plot but it's better than another old-fashioned fade-out.)
The team enters Vectice factory cautiously, dodges from area to area shouting "Clear!" and is finally brought to a halt by a tall swarthy man holding a pistol to the head of an attractive young woman.
"I think this is stalemate," he shouts. "Put down your weapons and we'll negotiate."
"We don't put down our weapons," Crushem says clearly, "I'm Will Crushem of CSI. I can negotiate. Which of the Down brothers are you?"
"Stuff the niceties," snarls the man. "Put down your weapons or she dies!"
Without appearing to aim, Crushem shoots him between the eyes.
The young woman gives a muffled cry and collapses.
Ahead and above them there is an office fronted by a wooden balcony and reached by a flight of stairs to one side.
In an instant a second man appears. He is holding a Uzi submachine gun with intent to use.
There is a single shot from behind the team: the man gets off a reflex burst into the roof and his inanimate body smashes through a solid wooden rail that has stood the assorted weight of leaning figures for over thirty years.
The team is momentarily paralysed.
Through the door behind them appears the slender figure of Win Bienimenes. She is holstering a Browning Hi-Power Mark III and looking grimly satisfied.
"Two down one to go," she says enigmatically. "I used the master keys and opened O. Lee's desk. Looks like he was a Women's Institute National Intelligence agent who identified this terrorist cell on the Island and reported it to his bosses at NFWI Headquarters in London.
A think tank at the NFWI's Denman College then devised a plan to smoke 'em out, starting with arranging for him to be recruited by me."
Crushem is clearly surprised: "Without letting you in on it, Win?"
"You know Intelligence people, old friend; trust nobody, needs-to-know basis and all that. And, quite apart from the possibility that I - or somebody else in WICIS - could be a traitor, obviously the less people who knew of their master plan the better."
"The jam plan!" exclaims Karensa.
"Bright one you have there," says Win to Crushem. "I could do with her in my lot."
"Bit of a gamble though?" hazards Crushem, "I mean, how was your man supposed to persuade a terrorist group to seriously contemplate, let alone undertake, the mass poisoning of Britain's finest females?"
"I've no idea, but he did it. I imagine he posed as an al-Qa'ida terrorist with an implaccable hatred for Middle England. 'All those toffee-nosed bitches. The whole lot ought to be poisoned.' Y'know, the sort of thing that appeals to extremists. Then he simply arranged for them to get the contract to transport the jam in their refrigerated lorries and left obtaining the poison and the introduction of it to them and their misbegotten friends. Something like that, anyway."
Crushem's cellphone rings.
His conversation with the caller is brief.
"That was Mada," he says. "Jam under your man's fingernails contained Compound 1080. Originally an animal poison. Odourless, tasteless, water soluble, without antidote. Quick but painful death."
"What about the calling card?" queries Win. "Anything on that?"
"Only a part print on one edge, but they were able to match it."
"Praise be for criminal records."
"Or in this case, praise be for staff records."
"How careless of you to leave a print, Wendi," says Win casually to the attractive young woman who, unnoticed, has regained her feet and picked up the Uzi.
"Standing that poor young man upside down with his head in the sand was a senseless, spiteful act. So was the contemptuous gesture with the calling card. What was it all supposed to signify exactly?"
"You've all got your heads in the sand!" the young woman sneers."That arrogant little poser was typical of the lot of you!"
"He spoke so highly of you, too," Win taunts gently.
"He wasn't speaking when we stripped him and threw him on the beehive," retorts Wendi. "Poor young man indeed. You should have heard him scream. I couldn't help laughing."
"You're sick, girl," says Win. "Now put the weapon down on the floor and let's have an end to it."
"I don't answer to you anymore, you old crow!" Wendi shrieks wildly and levels the submachine gun.
Karensa and Chuck, firing in unison, shoot her dead.
Crushem walks carefully to the body, kicks the Uzi away, says: "What a waste. What a shame."
"Yes," agrees Win. "Poor little Wendi. So ambitious. Never happy as just my deputy."
"You knew instantly that she was the mole," says Karensa. "How?"
"Other than me she was the only one who knew about Lee's allergy to bee stings."
"Helpful that she gave herself away with that fingerprint though," says Chuck. "Confirmed it for you."
"There wasn't any print," says Crushem. "I invented it. Seemed like a good idea at the time."
"And you didn't say which staff member it was, either, you sly old dog. Did you think it might be me?" asks an amused Win.
Crushem puts on his sunglasses.
"No way, Win. I leave that sort of thinking to your National Intelligence people," he says gruffly.
Karensa and Chuck depart the scene in an unmarked CSI van.
"You were pretty quick back there," he observes. "Almost as quick as me."
"Marginally quicker I'd say," retorts Karensa. "All the talking had me fed up and I thought you might pull back from despatching a pretty girl."
"What?" he says, "Pull back? Me? After she'd shouted you old crow at Meryl Streep?"
"Glenn Close."
"Whoever."
(Show apologies to Messrs. Anthony E. Zuiker and Jerry Bruckheimer, Mesdames Meryl Streep and Glenn Close, The Who and everybody even remotely connected with the CSI franchise.)
(Revised Repeat) CSI: IW Series 1
(A tense change from the original)
Executive Producer: Dennis Barnden
Director; Jessica White.
Episode 1/1: - Crushem Gets The Needle.
Will Crushem and his Isle of Wight CSI team were investigating a messy murder in a seaside apartment which contained a corpse, ample lighting and an in-credit electricity account.
They searched for clues by torchlight.
The victim was a young woman. Her clothing was in disarray and from the lapel of her dishevelled jacket Crushem recovered the pointed half of a needle which he dropped into a plastic bag.
Crushem's GFA (Glamorous Female Assistant) spotted a pink crumb on the four hundred square feet of bloodstained carpet: she recovered the crumb with tweezers and it, too, went into a plastic bag.
Crushem's GMA (Glamorous Male Assistant) watched her admiringly. He was in love with her, but wisely refrained from telling her so on the grounds that same-job relationships were a mistake. He knew, too, that telling her would quite certainly result in her being dead before the series ended.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Looks like pink shortbread," she replied.
"Crumbs!" he exclaimed.
"Well...one, anyway," said Crushem.
(Cue theme song - The Who's newly adapted: Blimey O'Reilly, Who Are You Foolin' Again?)
In her laboratory, Crushem's KFG (Kookie Forensic Genius) quickly reached a startling conclusion: this was not blood- soaked ordinary shortbread, this really was pink shortbread. It was only marketed a fortnight ago and was sold in just one shop.
To date a mere two people had bought it (we were told by the KFG's male colleague who was in love with her) and one of them had been sent to prison a week ago.
So the other was either the victim or the perpetrator...
What fun.
In the path lab Crushem's EDC&F (Eccentric Doctor Colleague and Friend) found no trace of shortbread in or on the vic.
What he did find was a strand of hay in the vic's shoe and the hay (according to the KFG) was particular to one farm in the West Wight.
So now we knew. The perp, not the vic, had bought the shortbread.
Furthermore, the KFG's besotted colleague told us, the perp was known to the shopkeeper who sold said shortbread. The perp was (surprise, surprise) a farmer in the West Wight.
The Team moved in.
They cornered the farmer in his hay barn in broad daylight. They were wearing body armour and helmets with lighted torches affixed to them. They had pistols at the ready.
"She shouldn't 'ave turned me and me shortbread down," he shouted, brandishing a shotgun in their direction. "Cost me a ...king fortune that shortbread did. An' then, when I ate the lot in front of 'er, she called me a greedy pig! Shouldn'ta said that, not when I was carryin' me brand new riphook...I mean, ain't that askin' for trouble?"
So saying he aimed his shotgun at the GMA, fired and (despite the fact that he unfailingly killed game on the run and birds on the wing with a single shot) missed.
There was a hail of return gunfire and he landed lifeless in the hay.
(CU bullets tearing through specially prepared carcass from local butcher's shop.)
Crushem reached him first and plucked the other half of the needle found in the vic's lapel from the sleeve of his tweed jacket.
"Looks like you just found a needle in a haystack, C," said the GFA.
"Half of one, anyway," said Crushem.
(A disclaimer regarding events, characters and any degree of realism was shown. Notice was given that any likeness to any living person should result in that person seeking immediate psychiatric help.)
(New Series)
CSI: IW Series 2
Executive Producer: Dennis Barnden
Director: Jessica White
Characters:
'C'......Will Crushem
Glamorous Female Assistant......Karensa Darling
Glamorous Male Assistant.....Chuck Aspanarin
Eccentric Doctor Colleague & Friend......Rhys K. B. Haver
EDC&Fs Assistant..... Ernest Youngman
Kookie Forensic Genius......Mada Zanatter
KFGs Colleague......Phil D. Fluter
Head Marquise Agent WICIS......Win Bienimenes
HMAs Deputy......Wendi Times-Wright
Corpse......O. Lee Moses
Shady Brother 1......Ed Down
Shady Brother 2......Bern Down
Episode 1/2 :- The Ultimate Sting.
In the early hours a drunk lurches along the esplanade of a small seaside resort.
(CU this proves to be a non-speaking male extra who will spend the next twenty years replaying a cherished video recording of the scene to any of his family who will still watch it.)
His attention is attracted by a lone figure on the beach.
He staggers onto the sand to investigate.
(Zoom to outline of naked male figure doing a perfect headstand but with the head entirely buried in the sand.)
The drunk reels back to the esplanade...
(fade out...)
Crime scene tapes are in place and Will Crushem's team is at work on the beach.
Though the area is floodlit they are working by torchlight.
The corpse has been draped with a sheet bearing the CSI logo to protect its modesty and forestall complaints from any dinosaur left over from the National Viewers' and Listeners' Association.
Crushem's Glamorous Female Assistant, Karensa, is collecting samples of water and sand in vials.
Crushem's Glamorous Male Assistant, Chuck, is holding a camera with which he has photographed the corpse from every conceivable angle and his glamorous colleague from likewise because he is covertly in love with her.
(She is wearing a suit by Karen Millen and shoes thought to have been purloined from Imelda Marcos but actually discarded by Imelda Staunton.)
Crushem walks to the water's edge: stares moodily out to sea: casually adjusts his double bridge metal aviator sunglasses by Marc Jacobs and says: "There's something too ritualistic about this setup. A vic frozen solid and apparently covered in bee stings. Placed here with his head in the sand. Somebody's trying to tell us something..."
(Cue theme song - The Who's newly adapted: Blimey O'Reilly Who Are You Foolin' Again)
"I think somebody's trying to tell us something, Will," says Crushem's EDC&F (Eccentric Doctor Colleague and Friend) later.
"Any idea what, Doc?" asks Crushem.
"Something to do with the Ostrich Syndrome? Who knows."
The supine corpse is on a table in the path lab.
Nearby, the EDC&F's likeable young assistant, Ernie, has prepared it for autopsy.
He is holding a visiting card.
He says: "Either the vic hid this or the perp has a macabre sense of humour."
Doc takes the card and reads aloud: "O. Lee Moses."
He stares at Ernie."I hardly dare ask, but where...?"
"It wasn't in his mouth."
"Thank God for plastic gloves, eh Ern?" says Crushem.
"You think there may be fingerprints on the card, Will?" says Doc.
"That too, Doc," replies Crushem wryly. "Stick it in a bag and get it over to Forensic, Ern. Be interesting to see if whoever disliked the poor guy this badly left any prints behind - for want of a better way of putting it."
"I've never seen so many lumps on a cadaver, C," says the assistant. "What a helluva way to be despatched."
"Bee venom may have medicinal properties," says Doc. "But moderation in everything is the byword."
"Investigating the ultimate sting are we?" says a voice from the doorway.
A tall, slim, attractive woman in a tweed suit and Philip Treacy hat is standing there. Unsurprised (nobody is ever surprised when an uninvited outsider gains casual access to a CSI establishment) the men turn to face her.
Crushem eyes her carefully. "Hallo Win," he says, "what's Wickeds got to do with this?"
Win Bienimenes is HMA (Head Marquise Agent) of the Women's Institute Criminal Investigative Service (WICIS) popularly known as Wickeds, a law enforcement agency founded to deal with crimes involving persons and property associated with the National Federation of Women's Institutes or anything faintly connected with Jam and Jerusalem.
She strolls across, eyes the corpse, sighs: "Poor old O. Lee. One of ours. Good undercover operator. Everybody liked him."
"Except the person responsible for this, presumably," remarks Doc.
"Ah...and that will be somebody who knew he had an acute allergy to bee stings," says the HMA.
"Anaphylaxis!" exclaims Doc. "Of course! But to deliberately cause a death by anaphylactic reaction to insect stings is positively Machiavellian. Who would do something like that?
"Somebody devilish enough to then freeze the body for display?" suggests Ernie.
"Exactly, Ernest. Get that card over to Forensic right away," mutters Doc peevishly.
"We must go, too," says Crushem. "I think you and I had better have a chat in my office, Win."
They leave, passing through the Administration Department on their way to Crushem's office. Chuck and Karensa are busy at their respective desks.
Chuck gazes after them.
"Who is that woman who looks like Meryl Streep?" he whispers.
Karensa shrugs: "Glenn Close?"
(Flash stock shots from films featuring both named actresses)
What larks.
Crushem and the HMA are seated in the former's sparsely furnished and seldom used office. "Now, Win, you obviously know more than I do, tell me what we've got here," Crushem says.
"What we've got is the murder of WI Agent O. Lee Moses," she replies.
"Yes, but any idea who by or why?"
She eyes him speculatively: "Shouldn't that be by whom? Anyway, he has just negotiated a bulk purchase of jam for us. All quite mundane so far as I know"
"Bulk purchase? But surely WI members make their own jam?"
