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.