"Traditionally yes, but since the government decided we should strictly adhere to EU regulations it has become almost impossible to present home-made produce for public sale without risking prohibitive penalties under Health and Safety."
"So you're doing away with members' own jams and switching to mass-produced stuff?"
"On a trial basis we're going to supply to the Institutes, yes. Me, I'd be quite happy if WI Enterprises only sold things like President's Brooches..." she indicates the neat silver brooch in her lapel..."and local Women's Institutes continued to do just what they have always done. But the Powers That Be are concerned at the vulnerability of local enterprises now and are looking for ways to nullify the risk."
"Looking for ways to be very unpopular I would have thought. Is this jam to be ready bottled?"
"Yes, everything except the labels. Each institute would add its own labels."
Crushem shakes his head in bewilderment.
"So how has all this brought about your man's death? And how come this man is in the WI anyway?"
"The Powers That Be again.They recommended I recruit him for overseas dealings on the WI's behalf. He was perfect. He'd travelled extensively, had national and international contacts and spoke a dozen languages including Kurdish and Arabic. He was an instant success with the girls, particularly with my deputy Wendi Times-Wright. They quickly became something of an item. "
The intercom buzzes and the voice of Crushem's Kookie Forensic Genius can be heard calling a hallo.
He says: "What have you got, Mada?"
"All is not well, Crushem," she replies. "Doc found a smidgin of raspberry jam under the deceased's finger nails and sent it over for testing. He thinks poison."
"I'll be right with you."
"I shall have to go and tell Wendi all this," says the HMA sadly."You'll keep me in touch,Will?"
"Of course," nods Crushem.
Episode 2/2
"Have we any notion what poison?" Crushem asks Mada in the Forensic Laboratory,
"Definitely one of the deadliest," she says.
"So we're talking Ricin...Tetrodotoxin...Compound 1080 or suchlike..."
"Any of them, yes: or Botulinum or Thallium," she adds.
"And that pair would leave the victim either wrinkle free and dead or bald and dead," says her male colleague. "I expect most of the ladies would prefer the wrinkle free Botulinum."
Crushem eyes him narrowly and he quickly returns to work.
"We have an interesting analysis on the body ice, though" says Mada quickly. "It is made with spring water from a spring on Vectice Company land and used solely by them."
"I know of them," says Crushem."Factory up by Beacon Alley."
"The Vectice Company!" he shouts as he re-enters the Administration Department. "Details if you please."
"Run by the Down brothers, Ed and Bern," proffers Chuck. "Ice Cubes for the Discerning Cocktail Drinker."
"They have a house on the plot alongside the factory," adds Karensa."And an apiary."
Crushem's cellphone rings with the opening bars of Who Are You by Pete Townshend.
Win Bienimenes is on the line: "Bit of a problem. I passed on the news about O.Lee to Wendi Times-Wright. She showed little reaction until I mentioned the calling card. Then she swore and went to her office. I thought she just wanted to be on her own. But she and her car have gone missing now; and she's armed, Will."
"Well first we have a priority to deal with here," advises Crushem. "Have you any knowledge of the Vectice Company?"
"Shady couple of brothers somewhere out Beacon Alley way."
"That's them. We're just off to pay them a visit. I'll be in touch."
Crushem flips shut the phone, grabs a loaded FN Five-seveN Tactical pistol from an unlocked drawer, shouts: "Let's be off, people!" and marches out through the unlocked main door.
(Show shots of Wightlink Ferry, Vectis Buses, Round the Island Yacht Race, The Who performing at Isle of Wight Festival and Power Boats at full speed: none of it will advance the plot but it's better than another old-fashioned fade-out.)
The team enters Vectice factory cautiously, dodges from area to area shouting "Clear!" and is finally brought to a halt by a tall swarthy man holding a pistol to the head of an attractive young woman.
"I think this is stalemate," he shouts. "Put down your weapons and we'll negotiate."
"We don't put down our weapons," Crushem says clearly, "I'm Will Crushem of CSI. I can negotiate. Which of the Down brothers are you?"
"Stuff the niceties," snarls the man. "Put down your weapons or she dies!"
Without appearing to aim, Crushem shoots him between the eyes.
The young woman gives a muffled cry and collapses.
Ahead and above them there is an office fronted by a wooden balcony and reached by a flight of stairs to one side.
In an instant a second man appears. He is holding a Uzi submachine gun with intent to use.
There is a single shot from behind the team: the man gets off a reflex burst into the roof and his inanimate body smashes through a solid wooden rail that has stood the assorted weight of leaning figures for over thirty years.
The team is momentarily paralysed.
Through the door behind them appears the slender figure of Win Bienimenes. She is holstering a Browning Hi-Power Mark III and looking grimly satisfied.
"Two down one to go," she says enigmatically. "I used the master keys and opened O. Lee's desk. Looks like he was a Women's Institute National Intelligence agent who identified this terrorist cell on the Island and reported it to his bosses at NFWI Headquarters in London.
A think tank at the NFWI's Denman College then devised a plan to smoke 'em out, starting with arranging for him to be recruited by me."
Crushem is clearly surprised: "Without letting you in on it, Win?"
"You know Intelligence people, old friend; trust nobody, needs-to-know basis and all that. And, quite apart from the possibility that I - or somebody else in WICIS - could be a traitor, obviously the less people who knew of their master plan the better."
"The jam plan!" exclaims Karensa.
"Bright one you have there," says Win to Crushem. "I could do with her in my lot."
"Bit of a gamble though?" hazards Crushem, "I mean, how was your man supposed to persuade a terrorist group to seriously contemplate, let alone undertake, the mass poisoning of Britain's finest females?"
"I've no idea, but he did it. I imagine he posed as an al-Qa'ida terrorist with an implaccable hatred for Middle England. 'All those toffee-nosed bitches. The whole lot ought to be poisoned.' Y'know, the sort of thing that appeals to extremists. Then he simply arranged for them to get the contract to transport the jam in their refrigerated lorries and left obtaining the poison and the introduction of it to them and their misbegotten friends. Something like that, anyway."
Crushem's cellphone rings.
His conversation with the caller is brief.
"That was Mada," he says. "Jam under your man's fingernails contained Compound 1080. Originally an animal poison. Odourless, tasteless, water soluble, without antidote. Quick but painful death."
"What about the calling card?" queries Win. "Anything on that?"
"Only a part print on one edge, but they were able to match it."
"Praise be for criminal records."
"Or in this case, praise be for staff records."
"How careless of you to leave a print, Wendi," says Win casually to the attractive young woman who, unnoticed, has regained her feet and picked up the Uzi.
"Standing that poor young man upside down with his head in the sand was a senseless, spiteful act. So was the contemptuous gesture with the calling card. What was it all supposed to signify exactly?"
"You've all got your heads in the sand!" the young woman sneers."That arrogant little poser was typical of the lot of you!"
"He spoke so highly of you, too," Win taunts gently.
"He wasn't speaking when we stripped him and threw him on the beehive," retorts Wendi. "Poor young man indeed. You should have heard him scream. I couldn't help laughing."
"You're sick, girl," says Win. "Now put the weapon down on the floor and let's have an end to it."
"I don't answer to you anymore, you old crow!" Wendi shrieks wildly and levels the submachine gun.
Karensa and Chuck, firing in unison, shoot her dead.
Crushem walks carefully to the body, kicks the Uzi away, says: "What a waste. What a shame."
"Yes," agrees Win. "Poor little Wendi. So ambitious. Never happy as just my deputy."
"You knew instantly that she was the mole," says Karensa. "How?"
"Other than me she was the only one who knew about Lee's allergy to bee stings."
"Helpful that she gave herself away with that fingerprint though," says Chuck. "Confirmed it for you."
"There wasn't any print," says Crushem. "I invented it. Seemed like a good idea at the time."
"And you didn't say which staff member it was, either, you sly old dog. Did you think it might be me?" asks an amused Win.
Crushem puts on his sunglasses.
"No way, Win. I leave that sort of thinking to your National Intelligence people," he says gruffly.
Karensa and Chuck depart the scene in an unmarked CSI van.
"You were pretty quick back there," he observes. "Almost as quick as me."
"Marginally quicker I'd say," retorts Karensa. "All the talking had me fed up and I thought you might pull back from despatching a pretty girl."
"What?" he says, "Pull back? Me? After she'd shouted you old crow at Meryl Streep?"
"Glenn Close."
"Whoever."
(Show apologies to Messrs. Anthony E. Zuiker and Jerry Bruckheimer, Mesdames Meryl Streep and Glenn Close, The Who and everybody even remotely connected with the CSI franchise.)
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
109. Another helping of an elderly chap's occasional blog
RULING OUT RADICALS.
Somewhen way back, somebody - probably Giles Turnbull - sensibly advised that a blog should be added to regularly and frequently or reader interest would wane.
Ah well...
It was the 11th of July when I last published a post and 14th June when I proffered the one before that. As Anonymous John remarked: "It was a long time coming..."
Perhaps I should feel more urgency about things, but I try not to kid myself that my views are of earth shattering importance. A month free of my meanderings will not have global repercussions. For that matter, I do not think the opinions of most people, no matter how honestly held, are of particular consequence, either. If they think anybody gives a toss they are sadly mistaken.
A couple of days ago I was forwarded a strange email. Mostly they are simple lavatory humour. Proof, as Alan Bennett has remarked, that the writing is on the wall. But this one allegedly stemmed from a woman in New Brunswick who had originally sent it to her local newspaper. Why they printed it - if they did print it - Christ knows. It was jampacked with anti Islamic vituperation and jingoistic, allegedly Christian, propaganda. I was invited to forward it to unsuspecting friends and was warned that if I deleted it I should 'please not complain when more atrocities were committed by radical Muslims.'
I deleted it.
Seems to me most of the trouble in this world is caused by religious fanatics and politicians of every persuasion.
I cannot be bothered with them: or the blinkered morons who support them.
BOOK SCENE.
A couple of months ago I mentioned I was reading The Tiger In The Well, a Sally Lockhart story by Philip Pullman: I had started Untold Stories by Alan Bennett and was plodding with The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn by Colin Dexter. I have finished the Philip Pullman, which was enjoyable even if the mystery villain was immediately obvious to anybody who had read The Ruby In the Smoke; I am still reading the Alan Bennett and plodding with the Colin Dexter.
In the meantime I have read Murder Between Dark and Dark by Max Long, a page turner set in Hawaii and first published in 1939; read it in just under three days. Never manage to get that involved in Dexter's stories, or Ian Rankin's for that matter. My fault I'm sure. Have always found the television adaptations of their stuff totally absorbing, but their books, like Dickens at school, slow going.
Incidentally, I was born about half a mile from Dickens's birthplace in Portsmouth, Hants. His is still standing and has been turned into a museum. Mine was demolished and absorbed into redevelopment. Serves me right. I always hated A Tale of Two Cities, it was my least favourite set book at school. Couldn't stand that soppy sod Sydney Carton.
Now my Leader has set me to reading Spilling The Beans by Clarissa Dickson Wright. There will be much I find irritating I'm sure, but I'm now at page 30 and already hooked.
Ho hum...
FILM SCENE.
Recently watched the film Miss Potter starring Renée Zellweger as children's author and spirited conservationist Beatrix Potter. Ewan McGregor was Norman Warne, the publisher who fell in love with her, and Emily Watson played his delightful sister, Millie.
An excellent supporting cast included Barbara Flynn and Bill Paterson as Beatrix's mother and father.
However, the icing on the cake for me came right at the end when, with the credits rolling, Katie Melua sang the theme song When You Taught Me How To Dance.
You can pick it up on YouTube.
It's magic. Give it a go.
TELE SCENE.
A couple of episodes of Foyle's War were repeated: Anthony Horowitz's splendid reminder of wartime England, with its thoroughly believable cast, is still worth watching
CSI: Miami is back and also still worth watching, if only for the self parody of its uniquely mannered hero. The package now includes ever more ludicrous story lines and what appears to be some hilarious piss taking by the rest of the cast.
Bonekickers continues: the actors do their best but this, too, is complete tosh.
OBSCENE.
In the only one I have seen of Gok's Fashion Fix (C4), the fashion designer Gok put a bunch of girls on a catwalk wearing clothes obtained from a £200 budget.
They were in competition with a lineup of models in designer wear.
The designer wear was valued at several thousand dollars/pounds.
This in a world where entire countries are facing starvation.
Somehow I find that obscene.
AN OCCASIONAL DEPRESSION.
Around this time last year in my post Don't Rely on a Personhood of Bloggers I quoted the second part of some lines from John Elliot's book MOGUL, The Making Of A Myth (Barrie and Jenkins 1970) which in full went as follows:
"Actors, on the whole, are happy or unhappy extroverts. They work in public and in groups, travelling around together and calling each other by their Christian names. Their experience of life is tactile and they are constantly rubbing shoulders with and projecting their personalities at their fellow men. All this makes them, in general, lively and nice to deal with. Writers, on the other hand, 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."
Though it irks me to admit it, Mr. Elliot's dour reflection on the misery of the muse frequently leans on an open door here.
I sometimes think I would like to have been an actor: but know I could never have made it.
I have a dread of being regarded as a show off, suffer excruciating stage fright and am mortified by rejection.
As compensation, I get great pleasure out of watching professional actors skllfully practise their craft and I enjoy putting together a few words about them when they have particularly impressed me. I feel I need not worry that they may read it. The good ones will be too busy learning their lines. Heck! This is an elderly chap's occasional blog, not a column in a national daily.
Anyway, for what it is worth, as a scribbler I suffer depression occasionally and fools not at all. The depression usually comes at the outset of winter or when the fortnight which constitutes summer has gone. It is remedied by bright colours and plenty of light. The remedy for fools is deletion.
And if you are the sort of smart arse who says it takes one to know one...
Click!
AND LASTLY, A GENTLE SMILE.
Grandson Ellis (3) arrived with his mother who carried him from the car. She had a dental appointment and his grandmother would be taking him to meet her when it was over.
It was a hot day and he happily played, barefoot, until it was time to leave.
Came the time and Maureen said: "We must go, pet, let's put your shoes on."
No shoes.
"I can't see your shoes anywhere," she said eventually. "Did you have them on when you came?"
He smiled contentedly. "No," he said, "I came in my toes."
Somewhen way back, somebody - probably Giles Turnbull - sensibly advised that a blog should be added to regularly and frequently or reader interest would wane.
Ah well...
It was the 11th of July when I last published a post and 14th June when I proffered the one before that. As Anonymous John remarked: "It was a long time coming..."
Perhaps I should feel more urgency about things, but I try not to kid myself that my views are of earth shattering importance. A month free of my meanderings will not have global repercussions. For that matter, I do not think the opinions of most people, no matter how honestly held, are of particular consequence, either. If they think anybody gives a toss they are sadly mistaken.
A couple of days ago I was forwarded a strange email. Mostly they are simple lavatory humour. Proof, as Alan Bennett has remarked, that the writing is on the wall. But this one allegedly stemmed from a woman in New Brunswick who had originally sent it to her local newspaper. Why they printed it - if they did print it - Christ knows. It was jampacked with anti Islamic vituperation and jingoistic, allegedly Christian, propaganda. I was invited to forward it to unsuspecting friends and was warned that if I deleted it I should 'please not complain when more atrocities were committed by radical Muslims.'
I deleted it.
Seems to me most of the trouble in this world is caused by religious fanatics and politicians of every persuasion.
I cannot be bothered with them: or the blinkered morons who support them.
BOOK SCENE.
A couple of months ago I mentioned I was reading The Tiger In The Well, a Sally Lockhart story by Philip Pullman: I had started Untold Stories by Alan Bennett and was plodding with The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn by Colin Dexter. I have finished the Philip Pullman, which was enjoyable even if the mystery villain was immediately obvious to anybody who had read The Ruby In the Smoke; I am still reading the Alan Bennett and plodding with the Colin Dexter.
In the meantime I have read Murder Between Dark and Dark by Max Long, a page turner set in Hawaii and first published in 1939; read it in just under three days. Never manage to get that involved in Dexter's stories, or Ian Rankin's for that matter. My fault I'm sure. Have always found the television adaptations of their stuff totally absorbing, but their books, like Dickens at school, slow going.
Incidentally, I was born about half a mile from Dickens's birthplace in Portsmouth, Hants. His is still standing and has been turned into a museum. Mine was demolished and absorbed into redevelopment. Serves me right. I always hated A Tale of Two Cities, it was my least favourite set book at school. Couldn't stand that soppy sod Sydney Carton.
Now my Leader has set me to reading Spilling The Beans by Clarissa Dickson Wright. There will be much I find irritating I'm sure, but I'm now at page 30 and already hooked.
Ho hum...
FILM SCENE.
Recently watched the film Miss Potter starring Renée Zellweger as children's author and spirited conservationist Beatrix Potter. Ewan McGregor was Norman Warne, the publisher who fell in love with her, and Emily Watson played his delightful sister, Millie.
An excellent supporting cast included Barbara Flynn and Bill Paterson as Beatrix's mother and father.
However, the icing on the cake for me came right at the end when, with the credits rolling, Katie Melua sang the theme song When You Taught Me How To Dance.
You can pick it up on YouTube.
It's magic. Give it a go.
TELE SCENE.
A couple of episodes of Foyle's War were repeated: Anthony Horowitz's splendid reminder of wartime England, with its thoroughly believable cast, is still worth watching
CSI: Miami is back and also still worth watching, if only for the self parody of its uniquely mannered hero. The package now includes ever more ludicrous story lines and what appears to be some hilarious piss taking by the rest of the cast.
Bonekickers continues: the actors do their best but this, too, is complete tosh.
OBSCENE.
In the only one I have seen of Gok's Fashion Fix (C4), the fashion designer Gok put a bunch of girls on a catwalk wearing clothes obtained from a £200 budget.
They were in competition with a lineup of models in designer wear.
The designer wear was valued at several thousand dollars/pounds.
This in a world where entire countries are facing starvation.
Somehow I find that obscene.
AN OCCASIONAL DEPRESSION.
Around this time last year in my post Don't Rely on a Personhood of Bloggers I quoted the second part of some lines from John Elliot's book MOGUL, The Making Of A Myth (Barrie and Jenkins 1970) which in full went as follows:
"Actors, on the whole, are happy or unhappy extroverts. They work in public and in groups, travelling around together and calling each other by their Christian names. Their experience of life is tactile and they are constantly rubbing shoulders with and projecting their personalities at their fellow men. All this makes them, in general, lively and nice to deal with. Writers, on the other hand, 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."
Though it irks me to admit it, Mr. Elliot's dour reflection on the misery of the muse frequently leans on an open door here.
I sometimes think I would like to have been an actor: but know I could never have made it.
I have a dread of being regarded as a show off, suffer excruciating stage fright and am mortified by rejection.
As compensation, I get great pleasure out of watching professional actors skllfully practise their craft and I enjoy putting together a few words about them when they have particularly impressed me. I feel I need not worry that they may read it. The good ones will be too busy learning their lines. Heck! This is an elderly chap's occasional blog, not a column in a national daily.
Anyway, for what it is worth, as a scribbler I suffer depression occasionally and fools not at all. The depression usually comes at the outset of winter or when the fortnight which constitutes summer has gone. It is remedied by bright colours and plenty of light. The remedy for fools is deletion.
And if you are the sort of smart arse who says it takes one to know one...
Click!
AND LASTLY, A GENTLE SMILE.
Grandson Ellis (3) arrived with his mother who carried him from the car. She had a dental appointment and his grandmother would be taking him to meet her when it was over.
It was a hot day and he happily played, barefoot, until it was time to leave.
Came the time and Maureen said: "We must go, pet, let's put your shoes on."
No shoes.
"I can't see your shoes anywhere," she said eventually. "Did you have them on when you came?"
He smiled contentedly. "No," he said, "I came in my toes."
Friday, July 11, 2008
108. Losing the tele addiction
NO LONGER GLUED TO THE BOX.
I become more aware by the week that the description "tele addict" does not apply to me.
To be a total square eyes one has to be addicted to the lot: the reality rubbish, the relentless soaps, the cheaply produced property programmes, the antiques-that-we-used-to-call-junk junk, the cookery crap and, I suppose, the plethora of police repeats, much of it gunhappy gungho stuff from America.
Put it down to age, but I sometimes find myself very bored with it all.
Trouble is, it's a bit late for anything else.
Bonekickers (BBC1)
It will be said over and over but I might as well say it anyway. This hilarious tosh badly needed Tony Robinson and his professor mate from Time Team; you know, the one with the Aussie hat who says: "That en't a pebble, Tone, tha's a arrer 'ead."
Thomas Sutcliffe of The Independent reported that he watched it with his teenage sons and they had "a whale of a time hooting at the silliness of the dialogue and the wild improbabilities of the plotting." He went on to question whether they would have quite as much fun the second time around.
My Leader watched it in desultory fashion while reading her book.
I think she'll stick to Time Team in future.
Me too.
More Soccer Chat With The Cat.
"Good football competition, the Euro 2008," said the cat Shadow. "Right team won, too."
I replied in the affirmative and added: "I think it was just as well we weren't in it."
"Yeah, from our point of view the qualifying rules for players in international teams need to be changed,"he opined.
"Really? How?"
"Place of birth shouldn't come into it. The country where a player earns his living should be the only country entitled to call on him for international duty."
"You're off your head," I said.
"Why? Aren't you always saying that businesses expect total loyalty nowadays? That workers are expected to put firm before family?"
"England's not the firm they work for," I said. "They're employed by football clubs, not the country."
"But the clubs are English,"he maintained doggedly.
"Mostly owned by foreigners," I reminded him. "Who don't all make a fortune out of it."
"That's their concern. Thing is, England's the country in whose Premier League they all want a share. "
"So England should just be able to call on their services? Players like Cristino Renaldo and Fernando Torres?"
"Why not? They're both earning a very good living over here."
"Y'know," I said,"you could be the cause of World War Three."
Question Time.(BBC1)
My Leader never watches this programme.
It's not that she dislikes David Dimbleby. On the contrary, after we had seen him travel the country in the BBC television series How We Built Britain she decided that he was really quite a fun person.
But she intensely dislikes political talk shows.
On political talk shows, she avers, nobody listens to anybody: they just talk at each other.
She's right, y'know.
Question Time panels are mostly composed of politicians. They come complete with personal agendas that take no account of any opinion but their own.
In parliament, when they bother to attend (e.g. when their expenses are under review), they are childish and vociferous. Think of a nonstop audition for Lord of the Flies.
On television they now present a solid front.
The women have been trained at the Margaret Thatcher Patronising Voice school and the men have been taught the "If I may just be allowed to finish, Jeremy..."technique designed to allay any attempt to curtail their nonstop flow of bullshit.
Why anybody would want to watch them, listen to them or, most of all, vote for them, is entirely beyond my comprehension.
But I do listen to the panellists who are not politicians.
There has to be at least one oasis of sense in every desert of parliamentary cant.
Wimbledon 2008 (Tennis)
The fleeting shadow, Shadow, appeared again.
"It's poetry time," he announced. "We've been busy up there on the roof."
I eyed him without enthusiasm: "Go on then."
He adopted a poetic pose.
"Poem one: Another Year's Wimbledon."
Wimbledon's been here again,
No sliding roof
To beat the rain;
Just strawberries and cream,
At prices insane,
And Rafael Nadal,
A man from Spain.
(I mention Spain to scotch your belief
that he's an Apache Indian Chief.)
Who, on Sunday last -
Without looking for help -
Expunged the past
And took Federer's scalp;
Setting the seal
On the Swiss man's fate
When rain - and the
Cavalry - came too late.
He looked at me: I grunted my best off-putting grunt.
"Poem two: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"
No more two-for-the-price-of-one
Says responsible Gordon Brown.
When you're only halfway destitute
You might as well be right down.
If you give your get one free items
To a struggling old person or friend,
They will harbour them ad infinitum,
Just to throw them away in the end.
So no more three-for-the-price-of-two
It's really not saving, it's costing you.
And your excessive gasses, so destructive I fear,
Are flatulently killing the world's atmosphere.
What, no more tea parties
On the Queen's pristine lawns?
No huge civic dinners
For huge civic prawns?
And no more cheap restaurants
In the great Commons House
To feed overweight MP's
On goujons of grouse?
Oh, I treat with the utmost suspicion
Anything that ol' Gordon may say
Trust not a goddamned politician.
Every one of them has feet of clay.
He had a quick wash, then said: "What d' ya think?"
"I think you are becoming a very cynical cat," I replied. "I think you have probably cost me any chance of being invited to tea at Buckingham Palace, let alone the much coveted knighthood."
"You don't want a bloody knighthood," he said. "They're all film and showbiz people and brown-nosed civil servants. Anyway, you wouldn't kneel. If you did you'd have to be lifted back onto your feet."
He's right, y'know.
Doctor Who (BBC1)
The last episode of this series was pure Russell T. Davies. His Dalek story to end all Dalek stories contained action, a convoluted plot, and every opportunity for the actors to show their worth. The climax was fascinating, the finale was intriguing, and the denouement, particularly Bernard Cribbins's scene with David Tennant, was surprisingly moving.
I do hope Mr. Davies will stay with it: he has given it a Time Lord's new life.
New Tricks (BBC 1)
That nice son of the late Patrick Troughton, David, was the detestable villain in this follow on from the last series.
James Fox figured large in the wildly improbable, mainly court scenes plot and the whole kit and caboodle was, as usual, rescued by Ms Amanda Redman and Messrs Armstrong, Bolam and Waterman.
I think the story is to be continued; but perhaps not.
Either way, I don't really care.
I become more aware by the week that the description "tele addict" does not apply to me.
To be a total square eyes one has to be addicted to the lot: the reality rubbish, the relentless soaps, the cheaply produced property programmes, the antiques-that-we-used-to-call-junk junk, the cookery crap and, I suppose, the plethora of police repeats, much of it gunhappy gungho stuff from America.
Put it down to age, but I sometimes find myself very bored with it all.
Trouble is, it's a bit late for anything else.
Bonekickers (BBC1)
It will be said over and over but I might as well say it anyway. This hilarious tosh badly needed Tony Robinson and his professor mate from Time Team; you know, the one with the Aussie hat who says: "That en't a pebble, Tone, tha's a arrer 'ead."
Thomas Sutcliffe of The Independent reported that he watched it with his teenage sons and they had "a whale of a time hooting at the silliness of the dialogue and the wild improbabilities of the plotting." He went on to question whether they would have quite as much fun the second time around.
My Leader watched it in desultory fashion while reading her book.
I think she'll stick to Time Team in future.
Me too.
More Soccer Chat With The Cat.
"Good football competition, the Euro 2008," said the cat Shadow. "Right team won, too."
I replied in the affirmative and added: "I think it was just as well we weren't in it."
"Yeah, from our point of view the qualifying rules for players in international teams need to be changed,"he opined.
"Really? How?"
"Place of birth shouldn't come into it. The country where a player earns his living should be the only country entitled to call on him for international duty."
"You're off your head," I said.
"Why? Aren't you always saying that businesses expect total loyalty nowadays? That workers are expected to put firm before family?"
"England's not the firm they work for," I said. "They're employed by football clubs, not the country."
"But the clubs are English,"he maintained doggedly.
"Mostly owned by foreigners," I reminded him. "Who don't all make a fortune out of it."
"That's their concern. Thing is, England's the country in whose Premier League they all want a share. "
"So England should just be able to call on their services? Players like Cristino Renaldo and Fernando Torres?"
"Why not? They're both earning a very good living over here."
"Y'know," I said,"you could be the cause of World War Three."
Question Time.(BBC1)
My Leader never watches this programme.
It's not that she dislikes David Dimbleby. On the contrary, after we had seen him travel the country in the BBC television series How We Built Britain she decided that he was really quite a fun person.
But she intensely dislikes political talk shows.
On political talk shows, she avers, nobody listens to anybody: they just talk at each other.
She's right, y'know.
Question Time panels are mostly composed of politicians. They come complete with personal agendas that take no account of any opinion but their own.
In parliament, when they bother to attend (e.g. when their expenses are under review), they are childish and vociferous. Think of a nonstop audition for Lord of the Flies.
On television they now present a solid front.
The women have been trained at the Margaret Thatcher Patronising Voice school and the men have been taught the "If I may just be allowed to finish, Jeremy..."technique designed to allay any attempt to curtail their nonstop flow of bullshit.
Why anybody would want to watch them, listen to them or, most of all, vote for them, is entirely beyond my comprehension.
But I do listen to the panellists who are not politicians.
There has to be at least one oasis of sense in every desert of parliamentary cant.
Wimbledon 2008 (Tennis)
The fleeting shadow, Shadow, appeared again.
"It's poetry time," he announced. "We've been busy up there on the roof."
I eyed him without enthusiasm: "Go on then."
He adopted a poetic pose.
"Poem one: Another Year's Wimbledon."
Wimbledon's been here again,
No sliding roof
To beat the rain;
Just strawberries and cream,
At prices insane,
And Rafael Nadal,
A man from Spain.
(I mention Spain to scotch your belief
that he's an Apache Indian Chief.)
Who, on Sunday last -
Without looking for help -
Expunged the past
And took Federer's scalp;
Setting the seal
On the Swiss man's fate
When rain - and the
Cavalry - came too late.
He looked at me: I grunted my best off-putting grunt.
"Poem two: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"
No more two-for-the-price-of-one
Says responsible Gordon Brown.
When you're only halfway destitute
You might as well be right down.
If you give your get one free items
To a struggling old person or friend,
They will harbour them ad infinitum,
Just to throw them away in the end.
So no more three-for-the-price-of-two
It's really not saving, it's costing you.
And your excessive gasses, so destructive I fear,
Are flatulently killing the world's atmosphere.
What, no more tea parties
On the Queen's pristine lawns?
No huge civic dinners
For huge civic prawns?
And no more cheap restaurants
In the great Commons House
To feed overweight MP's
On goujons of grouse?
Oh, I treat with the utmost suspicion
Anything that ol' Gordon may say
Trust not a goddamned politician.
Every one of them has feet of clay.
He had a quick wash, then said: "What d' ya think?"
"I think you are becoming a very cynical cat," I replied. "I think you have probably cost me any chance of being invited to tea at Buckingham Palace, let alone the much coveted knighthood."
"You don't want a bloody knighthood," he said. "They're all film and showbiz people and brown-nosed civil servants. Anyway, you wouldn't kneel. If you did you'd have to be lifted back onto your feet."
He's right, y'know.
Doctor Who (BBC1)
The last episode of this series was pure Russell T. Davies. His Dalek story to end all Dalek stories contained action, a convoluted plot, and every opportunity for the actors to show their worth. The climax was fascinating, the finale was intriguing, and the denouement, particularly Bernard Cribbins's scene with David Tennant, was surprisingly moving.
I do hope Mr. Davies will stay with it: he has given it a Time Lord's new life.
New Tricks (BBC 1)
That nice son of the late Patrick Troughton, David, was the detestable villain in this follow on from the last series.
James Fox figured large in the wildly improbable, mainly court scenes plot and the whole kit and caboodle was, as usual, rescued by Ms Amanda Redman and Messrs Armstrong, Bolam and Waterman.
I think the story is to be continued; but perhaps not.
Either way, I don't really care.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
107. A Warning Note from an Urban Terrorist
BOOKS.
FINISHED: two short stories by Philip Pullman. Once Upon A Time In The North and Lara's Oxford. Neat aperitifs for more Dark Materials.
ALSO FINISHED: Just A Saying by Catherine Cookson (Her final, personal anthology). A beautiful collection of poems by a fine writer.
READING: The Tiger In The Well by Philip Pullman. Sally Lockhart again. Love it.
ALSO READING: Untold Stories by Alan Bennett. Another masterclass in writing.
AND PLODDING WITH: The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn by Colin Dexter. DCI Endeavour Morse. Real ale, crosswords and dreamy spires; three things guaranteed to lull me to sleep.
TELEVISION.
WATCHING: Heroes. Five minute scenes for adult toddlers. I'm not sure who's dead, who's alive, who's a goody, who's a baddy, who can fly or who can't die. I don't care. I just sit back and let Hiro, Claire and the whole load of looney tosh wash right over me.
WATCHING: Dr. Who. For the past couple of weeks the Doctor has been dodging flesh eating shadows. You have to be able to act to be convincing in anything that daft.
WATCHING: Alexei Sayle's Liverpool. And agreeing with most of what he says. Is it me?
ALSO WATCHING: Have I Got News For You. To see Jeremy Clarkson corpse at the quick wit of Paul Merton on the Friday 6th June show was an absolute joy.
NOT WATCHING: Reality rubbish. I care not whether a musical Lord finds his Nancy, I am convinced that amateur talent (particularly when judged by the patently giftless) belongs anywhere but in my home and I simply cannot be arsed with masochists who put themselves up to be fired by a little millionaire who needs a shave.
NOT WATCHING: Programmes where members of the public invite home a bunch of strangers for a meal, experience the hospitality of each of them in return and, secretly marking each other for cooking ability and social graces, compete the while for a cash prize.
The people concerned seldom like each other.
The accompanying commentary is invariably snide.
So why do they do it?
To experience Andy Warhol's fifteen minutes of fame?
What a price!
ALSO NOT WATCHING: Eggheads. When I know answers they don't it's time to call it a day.
I have remarked in the past that the format is too obviously geared against them now that every pub quiz team in the country knows their individual subject weaknesses.
I am constantly irked by opposition cheerleader Dermot's blatant desire to see them come a cropper, let alone his malicious pleasure when they do.
So when they were casually beaten recently by a team whose every question my wife and I answered (or guessed) correctly, I said: "That's it!"
Hell, I even knew the answer to the question that defeated them; but Daphne and C.J. and Marcel Cerdan?
Do come on.
SOCCER LIVE ON TELEVISION.
We are up to our necks in coverage of Euro 2008. England failed to qualify so the cat Shadow and I are easily distracted. But even we have noticed that a vast number of the players on display are employed by English Premiership clubs.
There are mutterings about home grown talent and its compulsory inclusion at top team level. Don't the words stable door and horse gone spring to mind?
THE 42 DAY THING.
There has been a right furore over the jaw-dropping Scot's determination to introduce a 42 day holding without charge law for suspected terrorists.
Support in parliament has been fragile.
As a sop to the doubters there is a rider that anyone held for the extended period who is then released without charge will be entitled to compensation of £3,000 a day.
I herewith give notice that I am a terrorist suspect.
Unless I am apprehended and held for questioning I may organize an army of flatulent old farts to lethally break wind in selected supermarkets at peak times without prior warning.
I shall be happy to accept questioning for 42 days but must decline aeroplane trips with tough-looking Americans.
My Leader would object.
Anyway, my passport is out of date.
Oh, I should prefer my compensation in cash, please.
I make it £126, 000 for the full 42 days
Whatever, I trust it will be tax free.
As a tax paying pensioner it will be good to get something back from the grasping bastards.
FINISHED: two short stories by Philip Pullman. Once Upon A Time In The North and Lara's Oxford. Neat aperitifs for more Dark Materials.
ALSO FINISHED: Just A Saying by Catherine Cookson (Her final, personal anthology). A beautiful collection of poems by a fine writer.
READING: The Tiger In The Well by Philip Pullman. Sally Lockhart again. Love it.
ALSO READING: Untold Stories by Alan Bennett. Another masterclass in writing.
AND PLODDING WITH: The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn by Colin Dexter. DCI Endeavour Morse. Real ale, crosswords and dreamy spires; three things guaranteed to lull me to sleep.
TELEVISION.
WATCHING: Heroes. Five minute scenes for adult toddlers. I'm not sure who's dead, who's alive, who's a goody, who's a baddy, who can fly or who can't die. I don't care. I just sit back and let Hiro, Claire and the whole load of looney tosh wash right over me.
WATCHING: Dr. Who. For the past couple of weeks the Doctor has been dodging flesh eating shadows. You have to be able to act to be convincing in anything that daft.
WATCHING: Alexei Sayle's Liverpool. And agreeing with most of what he says. Is it me?
ALSO WATCHING: Have I Got News For You. To see Jeremy Clarkson corpse at the quick wit of Paul Merton on the Friday 6th June show was an absolute joy.
NOT WATCHING: Reality rubbish. I care not whether a musical Lord finds his Nancy, I am convinced that amateur talent (particularly when judged by the patently giftless) belongs anywhere but in my home and I simply cannot be arsed with masochists who put themselves up to be fired by a little millionaire who needs a shave.
NOT WATCHING: Programmes where members of the public invite home a bunch of strangers for a meal, experience the hospitality of each of them in return and, secretly marking each other for cooking ability and social graces, compete the while for a cash prize.
The people concerned seldom like each other.
The accompanying commentary is invariably snide.
So why do they do it?
To experience Andy Warhol's fifteen minutes of fame?
What a price!
ALSO NOT WATCHING: Eggheads. When I know answers they don't it's time to call it a day.
I have remarked in the past that the format is too obviously geared against them now that every pub quiz team in the country knows their individual subject weaknesses.
I am constantly irked by opposition cheerleader Dermot's blatant desire to see them come a cropper, let alone his malicious pleasure when they do.
So when they were casually beaten recently by a team whose every question my wife and I answered (or guessed) correctly, I said: "That's it!"
Hell, I even knew the answer to the question that defeated them; but Daphne and C.J. and Marcel Cerdan?
Do come on.
SOCCER LIVE ON TELEVISION.
We are up to our necks in coverage of Euro 2008. England failed to qualify so the cat Shadow and I are easily distracted. But even we have noticed that a vast number of the players on display are employed by English Premiership clubs.
There are mutterings about home grown talent and its compulsory inclusion at top team level. Don't the words stable door and horse gone spring to mind?
THE 42 DAY THING.
There has been a right furore over the jaw-dropping Scot's determination to introduce a 42 day holding without charge law for suspected terrorists.
Support in parliament has been fragile.
As a sop to the doubters there is a rider that anyone held for the extended period who is then released without charge will be entitled to compensation of £3,000 a day.
I herewith give notice that I am a terrorist suspect.
Unless I am apprehended and held for questioning I may organize an army of flatulent old farts to lethally break wind in selected supermarkets at peak times without prior warning.
I shall be happy to accept questioning for 42 days but must decline aeroplane trips with tough-looking Americans.
My Leader would object.
Anyway, my passport is out of date.
Oh, I should prefer my compensation in cash, please.
I make it £126, 000 for the full 42 days
Whatever, I trust it will be tax free.
As a tax paying pensioner it will be good to get something back from the grasping bastards.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
106. A Few Words From a Small Town Hero
THE COUGH.
I am bravely fighting my way through a man's cough.
This is not your female go-to-work-coughing-into-paper-tissues-and-get-on-with-it-until-the-boss-sends-you-home-for-fear-that-he-may-catch-it sort of cough.
This is your near-pneumonia=possibly-double-pneumonia-probably-with-complications=ought-to-stay-in-bed-(but y'dies-in-bed-y'know)-shan't-go-to-work-for-fear-of-giving-it-to-the-boss sort of cough.
Yeah, this is definitely a man's cough. And I am bravely fighting my way through it.
Somebody really should tell H.M. Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly lady who knows nothing of my heroism and will certainly never hear of it from me) so that she may honour me in her next Honours List.
I will accept a posthumous award if needs be.
What's that?
You heard what?
No, it couldn't have been her.
It'll be The Duke who said: "Silly bugger!"
EUROVISION SONG CONTEST. (BBC1)
What song?
What contest?
This year it was Creep to the Kremlin Night.
There was no song.
There was no contest.
There was the same old tuneless garbage conducted in an atmosphere not unlike that experienced by H. G. Wells's Mr. Polly when first he encountered his frantically-eager-to-please cousins in The History of Mr. Polly.
The BBC should ditch it.
Give old Wogan a holiday instead.
Sure, the poor man gets few enough of those.
And don't ever again cancel Dr Who for such tripe.
MATCH OF THE DAY LIVE 28th May, 2008. (BBC1)
England 2 - USA 0
A sparse crowd watched an unremarkable friendly played at leisurely pace.
John Terry scored the much needed - not least for him - opening goal and Steven Gerrard got the other.
Gerrard was named 'man of the match' and the Greek referee, blowing his whistle until he was blue in the face, caused one of the commentators to remark "Beware of Greeks bearing whistles."
Indeed.
THE INSPECTOR LYNLEY MYSTERIES. (BBC1)
Well, they're back. Tommy, the sad aristocratic Detective Inspector (Nathaniel Parker) and Havers, the smart working class Detective Sergeant (Sharon Small).
This was the first of two episodes: after which, it is reported, there will be no more.
Sorry to have to say it, but I think that is the right decision.
Every modern tv cops cliche has now been thrown at us in this, including the high-flying female boss who detests our hero for his privileged background rather than for his glaringly inept performance in the job.
At the conclusion of the last episode they should marry Lynley to Havers, retire them and send them to live blissfully in the stately pile.
It would be a relief to them and one helluva relief to us.
KISS OF DEATH (BBC1)
This twaddle - using the title of a 1947 film noir movie which, from the outset, it was never going to equal - was an all too obvious attempt to produce a British CSI.
It failed.
FILTH: THE MARY WHITEHOUSE STORY. (BBC2)
I like Julie Walters very much and look forward to seeing her in the remaining Harry Potter films.
But I didn't watch this.
Could never be bothered with Mrs.Whitehouse when she was alive.
She bullied.
I have always detested bullies.
EVERY BLOGGER NEEDS A READER.
Anonymous John has been in touch with me regarding the Sadness...Madness...Gladness post. He concluded with the words: However, I am confused - quite often these days actually - but I am sure that I have seen the part about the funeral on its own, or have I really blown it?
Just in case there is more than one kind reader like John out there, someone else who has noticed that the piece about young Nicola's funeral was originally published on its own, I did post the funeral piece separately at first but had dreadful trouble trying to post the rest afterwards and concluded that it might have something to do with trying to use two headings on the same day.
In retrospect, it probably wasn't that at all, but I simply panicked.
I deleted both posts, re-arranged them to form one extended item, and published again.
Presto! The new post was accepted. Doubtless I had simply messed up the presentation procedure somewhere along the line.
Trouble is, every time the Blog Eds come up with a new improved system of doing things I suffer morbid confusion and find myself crying plaintively: "It ain't broke! Why mend it?"
Mark you, I am aware that if everybody had that attitude we'd probably still be sending messages by stagecoach.
So keep ringing the changes, Blog Eds.
I'll keep taking the tablets.
FOOTNOTE.
"D'you think those Blog Eds actually see your stuff then?" asked the second cousin of a distant relative whose name eludes me.
"They've got plenty to see in America alone," I said. "At the last count they had Kimbalina, skipping off Google, whose contribution came complete with cute little pictures; they had incredibly smart lady scientists banging on about big bangs and things...and I don't mean Sex and the City; they had spaced out Galatica people; they had people who travel all over the world to photograph a face, a dress, or (especially) a meal; they had an expert in regional booze who supplied fabulous, quirky pictures to back up his Italian wine travels; they had brilliantly drawn comic book characters from brilliantly drawn - and sometimes sadly short-lived - craftsmen; they had more travel pictures taking in more exotic views of baubles, bangles, beads and thumping great mountains; they had graphs and expertise in real estate; a young girl film buff presented horror films with startlngly appropriate matching pictures; and then, to round it all off, they had yet more pictures of the world as seen through American eyes, i.e. anywhere between New York, Boston and Philadelphia on one side and Los Angeles and San Francisco on the other.
"So do I think they see my stuff?
"Bloody hell no."
I am bravely fighting my way through a man's cough.
This is not your female go-to-work-coughing-into-paper-tissues-and-get-on-with-it-until-the-boss-sends-you-home-for-fear-that-he-may-catch-it sort of cough.
This is your near-pneumonia=possibly-double-pneumonia-probably-with-complications=ought-to-stay-in-bed-(but y'dies-in-bed-y'know)-shan't-go-to-work-for-fear-of-giving-it-to-the-boss sort of cough.
Yeah, this is definitely a man's cough. And I am bravely fighting my way through it.
Somebody really should tell H.M. Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly lady who knows nothing of my heroism and will certainly never hear of it from me) so that she may honour me in her next Honours List.
I will accept a posthumous award if needs be.
What's that?
You heard what?
No, it couldn't have been her.
It'll be The Duke who said: "Silly bugger!"
EUROVISION SONG CONTEST. (BBC1)
What song?
What contest?
This year it was Creep to the Kremlin Night.
There was no song.
There was no contest.
There was the same old tuneless garbage conducted in an atmosphere not unlike that experienced by H. G. Wells's Mr. Polly when first he encountered his frantically-eager-to-please cousins in The History of Mr. Polly.
The BBC should ditch it.
Give old Wogan a holiday instead.
Sure, the poor man gets few enough of those.
And don't ever again cancel Dr Who for such tripe.
MATCH OF THE DAY LIVE 28th May, 2008. (BBC1)
England 2 - USA 0
A sparse crowd watched an unremarkable friendly played at leisurely pace.
John Terry scored the much needed - not least for him - opening goal and Steven Gerrard got the other.
Gerrard was named 'man of the match' and the Greek referee, blowing his whistle until he was blue in the face, caused one of the commentators to remark "Beware of Greeks bearing whistles."
Indeed.
THE INSPECTOR LYNLEY MYSTERIES. (BBC1)
Well, they're back. Tommy, the sad aristocratic Detective Inspector (Nathaniel Parker) and Havers, the smart working class Detective Sergeant (Sharon Small).
This was the first of two episodes: after which, it is reported, there will be no more.
Sorry to have to say it, but I think that is the right decision.
Every modern tv cops cliche has now been thrown at us in this, including the high-flying female boss who detests our hero for his privileged background rather than for his glaringly inept performance in the job.
At the conclusion of the last episode they should marry Lynley to Havers, retire them and send them to live blissfully in the stately pile.
It would be a relief to them and one helluva relief to us.
KISS OF DEATH (BBC1)
This twaddle - using the title of a 1947 film noir movie which, from the outset, it was never going to equal - was an all too obvious attempt to produce a British CSI.
It failed.
FILTH: THE MARY WHITEHOUSE STORY. (BBC2)
I like Julie Walters very much and look forward to seeing her in the remaining Harry Potter films.
But I didn't watch this.
Could never be bothered with Mrs.Whitehouse when she was alive.
She bullied.
I have always detested bullies.
EVERY BLOGGER NEEDS A READER.
Anonymous John has been in touch with me regarding the Sadness...Madness...Gladness post. He concluded with the words: However, I am confused - quite often these days actually - but I am sure that I have seen the part about the funeral on its own, or have I really blown it?
Just in case there is more than one kind reader like John out there, someone else who has noticed that the piece about young Nicola's funeral was originally published on its own, I did post the funeral piece separately at first but had dreadful trouble trying to post the rest afterwards and concluded that it might have something to do with trying to use two headings on the same day.
In retrospect, it probably wasn't that at all, but I simply panicked.
I deleted both posts, re-arranged them to form one extended item, and published again.
Presto! The new post was accepted. Doubtless I had simply messed up the presentation procedure somewhere along the line.
Trouble is, every time the Blog Eds come up with a new improved system of doing things I suffer morbid confusion and find myself crying plaintively: "It ain't broke! Why mend it?"
Mark you, I am aware that if everybody had that attitude we'd probably still be sending messages by stagecoach.
So keep ringing the changes, Blog Eds.
I'll keep taking the tablets.
FOOTNOTE.
"D'you think those Blog Eds actually see your stuff then?" asked the second cousin of a distant relative whose name eludes me.
"They've got plenty to see in America alone," I said. "At the last count they had Kimbalina, skipping off Google, whose contribution came complete with cute little pictures; they had incredibly smart lady scientists banging on about big bangs and things...and I don't mean Sex and the City; they had spaced out Galatica people; they had people who travel all over the world to photograph a face, a dress, or (especially) a meal; they had an expert in regional booze who supplied fabulous, quirky pictures to back up his Italian wine travels; they had brilliantly drawn comic book characters from brilliantly drawn - and sometimes sadly short-lived - craftsmen; they had more travel pictures taking in more exotic views of baubles, bangles, beads and thumping great mountains; they had graphs and expertise in real estate; a young girl film buff presented horror films with startlngly appropriate matching pictures; and then, to round it all off, they had yet more pictures of the world as seen through American eyes, i.e. anywhere between New York, Boston and Philadelphia on one side and Los Angeles and San Francisco on the other.
"So do I think they see my stuff?
"Bloody hell no."
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
105. Some Sadness, Some Gladness and Some Madness.
NICOLA.
On Tuesday 6th May. 2008 we attended the funeral of Nicola (Royston-Parry) Graham, daughter of my wife's niece, Barbara.
Nicola had spina bifida and was not expected to live beyond eighteen years. That she made it to thirty three was a tribute to the care she received from medical professionals, the love of her immediate family, the support from friends and sympathetic organizations and her own immense courage.
The funeral service was lovely. Conducted by a young woman, Amy Brading, there was not a religious moment in it. Nicky's favourite music (e.g. Eva Cassidy singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow) was played and I cannot remember being more moved or impressed by a service, ever.
Way to go, kid, way to go.
NICE ONE POMPEY!
Yes! Portsmouth has something to celebrate at last.
Harry Redknapp's Pompey football team won the FA Cup last Saturday in a fascinating, if somewhat scrappy, 1 - 0 tussle with Cardiff City.
My Leader and I are Portmuthians so the win gave us particular pleasure. I was only eight years old when last they won it and that was five years before she was born.
"Can we expect a little more from you now that Pompey has won the Cup?" inquired the cat Shadow.
"There's been a lot on." I said defensively.
"You haven't put finger to keyboard for three weeks," he said. "That's not so much a lot on as downright bloody laziness."
"Don't you be mealy-mouthed now, mate," I said. "You speak your mind."
Well I wouldn't have bothered but the little perisher slept right through the match.
Actually, Maureen didn't watch it, either. She had important needlework to do.
Pays to get your priorities right.
BACK TO THE BOX.
Dexter. (ITV1)
Saw the last couple of episodes of this well acted nonsense and am still not sure whether it better deserves commendation or castigation. In truth, I find it an amoral conception which leads to occasionally uncomfortable viewing. It will be a questionable choice next time around.
My son, a gentle chap, thoroughly enjoys it.
Guess it's an age thing.
Dr.Who. (BBC1)
This time the doctor was in Agatha Christie country.
Fenella Woolgar was Agatha, poised to make the dramatic disappearance that probably sold more books in a fortnight than her publisher's mediocre publicity would in a decade.
Felicity Kendal was there, sadly without Pam Ferris, so the crime solving fell to the Doctor and Donna.
Donna's contribution was littered with helpful Christie book titles and plot ideas for Agatha to ponder upon when she got to Harrogate.
I think the vicar was a bee (a lot of them are) and for the life of me I cannot remember the whys and wherefores of it all.
But then I seldom ever did with Mrs.Christie's stuff, so that was nothing new.
CSI: NY. (Five)
Are they ever going to catch that bloody taxicab killer?
Class of 62 - from 15 to 60. (BBC2)
This followed the lives of Marion Gaunt and her friends after they left Sandford Secondary Modern School. Leeds.
What a doughty bunch. My Leader and I sat fascinated as each told of her hopes, her disappointments, her search for fulfillment, her successes and her failures.
Don't usually watch what I regard as voyeuristic programmes.
Don't even watch the soaps.
But this was different.
This was the real world inhabited by real northern women and it was worth every minute of the watching.
So good luck to you all, Class of 62.
And now, for a bit of fun, the ultimate CSI spin-off -
CSI: IW
Executive Producer: Dennis Barnden
Director; Jessica White.
Series 1. Episode 1/1: - Crushem Gets The Needle.
Will Crushem and his Isle of Wight CSI team are investigating a messy murder in a seaside apartment which contains a corpse, ample lighting and an in-credit electricity account.
They are searching for clues by torchlight.
The victim is a young woman. Her clothing is in disarray and from the lapel of her dishevelled jacket Crushem recovers the pointed half of a needle which he drops into a plastic bag.
Crushem's GFA (Glamorous Female Assistant) spots a pink crumb on the four hundred square feet of bloodstained carpet: she recovers the crumb with tweezers and it, too, goes into a plastic bag.
Crushem's GMA (Glamorous Male Assistant) watches her admiringly. He is in love with her, but wisely refrains from telling her so on the grounds that same-job relationships are a mistake. Besides, if he tells her she will certainly be dead before the series ends.
"What is it?" he asks.
"Looks like pink shortbread," she replies.
"Crumbs!" he exclaims.
"Well...one, anyway," says Crushem.
(Cue theme song - The Who's newly adapted: Blimey O'Reilly, Who Are You Foolin' Again?)
In her laboratory, Crushem's KFG (Kookie Forensic Genius) quickly reaches a startling conclusion: this is not blood soaked ordinary shortbread, this really is pink shortbread. It was only marketed a fortnight ago and is sold in just one shop. To date a mere two people have bought it (we are told by the KFG's male colleague who is in love with her) and one of them was sent to prison last week. So the other is either the victim or the perpetrator...
What fun.
In the path lab Crushem's EDC&F (Eccentric Doctor Colleague and Friend) finds no trace of shortbread in or on the vic. What he does find is a strand of hay in the vic's shoe and the hay (according to the KFG) is particular to one farm in the West Wight.
So now we know. The perp, not the vic, bought the shortbread.
Furthermore, the KFG's besotted colleague tells us, the perp is known to the shopkeeper who sold said shortbread.
The perp is (surprise, surprise) a farmer in the West Wight.
The Team moves in.
They corner the farmer in his hay barn in broad daylight. They are wearing body armour and helmets with lighted torches affixed to them, They have pistols at the ready.
"She shouldn't 'ave turned me and me shortbread down," he shouts, brandishing a shotgun in their direction. "Cost me a ...king fortune that shortbread did. An' then, when I ate the lot in front of 'er, she called me a greedy pig! Shouldn'ta said that, not when I was carryin' me brand new riphook...I mean, ain't that askin' for trouble?" So saying he aims his shotgun at the GMA, fires and (despite the fact that he unfailingly kills game on the run and bird on the wing with a single shot) misses.
There is a hail of return gunfire and he lands lifeless in the hay.
(C.U. bullets tearing through specially prepared carcass from local butcher's shop.)
Crushem reaches him first and plucks the other half of the needle found in the vic's lapel from the sleeve of his tweed jacket.
"Looks like you just found a needle in a haystack, C," says the GFA.
"Half of one, anyway," says Crushem.
(Show disclaimer regarding events, characters and any degree of realism. Give notice that any likeness to any living person should result in that person seeking immediate psychiatric help.)
On Tuesday 6th May. 2008 we attended the funeral of Nicola (Royston-Parry) Graham, daughter of my wife's niece, Barbara.
Nicola had spina bifida and was not expected to live beyond eighteen years. That she made it to thirty three was a tribute to the care she received from medical professionals, the love of her immediate family, the support from friends and sympathetic organizations and her own immense courage.
The funeral service was lovely. Conducted by a young woman, Amy Brading, there was not a religious moment in it. Nicky's favourite music (e.g. Eva Cassidy singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow) was played and I cannot remember being more moved or impressed by a service, ever.
Way to go, kid, way to go.
NICE ONE POMPEY!
Yes! Portsmouth has something to celebrate at last.
Harry Redknapp's Pompey football team won the FA Cup last Saturday in a fascinating, if somewhat scrappy, 1 - 0 tussle with Cardiff City.
My Leader and I are Portmuthians so the win gave us particular pleasure. I was only eight years old when last they won it and that was five years before she was born.
"Can we expect a little more from you now that Pompey has won the Cup?" inquired the cat Shadow.
"There's been a lot on." I said defensively.
"You haven't put finger to keyboard for three weeks," he said. "That's not so much a lot on as downright bloody laziness."
"Don't you be mealy-mouthed now, mate," I said. "You speak your mind."
Well I wouldn't have bothered but the little perisher slept right through the match.
Actually, Maureen didn't watch it, either. She had important needlework to do.
Pays to get your priorities right.
BACK TO THE BOX.
Dexter. (ITV1)
Saw the last couple of episodes of this well acted nonsense and am still not sure whether it better deserves commendation or castigation. In truth, I find it an amoral conception which leads to occasionally uncomfortable viewing. It will be a questionable choice next time around.
My son, a gentle chap, thoroughly enjoys it.
Guess it's an age thing.
Dr.Who. (BBC1)
This time the doctor was in Agatha Christie country.
Fenella Woolgar was Agatha, poised to make the dramatic disappearance that probably sold more books in a fortnight than her publisher's mediocre publicity would in a decade.
Felicity Kendal was there, sadly without Pam Ferris, so the crime solving fell to the Doctor and Donna.
Donna's contribution was littered with helpful Christie book titles and plot ideas for Agatha to ponder upon when she got to Harrogate.
I think the vicar was a bee (a lot of them are) and for the life of me I cannot remember the whys and wherefores of it all.
But then I seldom ever did with Mrs.Christie's stuff, so that was nothing new.
CSI: NY. (Five)
Are they ever going to catch that bloody taxicab killer?
Class of 62 - from 15 to 60. (BBC2)
This followed the lives of Marion Gaunt and her friends after they left Sandford Secondary Modern School. Leeds.
What a doughty bunch. My Leader and I sat fascinated as each told of her hopes, her disappointments, her search for fulfillment, her successes and her failures.
Don't usually watch what I regard as voyeuristic programmes.
Don't even watch the soaps.
But this was different.
This was the real world inhabited by real northern women and it was worth every minute of the watching.
So good luck to you all, Class of 62.
And now, for a bit of fun, the ultimate CSI spin-off -
CSI: IW
Executive Producer: Dennis Barnden
Director; Jessica White.
Series 1. Episode 1/1: - Crushem Gets The Needle.
Will Crushem and his Isle of Wight CSI team are investigating a messy murder in a seaside apartment which contains a corpse, ample lighting and an in-credit electricity account.
They are searching for clues by torchlight.
The victim is a young woman. Her clothing is in disarray and from the lapel of her dishevelled jacket Crushem recovers the pointed half of a needle which he drops into a plastic bag.
Crushem's GFA (Glamorous Female Assistant) spots a pink crumb on the four hundred square feet of bloodstained carpet: she recovers the crumb with tweezers and it, too, goes into a plastic bag.
Crushem's GMA (Glamorous Male Assistant) watches her admiringly. He is in love with her, but wisely refrains from telling her so on the grounds that same-job relationships are a mistake. Besides, if he tells her she will certainly be dead before the series ends.
"What is it?" he asks.
"Looks like pink shortbread," she replies.
"Crumbs!" he exclaims.
"Well...one, anyway," says Crushem.
(Cue theme song - The Who's newly adapted: Blimey O'Reilly, Who Are You Foolin' Again?)
In her laboratory, Crushem's KFG (Kookie Forensic Genius) quickly reaches a startling conclusion: this is not blood soaked ordinary shortbread, this really is pink shortbread. It was only marketed a fortnight ago and is sold in just one shop. To date a mere two people have bought it (we are told by the KFG's male colleague who is in love with her) and one of them was sent to prison last week. So the other is either the victim or the perpetrator...
What fun.
In the path lab Crushem's EDC&F (Eccentric Doctor Colleague and Friend) finds no trace of shortbread in or on the vic. What he does find is a strand of hay in the vic's shoe and the hay (according to the KFG) is particular to one farm in the West Wight.
So now we know. The perp, not the vic, bought the shortbread.
Furthermore, the KFG's besotted colleague tells us, the perp is known to the shopkeeper who sold said shortbread.
The perp is (surprise, surprise) a farmer in the West Wight.
The Team moves in.
They corner the farmer in his hay barn in broad daylight. They are wearing body armour and helmets with lighted torches affixed to them, They have pistols at the ready.
"She shouldn't 'ave turned me and me shortbread down," he shouts, brandishing a shotgun in their direction. "Cost me a ...king fortune that shortbread did. An' then, when I ate the lot in front of 'er, she called me a greedy pig! Shouldn'ta said that, not when I was carryin' me brand new riphook...I mean, ain't that askin' for trouble?" So saying he aims his shotgun at the GMA, fires and (despite the fact that he unfailingly kills game on the run and bird on the wing with a single shot) misses.
There is a hail of return gunfire and he lands lifeless in the hay.
(C.U. bullets tearing through specially prepared carcass from local butcher's shop.)
Crushem reaches him first and plucks the other half of the needle found in the vic's lapel from the sleeve of his tweed jacket.
"Looks like you just found a needle in a haystack, C," says the GFA.
"Half of one, anyway," says Crushem.
(Show disclaimer regarding events, characters and any degree of realism. Give notice that any likeness to any living person should result in that person seeking immediate psychiatric help.)
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
104. A Fitting Goodbye
ANTHONY MINGHELLA CBE. (1954 - 2008)
I have little to add to the many news reports covering the memorial service held here on the Isle of Wight last Saturday.
St. Thomas's Church, Newport, was packed and, on a beautiful sunny day, over a hundred stood outside to listen to the relayed service, show their respect for this gentle, talented man and silently express their sympathy with his family.
As may have been expected, some fine actors with whom he had worked and/or become friends - among them Jude Law, Alfred Molina and Alan Rickman - made the journey from the mainland to pay tribute to him.
In all it was a fitting public goodbye to a much admired Islander.
BACK TO THE BOX.
Foyle's War. (ITV1)
When they sound the last All-Clear (went the song) how happy my darling we'll be...
Well, on the 20th April Michael Kitchen took his wonderfully underplayed performance, his scene-stealing DCS Foyle hat and his lonely final departure from Hastings police station.
It was a moving exit in the execution of which he quietly upstaged the off-screen end of war celebrations.
Those of us who have enjoyed Anthony Horowitz's wartime gems are far from happy. We are concerned that there may be no more of them.
But Sherlock Holmes, whose writer did not want to bring him back, survived the Reichenbach falls .
So surely Christopher Foyle, whose writer does want to bring him back, can survive the last All-Clear?
Rumour has it he will.
I do hope rumour is right.
Taggart. (ITV1)
When DCI Matt Burke (Alex Norton) meets up again with old flame Kathy Moffat (Phyllis Logan) and offers to help her, it is obvious that he is heading for trouble. (Ol' Phyllis usually is trouble nowadays.)
It is apparent, too, that his problems will be magnified by the presence of Chief Superintendant Laura Henson (Deidre Davies), a high-flyer intent on reducing costs by purging the force of senior officers she considers to be past their sell-by date. They include him.
Needless to say his team saves his neck, right prevails, the villains (including the pushy high-flyer) fail and he is left remarking ruefully to DS Reid (Blythe Duff): "No fool like an old fool, eh Jackie?"
No team like the Taggart team, either.
Mur-rder-r.
Heroes. (BBC2)
They're back here in a new eleven parter.
It's a delightfully daft concept.
It dodges from scene to scene and character to character like a special for the under fives.
It keeps me in a state of mesmerized bewilderment.
I shall continually ask myself why I am watching it.
And I shall watch it all.
Dr. Who. (BBC1)
The Doctor kicks along at a lively pace.
We have had peacefully inclined aliens, the Ood, who appear to have sneezed spaghetti from their noses.
Now we have warlike aliens, the Sontarans, who my old friend Anonymous John would probably describe as:
"Big-headed little mooshes."
We also have Martha Jones (Freema Agyeman) back and, somewhat to the Doctor's discomfiture, instantly friendly with his new sidekick, Donna.
They'll cause him more trouble than any alien.
Serves him right.
Yep, I shall watch it all.
I have little to add to the many news reports covering the memorial service held here on the Isle of Wight last Saturday.
St. Thomas's Church, Newport, was packed and, on a beautiful sunny day, over a hundred stood outside to listen to the relayed service, show their respect for this gentle, talented man and silently express their sympathy with his family.
As may have been expected, some fine actors with whom he had worked and/or become friends - among them Jude Law, Alfred Molina and Alan Rickman - made the journey from the mainland to pay tribute to him.
In all it was a fitting public goodbye to a much admired Islander.
BACK TO THE BOX.
Foyle's War. (ITV1)
When they sound the last All-Clear (went the song) how happy my darling we'll be...
Well, on the 20th April Michael Kitchen took his wonderfully underplayed performance, his scene-stealing DCS Foyle hat and his lonely final departure from Hastings police station.
It was a moving exit in the execution of which he quietly upstaged the off-screen end of war celebrations.
Those of us who have enjoyed Anthony Horowitz's wartime gems are far from happy. We are concerned that there may be no more of them.
But Sherlock Holmes, whose writer did not want to bring him back, survived the Reichenbach falls .
So surely Christopher Foyle, whose writer does want to bring him back, can survive the last All-Clear?
Rumour has it he will.
I do hope rumour is right.
Taggart. (ITV1)
When DCI Matt Burke (Alex Norton) meets up again with old flame Kathy Moffat (Phyllis Logan) and offers to help her, it is obvious that he is heading for trouble. (Ol' Phyllis usually is trouble nowadays.)
It is apparent, too, that his problems will be magnified by the presence of Chief Superintendant Laura Henson (Deidre Davies), a high-flyer intent on reducing costs by purging the force of senior officers she considers to be past their sell-by date. They include him.
Needless to say his team saves his neck, right prevails, the villains (including the pushy high-flyer) fail and he is left remarking ruefully to DS Reid (Blythe Duff): "No fool like an old fool, eh Jackie?"
No team like the Taggart team, either.
Mur-rder-r.
Heroes. (BBC2)
They're back here in a new eleven parter.
It's a delightfully daft concept.
It dodges from scene to scene and character to character like a special for the under fives.
It keeps me in a state of mesmerized bewilderment.
I shall continually ask myself why I am watching it.
And I shall watch it all.
Dr. Who. (BBC1)
The Doctor kicks along at a lively pace.
We have had peacefully inclined aliens, the Ood, who appear to have sneezed spaghetti from their noses.
Now we have warlike aliens, the Sontarans, who my old friend Anonymous John would probably describe as:
"Big-headed little mooshes."
We also have Martha Jones (Freema Agyeman) back and, somewhat to the Doctor's discomfiture, instantly friendly with his new sidekick, Donna.
They'll cause him more trouble than any alien.
Serves him right.
Yep, I shall watch it all.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
103. A Fast Farewell to Foyle
FOYLE'S WAR. (ITV1)
They were all back last Sunday.
There was DCS Christopher Foyle (Michael Kitchen) wearing his seriously good acting trilby; there was DS Paul Milner (Anthony Howell) wearing his seriously good acting limp; and there was every old bloke's fantasy driver, Samantha (Sam) Stewart (the wonderfully named Honeysuckle Weeks) wearing a khaki uniform better than any ATS girl ever did in my day.
I was going to write that the new series seemed to have started under a bit of a pall. That the war was apparently coming to an end and what were they going to call it then? Foyle's Peace?
But my Leader remarked on an article in the ultimate digital tv and radio guide wherein Anthony Horowitz, the creator of Foyle, interviewed by Radio Times correspondent Benji Wilson, expressed no small irritation with former ITV supremo Simon Shaps.
It seems that Mr. Shaps, presumably suffering from a rush of blood to the head, had axed Foyle's War before he left ITV for pastures new.
Oh dear, what a disappointment.
No surprise, though.
Television, like any other business, is packed with giftless gits dodging from lofty managerial height to loftier managerial height leaving a trail of bad decisions and daft mistakes behind them. It's the blueprint for modern management.
So, unless the new boss shows enough sense to recommission it, or to invite Mr.Horowitz to write a sequel, Foyle's War will come to an end tomorrow, Sunday 20th April, 2008.
Flags should be flown at half mast.
And to rub salt into the wound, Benji Wilson mooted the Foyle's Peace title ahead of me.
Oh, all right, so it didn't take a Stephen Hawking to come up with it.
NCIS. (Five)
Last night we reached episode twenty of series four and a rum old business it was.
Somehow, over the past few weeks, Agent Tim McGee (Sean Murray) has become a sort of NCIS Jessica Fletcher churning out best selling thrillers. His leading characters bear an unmistakeable likeness to his workmates, even down to the names: L. J. Tibbs? Come on...
It is clear that we are reaching the end of a 24 episode run of this hugely likeable slice of hokum. Jethro Gibbs's acting haircut is beginning to act up again, the plots are becoming progressively less believable and only our familiarity with the characters keeps us fondly glued to it.
Heck, anyone who can resist daffy Abby (Pauley Perrette) has to have something wrong with them.
They were all back last Sunday.
There was DCS Christopher Foyle (Michael Kitchen) wearing his seriously good acting trilby; there was DS Paul Milner (Anthony Howell) wearing his seriously good acting limp; and there was every old bloke's fantasy driver, Samantha (Sam) Stewart (the wonderfully named Honeysuckle Weeks) wearing a khaki uniform better than any ATS girl ever did in my day.
I was going to write that the new series seemed to have started under a bit of a pall. That the war was apparently coming to an end and what were they going to call it then? Foyle's Peace?
But my Leader remarked on an article in the ultimate digital tv and radio guide wherein Anthony Horowitz, the creator of Foyle, interviewed by Radio Times correspondent Benji Wilson, expressed no small irritation with former ITV supremo Simon Shaps.
It seems that Mr. Shaps, presumably suffering from a rush of blood to the head, had axed Foyle's War before he left ITV for pastures new.
Oh dear, what a disappointment.
No surprise, though.
Television, like any other business, is packed with giftless gits dodging from lofty managerial height to loftier managerial height leaving a trail of bad decisions and daft mistakes behind them. It's the blueprint for modern management.
So, unless the new boss shows enough sense to recommission it, or to invite Mr.Horowitz to write a sequel, Foyle's War will come to an end tomorrow, Sunday 20th April, 2008.
Flags should be flown at half mast.
And to rub salt into the wound, Benji Wilson mooted the Foyle's Peace title ahead of me.
Oh, all right, so it didn't take a Stephen Hawking to come up with it.
NCIS. (Five)
Last night we reached episode twenty of series four and a rum old business it was.
Somehow, over the past few weeks, Agent Tim McGee (Sean Murray) has become a sort of NCIS Jessica Fletcher churning out best selling thrillers. His leading characters bear an unmistakeable likeness to his workmates, even down to the names: L. J. Tibbs? Come on...
It is clear that we are reaching the end of a 24 episode run of this hugely likeable slice of hokum. Jethro Gibbs's acting haircut is beginning to act up again, the plots are becoming progressively less believable and only our familiarity with the characters keeps us fondly glued to it.
Heck, anyone who can resist daffy Abby (Pauley Perrette) has to have something wrong with them.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
102. A Sheriff, A Tribute, A Hallo and A Few Goodbyes.
OL' TITCHY IS SHERIFF.
Alan Titchmarsh has just been made High Sheriff of the Isle of Wight, a title bestowed by H.M. Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly lady apparently prone to the charms of a TV gardener from Yorkshire).
Opinions on the appointment vary.
There are those who will always echo the views of Her Majesty. They are the sort who would support any choice she made. She could choose Osama bin Laden and they would agree wholeheartedly.
Then there are those who think he is just a tiresome mini celebrity who happens to have a holiday home here and the post should have gone to a caulkhead (somebody island born).
Whenever I've seen him on the box, Terry Wogan's homely description "bonny" fits him perfectly. I do not know whether, away from the screen, he is a charmer or a tosser and I could not give a f-f-fig one way or the other.
In my working days, though, I was once required to fill in a questionnaire from the Department of Health seeking, among other things, an answer to the question: Are you aware of any racial problems in your area?
My reply was as follows: There are no racial problems on the Island. Anybody not born here is a foreigner.
So ol' Titchy will have to understand that to Islanders he will always be a foreigner, whatever his reputation or standing.
If he has already absorbed that much and - more importantly - learnt to accept it with good grace, he will find this a pleasant enough berth, in or out of office. If he has not and has no intention of so doing, he will find that television fame impresses nobody worth impressing.
What? Oh, my wife and I are celebrating our fortieth year here.
We are still foreigners.
RICHARD WIDMARK (1914 - 2008)
This is a small tribute to the splendid actor Richard Widmark who died on 24th March at the age of 93.
I first saw him in the 1947 film Kiss of Death and came out of the cinema thinking: (1) that new chap was one helluva good psychopath:(2) wonder if his manic laugh will typecast him? And (3) what a pity he didn't bump off Victor Mature.
Mr. Widmark remained a charismatic and dependable star throughout his entire career. Other actors visibly looked to their laurels when he was about.
If I had been an actor I would have relished working with him.
How better to perfect your craft than to work with the best?
BACK TO THE BOX.
Hughie Green: Most Sincerely. (BBC4)
This was another in the Curse of Comedy series and featured a believable performance by Trevor Eve in the lead role.
I always thought that Hughie Green was an unctuous phoney - and I mean that most sincerely, folks - so it came as no surprise to learn he was also an unpleasant womanizer and a self-important bully.
Mark Benton played the sanctimonious - and equally detestable - presenter of Stars On Sunday, Jess (The Bishop) Yates who, after his death in 1993, fell victim to Green's malicious revelation (via a News of the World journalist at his 1997 funeral) that he was the real father of Yates's beloved daughter, Paula.
Three years later Paula Yates, too, was dead.
Only in the most derisive sense were there any comedians in this story.
How it crept into this particular series is a mystery.
Doctor Who (BBC1)
Yep, the Doctor (David Tennant) is back for another thirteen weeks. This time he has Donna Noble (Catherine Tate) as his purely platonic helpmate and a host of threatening aliens old and new to contend with, all courtesy of Russell T. Davies.
I shan't miss a single episode if I can help it.
Hotel Babylon. (BBC1)
This hotel potboiler came to its gloriously farcical conclusion.
It was unadulterated tripe.
There will be another series next year.
And of course we shall watch it.
Torchwood. (BBC2)
The second series of this one ended, too.
I expect it will be back.
But it will be back without a couple of our favourite characters.
And of course we shall watch it.
Frankie Howerd: Rather You than Me. (BBC4)
In a fortnight of farewells, this was the last in the short Curse of Comedy series and one that really did belong to it..
Frankie Howerd (born Howard) was played by David Walliams (born Williams) to very good effect,
His acolyte/lover/chauffeur/partner/manager Dennis Heymer was played, to equally good effect, by Rafe Spall.
At a time when public knowledge of his homosexual proclivities would probably have finished a fluctuating show business career, Frankie Howerd, a promiscuous homosexual, was no more convincing as a heterosexual than was that ludicrous toupee masquerading as his real hair.
Both comedy and his sexuality were a curse to this troubled man.
There is no doubt that Dennis Heymer was the best thing that ever happened to him.
Alan Titchmarsh has just been made High Sheriff of the Isle of Wight, a title bestowed by H.M. Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly lady apparently prone to the charms of a TV gardener from Yorkshire).
Opinions on the appointment vary.
There are those who will always echo the views of Her Majesty. They are the sort who would support any choice she made. She could choose Osama bin Laden and they would agree wholeheartedly.
Then there are those who think he is just a tiresome mini celebrity who happens to have a holiday home here and the post should have gone to a caulkhead (somebody island born).
Whenever I've seen him on the box, Terry Wogan's homely description "bonny" fits him perfectly. I do not know whether, away from the screen, he is a charmer or a tosser and I could not give a f-f-fig one way or the other.
In my working days, though, I was once required to fill in a questionnaire from the Department of Health seeking, among other things, an answer to the question: Are you aware of any racial problems in your area?
My reply was as follows: There are no racial problems on the Island. Anybody not born here is a foreigner.
So ol' Titchy will have to understand that to Islanders he will always be a foreigner, whatever his reputation or standing.
If he has already absorbed that much and - more importantly - learnt to accept it with good grace, he will find this a pleasant enough berth, in or out of office. If he has not and has no intention of so doing, he will find that television fame impresses nobody worth impressing.
What? Oh, my wife and I are celebrating our fortieth year here.
We are still foreigners.
RICHARD WIDMARK (1914 - 2008)
This is a small tribute to the splendid actor Richard Widmark who died on 24th March at the age of 93.
I first saw him in the 1947 film Kiss of Death and came out of the cinema thinking: (1) that new chap was one helluva good psychopath:(2) wonder if his manic laugh will typecast him? And (3) what a pity he didn't bump off Victor Mature.
Mr. Widmark remained a charismatic and dependable star throughout his entire career. Other actors visibly looked to their laurels when he was about.
If I had been an actor I would have relished working with him.
How better to perfect your craft than to work with the best?
BACK TO THE BOX.
Hughie Green: Most Sincerely. (BBC4)
This was another in the Curse of Comedy series and featured a believable performance by Trevor Eve in the lead role.
I always thought that Hughie Green was an unctuous phoney - and I mean that most sincerely, folks - so it came as no surprise to learn he was also an unpleasant womanizer and a self-important bully.
Mark Benton played the sanctimonious - and equally detestable - presenter of Stars On Sunday, Jess (The Bishop) Yates who, after his death in 1993, fell victim to Green's malicious revelation (via a News of the World journalist at his 1997 funeral) that he was the real father of Yates's beloved daughter, Paula.
Three years later Paula Yates, too, was dead.
Only in the most derisive sense were there any comedians in this story.
How it crept into this particular series is a mystery.
Doctor Who (BBC1)
Yep, the Doctor (David Tennant) is back for another thirteen weeks. This time he has Donna Noble (Catherine Tate) as his purely platonic helpmate and a host of threatening aliens old and new to contend with, all courtesy of Russell T. Davies.
I shan't miss a single episode if I can help it.
Hotel Babylon. (BBC1)
This hotel potboiler came to its gloriously farcical conclusion.
It was unadulterated tripe.
There will be another series next year.
And of course we shall watch it.
Torchwood. (BBC2)
The second series of this one ended, too.
I expect it will be back.
But it will be back without a couple of our favourite characters.
And of course we shall watch it.
Frankie Howerd: Rather You than Me. (BBC4)
In a fortnight of farewells, this was the last in the short Curse of Comedy series and one that really did belong to it..
Frankie Howerd (born Howard) was played by David Walliams (born Williams) to very good effect,
His acolyte/lover/chauffeur/partner/manager Dennis Heymer was played, to equally good effect, by Rafe Spall.
At a time when public knowledge of his homosexual proclivities would probably have finished a fluctuating show business career, Frankie Howerd, a promiscuous homosexual, was no more convincing as a heterosexual than was that ludicrous toupee masquerading as his real hair.
Both comedy and his sexuality were a curse to this troubled man.
There is no doubt that Dennis Heymer was the best thing that ever happened to him.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
101. Cat Chat, Hancock, Tough Tecs & 5 Star Bilge
CONVERSATION WITH A SULKING SHADOW.
"Are you sulking?" I asked the cat Shadow.
"Why would you care?" he answered sullenly.
"You are," I said. "You're sulking."
He had a quick wash and feigned interest in the line of Harry Potter DVDs alongside the television.
"Come on then, who's rubbed your fur up the wrong way?" I demanded.
"I've seen that picture on your blog," he announced aggrievedly."That should have been me, that should."
It took a moment for me to cotton on. Then I said: "Mother's one hundredth? It couldn't be you. You weren't there. Roz and Jess's cat Figgy was there. That's why he's in the picture."
"Well I'm thinking of leaving home," he said.
"You already do," I retorted. "Every night after supper. And every bloody morning you're back for breakfast."
As suddenly as he was miffed he was mollified.
He grinned his cat grin.
"Yeah," he said. "Why break the habit of a lifetime."
HANCOCK AND JOAN. (BBC4)
After Phil Davies and Jason Isaacs as Steptoe and Son, another acting tour de force, Ken Stott as Tony Hancock.
When I read about it in my ultimate digital TV and radio guide I had to look twice. S-S-S-Stott as H-H-H-Hancock? Swipe me, he's nothing like him!
Trouble with playing one-off individuals is that their unique talent defies reproduction. Being a talented original is what made them famous.
At his best Tony Hancock was a comic genius of instantly recognizable voice, loveable pomposity and impeccable timing.
At less than his best he was a talent sadly wasted.
At his worst he was a thoroughly nasty alcoholic.
Ken Stott, neither looking nor sounding like him, managed to portray the lad 'imself - by walk, mannerism and gesture - with uncanny accuracy.
Co-star Maxine Peake was excellent as Joan Le Mesurier, wife of Hancock's actor friend John, who became the ultimate love of the comedian's life.
With Hughie Green (Trevor Eve) and Frankie Howerd (David Walliams) to follow, The Curse of Comedy is proving to be a very fine drama series indeed.
TWO DETECTIVES TOO MANY.
Last Thursday saw the final episode in the current run of two detective shows. Ashes to Ashes (BBC1) and Trial & Retribution (ITV1).
I can't say I was sorry to see them go. Hard-bitten, tough-talking tecs are a bit wearisome after a while. Two of them on the same night can become downright tiresome: anyway, I get niggly trying to decide which of them to record.
So I hope DCI Gene Hunt (Philip Glenister) and Chief Supt. Michael Walker (David Hayman) will be given a long holiday.
Bring back Miss Marple.
HE KILLS COPPERS. (ITV1)
Another villainous cops and murderous villains yarn. This three-parter, with opening sequences set in 1966, is based on a Jake Arnott novel and brought to mind the early work of G.F.Newman. Everybody is a chancer and nobody half decent lives longer than the first episode.
Keeps you watching, though.
HOTEL BABYLON. (BBC1)
Have you watched this?
Then perhaps you are one of the several million appreciative Babylonians.
Sorry to say I'm not.
I think it's a load of five star bilge.
Dexter Fletcher, as The Concierge, tries hard to give credibility to his and everybody else's part.
Leading actors, first Tamzin Outhwaite then Max Beesley, playing the Hotel Manager, struggle desperately to manage unbelievable staff, impossible guests, ludicrous scripts and unlikely love interests before disappearing, with a relieved sigh, to the West End or the provincial stage for sanity and less money. At the moment Lee Williams has the role. I give him until the end of the series and that's just a P45 away.
Each week a guest star, usually well enough known to know better, turns up and hams it up, presumably for a decent pay packet.
I was all for chucking it in midway through the episode after Max Beesley left: but then, magically, one of the hotel guests (a licentious, conceited actor - yeah, some of it rings true) sat down at a piano and started to play Bohemian Rhapsody. Before you could say Freddie Mercury he was joined by three of the staff in a hilarious parody of the original Queen masterpiece. It almost compensated for the damned silly story.
By the end I was even cheerful enough to accept as guest star the omnipresent John - somebody really should tell him about Kelly Monteith - Barrowman.
Well, you can't blame any entertainer for grabbing all the work he can get.
But I still remember Kelly Monteith.
Do you?
You do?
Bloody hell.
"Are you sulking?" I asked the cat Shadow.
"Why would you care?" he answered sullenly.
"You are," I said. "You're sulking."
He had a quick wash and feigned interest in the line of Harry Potter DVDs alongside the television.
"Come on then, who's rubbed your fur up the wrong way?" I demanded.
"I've seen that picture on your blog," he announced aggrievedly."That should have been me, that should."
It took a moment for me to cotton on. Then I said: "Mother's one hundredth? It couldn't be you. You weren't there. Roz and Jess's cat Figgy was there. That's why he's in the picture."
"Well I'm thinking of leaving home," he said.
"You already do," I retorted. "Every night after supper. And every bloody morning you're back for breakfast."
As suddenly as he was miffed he was mollified.
He grinned his cat grin.
"Yeah," he said. "Why break the habit of a lifetime."
HANCOCK AND JOAN. (BBC4)
After Phil Davies and Jason Isaacs as Steptoe and Son, another acting tour de force, Ken Stott as Tony Hancock.
When I read about it in my ultimate digital TV and radio guide I had to look twice. S-S-S-Stott as H-H-H-Hancock? Swipe me, he's nothing like him!
Trouble with playing one-off individuals is that their unique talent defies reproduction. Being a talented original is what made them famous.
At his best Tony Hancock was a comic genius of instantly recognizable voice, loveable pomposity and impeccable timing.
At less than his best he was a talent sadly wasted.
At his worst he was a thoroughly nasty alcoholic.
Ken Stott, neither looking nor sounding like him, managed to portray the lad 'imself - by walk, mannerism and gesture - with uncanny accuracy.
Co-star Maxine Peake was excellent as Joan Le Mesurier, wife of Hancock's actor friend John, who became the ultimate love of the comedian's life.
With Hughie Green (Trevor Eve) and Frankie Howerd (David Walliams) to follow, The Curse of Comedy is proving to be a very fine drama series indeed.
TWO DETECTIVES TOO MANY.
Last Thursday saw the final episode in the current run of two detective shows. Ashes to Ashes (BBC1) and Trial & Retribution (ITV1).
I can't say I was sorry to see them go. Hard-bitten, tough-talking tecs are a bit wearisome after a while. Two of them on the same night can become downright tiresome: anyway, I get niggly trying to decide which of them to record.
So I hope DCI Gene Hunt (Philip Glenister) and Chief Supt. Michael Walker (David Hayman) will be given a long holiday.
Bring back Miss Marple.
HE KILLS COPPERS. (ITV1)
Another villainous cops and murderous villains yarn. This three-parter, with opening sequences set in 1966, is based on a Jake Arnott novel and brought to mind the early work of G.F.Newman. Everybody is a chancer and nobody half decent lives longer than the first episode.
Keeps you watching, though.
HOTEL BABYLON. (BBC1)
Have you watched this?
Then perhaps you are one of the several million appreciative Babylonians.
Sorry to say I'm not.
I think it's a load of five star bilge.
Dexter Fletcher, as The Concierge, tries hard to give credibility to his and everybody else's part.
Leading actors, first Tamzin Outhwaite then Max Beesley, playing the Hotel Manager, struggle desperately to manage unbelievable staff, impossible guests, ludicrous scripts and unlikely love interests before disappearing, with a relieved sigh, to the West End or the provincial stage for sanity and less money. At the moment Lee Williams has the role. I give him until the end of the series and that's just a P45 away.
Each week a guest star, usually well enough known to know better, turns up and hams it up, presumably for a decent pay packet.
I was all for chucking it in midway through the episode after Max Beesley left: but then, magically, one of the hotel guests (a licentious, conceited actor - yeah, some of it rings true) sat down at a piano and started to play Bohemian Rhapsody. Before you could say Freddie Mercury he was joined by three of the staff in a hilarious parody of the original Queen masterpiece. It almost compensated for the damned silly story.
By the end I was even cheerful enough to accept as guest star the omnipresent John - somebody really should tell him about Kelly Monteith - Barrowman.
Well, you can't blame any entertainer for grabbing all the work he can get.
But I still remember Kelly Monteith.
Do you?
You do?
Bloody hell.
Monday, March 24, 2008
100. From 100 Not Out to No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency.
ONE HUNDRED NOT OUT.
My mother, Lilian, was 100 on the last day of last year. A decent age to reach.
She received a congratulatory card from Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2 (which nowadays the forthcoming centenarian's relatives have to apply for via the Ministry of Pensions) and, there no longer being a telegram service, she received an imitation telegram from the Pensions Minister.
Well, the Prime Minister was probably abroad: Scotland, perhaps.
Most of the family were able to attend the celebratory get-together and we have finally managed to transfer the digital camera pictures onto the computer: these include one of mother with granddaughter (holding great grandson), son, grandson and great granddaughter (holding cat) which I publish just in case any old friend or distant relative should chance upon it.
Although physically frail, Lilian is mentally as sharp as a razor and, despite poor eyesight, still keeps up with the snooker on television.
She had a good birthday and thoroughly enjoyed all the attention
My mother, Lilian, was 100 on the last day of last year. A decent age to reach.She received a congratulatory card from Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2 (which nowadays the forthcoming centenarian's relatives have to apply for via the Ministry of Pensions) and, there no longer being a telegram service, she received an imitation telegram from the Pensions Minister.
Well, the Prime Minister was probably abroad: Scotland, perhaps.
Most of the family were able to attend the celebratory get-together and we have finally managed to transfer the digital camera pictures onto the computer: these include one of mother with granddaughter (holding great grandson), son, grandson and great granddaughter (holding cat) which I publish just in case any old friend or distant relative should chance upon it.
Although physically frail, Lilian is mentally as sharp as a razor and, despite poor eyesight, still keeps up with the snooker on television.
She had a good birthday and thoroughly enjoyed all the attention
GETTING ON A BIT.
The process of ageing, or getting on a bit, can be a bugger. The words creaky, cranky and invisible may well spring to the mind of any getting on a bit reader who still has a mind, or any spring. So maybe it is because I am getting on a bit - though I don't feel especially old - that I find myself increasingly irked by much of the twaddle currently purporting to be entertainment on television. There's way too much reality bunkum; too many copycat competition shows featuring publicity seeking celebs; too many repeats (including those cheekily describing an old show as revisited); far too many cooking programmes, antiques programmes, auctioneering programmes, and property rubbish where, when they are not tarting up tat for profit, people are swanning all over the place looking at properties they have not the slightest intention of buying.
"Mabel and Maurice eventually decided not to purchase the twenty-seven-roomed mansion in Ascot and unfortunately were outbid for the two-up-two-down pied-a-terre in France. They are remaining in their mobile home (think caravan) while they review their options."
Know what? I really dont give a toss. Do you? Does anybody?
So I have become more discriminating in my television viewing habits of late. I am no longer bothered when Mark Harmon's acting haircut fails to register in a couple of episodes of NCIS, or David Caruso's sunglasses upstage everybody by being donned as he enters, rather than when he leaves, through the French windows in CSI Miami.
I don't care when Mac, of CSI New York, is stalked and endangered throughout several episodes by a 333 lunatic straight out of Sax Rohmer.
(What? Sax who? Oh, an old thriller writer...Dr.Fu Manchu...see Wikipedia...)
Furthermore, I do not believe that there is a Middle Eastern terrorist under every American bed just waiting to creep out and join the vast Muslim alliance that will huff and puff until it blows all their skyscrapers down. Hell, there were never any Reds under the beds, either, so stop being so bloody melodramatic.
Besides, there's still quite a lot to be cheerful about.
Well, there is on our tele.
On our tele we still have Harry Hill's TV Burp and Justin Fletcher on CCTV and darned good plays like Brian Fillis's The Curse of Steptoe, featuring darned good actors like Phil Davis and Jason Isaacs as Wilfrid Brambell and Harry H. Corbett. We still have Russell T. Davies's Torchwood and we still have splendid soaps and excellent costume dramas.
University Challenge, Mastermind and Fry's QI remain constant pleasures if you like that sort of thing: we do.
There are even some pretty good, albeit foul-mouthed, comedians still to be seen.
And, without doubt, getting on a bit is still preferable to the alternative.
"Mabel and Maurice eventually decided not to purchase the twenty-seven-roomed mansion in Ascot and unfortunately were outbid for the two-up-two-down pied-a-terre in France. They are remaining in their mobile home (think caravan) while they review their options."
Know what? I really dont give a toss. Do you? Does anybody?
So I have become more discriminating in my television viewing habits of late. I am no longer bothered when Mark Harmon's acting haircut fails to register in a couple of episodes of NCIS, or David Caruso's sunglasses upstage everybody by being donned as he enters, rather than when he leaves, through the French windows in CSI Miami.
I don't care when Mac, of CSI New York, is stalked and endangered throughout several episodes by a 333 lunatic straight out of Sax Rohmer.
(What? Sax who? Oh, an old thriller writer...Dr.Fu Manchu...see Wikipedia...)
Furthermore, I do not believe that there is a Middle Eastern terrorist under every American bed just waiting to creep out and join the vast Muslim alliance that will huff and puff until it blows all their skyscrapers down. Hell, there were never any Reds under the beds, either, so stop being so bloody melodramatic.
Besides, there's still quite a lot to be cheerful about.
Well, there is on our tele.
On our tele we still have Harry Hill's TV Burp and Justin Fletcher on CCTV and darned good plays like Brian Fillis's The Curse of Steptoe, featuring darned good actors like Phil Davis and Jason Isaacs as Wilfrid Brambell and Harry H. Corbett. We still have Russell T. Davies's Torchwood and we still have splendid soaps and excellent costume dramas.
University Challenge, Mastermind and Fry's QI remain constant pleasures if you like that sort of thing: we do.
There are even some pretty good, albeit foul-mouthed, comedians still to be seen.
And, without doubt, getting on a bit is still preferable to the alternative.
HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF BLOOD PRINCE.
Yippee! Here we go again!
The film Harry Potter and the Half Cut Prince (Does ask for it, doesn't it, J.K.) is due for release on the 21st of November. It is being directed by David Yates. .
Additional characters will include Jim Broadbent as Horace Slughorn: I had Ian McNeice in mind but Jim Broadbent is very good. There is also some talk (if the part is not inexplicably scrapped) of Bill Nighy being cast as the new Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour: I would have chosen Jim Carter but Bill Nighy is very good.
Well it's Easter now.
There will be Christmas stuff on the shop shelves next week.
It'll be September before you can blink.
The film Harry Potter and the Half Cut Prince (Does ask for it, doesn't it, J.K.) is due for release on the 21st of November. It is being directed by David Yates. .
Additional characters will include Jim Broadbent as Horace Slughorn: I had Ian McNeice in mind but Jim Broadbent is very good. There is also some talk (if the part is not inexplicably scrapped) of Bill Nighy being cast as the new Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour: I would have chosen Jim Carter but Bill Nighy is very good.
Well it's Easter now.
There will be Christmas stuff on the shop shelves next week.
It'll be September before you can blink.
LARK RISE TO CANDLEFORD. (BBC1)
This fine series came to an end on Easter Day. Faultless sets, direction and acting. I even came to tolerate Laura referring to her parents as Mar and Par.
By the time it was over there was scarcely a dry eye in the house.
By the time it was over there was scarcely a dry eye in the house.
THE No.1 LADIES' DETECTIVE AGENCY. (BBC1)
I thoroughly enjoyed Alexander McCall Smith's novel about Precious Ramotswe setting up the first, the only and therefore the No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency in Botswana and was eager to see the television version of it.
Well, nobody ever adapted difficult books more skilfully and sensitively for the screen than the gifted writer/director Anthony Minghella, so of course it was a delight.
More than that I have little to say except that Anthony's death at the age of 54 has stunned the Isle of Wight He was born and bred here and unfailingly made public mention of it when collecting numerous awards.
Our kindest thoughts go out to the family of this much respected, gentle man.
He will be sadly missed.
Well, nobody ever adapted difficult books more skilfully and sensitively for the screen than the gifted writer/director Anthony Minghella, so of course it was a delight.
More than that I have little to say except that Anthony's death at the age of 54 has stunned the Isle of Wight He was born and bred here and unfailingly made public mention of it when collecting numerous awards.
Our kindest thoughts go out to the family of this much respected, gentle man.
He will be sadly missed.
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