BOOKS.
Michael Parkinson.
I enjoyed Michael Parkinson's autobiography, Parky, in the course of which I discovered that as a boy he loved the cinema - so did I: saw himself as Wilson, the superstar athlete of The Truth About Wilson in The Wizard comic - so did I: for a short time became Hopalong Cassidy, a cowboy played by William Boyd (I was Johnny Mac Brown, the star of Flaming Frontiers.) and that he did not go to a university - neither did I.
After that we part company.
He tells how, despite his best efforts, he was conscripted for national service, conned his way into a commission and, inside two years, was promoted to the rank of captain: I, from the age of fourteen until twenty six, was a regular soldier and was once told by a conscript second lieutenant that I made the word sir sound like an insult.
Nonetheless, by the time I had finished his thoughtful and entertaining book I no longer held the same opinion of ol' Parkinson that I had entertained ever since his hit-back-at-my-detractors television appearance of painful memory.
I remember watching at that time, faintly incredulous, as he slated one after another of his critics - few of them as well-known or popular as he had become - until, midway through, I said: "Christ, something's upset Arkela."
At that point I dismissed him as just another vanity case in a posh suit.
Mistake.
His book shows that he has seldom done anything that is not cricket; that his ambition has always been offset by a gentle self-mockery and that, all things considered, by the time he received his knighthood it was well earned.
I gather he is currently some sort of voice for the old. Good on him.
And If ever I meet him - I'm not holding my breath - I might even manage the sir without making it sound like an insult.
But don't bet on it, Sir Michael.
TELEVISION.
Cash in the Celebrity Attic. (BBC2)
Another follow on. Where the simple Cash in the Attic programme has Gertie and Arthur trying to sell a load of household trash at auction to get the money for an air balloon trip around Milton Keynes - a peaceful enough background entertainment while you read the paper - the show has now been revamped to give celebrities the opportunity to show off their homes and auction off their surplus acquisitions.
They, of course, do it for charity.
I sometimes watch, but only if I have the faintest idea who the celebrity is. I have seen Toyah and Lesley Joseph and, this week, the dancer Wayne Sleep.
Some years ago my Leader and I went to see Wayne in a show at Chichester Festival Theatre. Lorna Luft (every bit the singing equal of her mother and sister) co-starred.
He was a pocket dynamo: unstoppable: magic.
By the time the show was over he was exhausted and so was the audience.
We left the theatre marvelling at how he could put himself through such a tough routine night after night. Anybody who dismisses male ballet dancers as fairies has to be retarded.
His celebrity attic takings went to the Wayne Sleep Foundation which provides scholarships for talented young dancers.
Made me wonder why he has not been given a knighthood.
Could it be a backlash from his friendship with Princess Diana?
Or did somebody simply balk at the idea of newspapers describing him as The Shortest Knight of the Year?
Extreme Dreams (BBC2)
Young Fogle is back with more groups of climb every mountain adventurers keen to prove themselves to themselves and whoever might care to watch them.
The first team really did tackle a mountain: Mount Chimborazo in Ecuador.
In the end they didn't reach the summit, but they walked half of uphill South America before getting to the mountain and only narrowly failed to climb it, so they did prove to be a very commendable little bunch of true Brits.
Nice people, too.
The second team also proved to be good'uns. They trekked through mud, muck and rain forest, suffered from heat exhaustion and insect bites, braved the terrain and the elements and still kept a stiff upper lip.
As the Polish ambulance man said to the Indian surgeon, "It makes you proud to be British."
I'm bound to admit that taking a long walk into jeopardy (they always finish up in jeopardy) in order to prove myself is not an undertaking high on my wish list.
And as for being a cameraman... On one of our Ben's jaunts?
No thanks.
Not for all the money in Teleland.
Anyway, it's reality television again.
QI (BBC1)
Perhaps Alan Davies's initial reservations about the transfer from BBC2, doubling of series length and probable change of guests, were groundless.
This, the second of the new twelve part series, was another pleasant programme: guests were Pam Ayres, Sean Lock and Johnny Vegas.
Sean and Johnny quickly developed a smart double act and Pam, nobody's double act, was eventually the winner.
I think ol' Fry was a bit surprised at that.
Well, bless 'im, he wouldn't be the first to be fooled by gentle self-mockery delivered in a regional accent.
Books and covers, ol' lad, books and covers.
Lark Rise to Candleford.(BBC1)
Lovely Julia Sawalha and the rest of ruraltania in the second delicious dose of mar-ing and par-ing.
For all the likeness it bears to reality it might as well be called Lilliput to Blefuscu.
It is outlandish: it is mawkish: it is unbelievable tosh: it is Sunday night fodder... and?
And, so help us, we thoroughly enjoy it.
HOME.
What's New?
On the day after U.S. President Barack Obama was sworn in I left my Leader in the downstairs living room doing the ironing and watching a DVD recording of Come Dine With Me, a reality version of the old sitcom Love Thy Neighbour.
She can iron quickly and competently, watch television and drink tea, all at the same time.
It is a masterclass in the female art of doing more than one thing at a time; even if she does let the tea get cold.
I never learned the trick of quick, efficient ironing (not even in the army) and, as friends know, reality television is anathema to me.
The alternative to the back stabbing dinner party was to watch the two thousandth repeat of Diagnosis Murder starring the world's best ever old bamboo and worst ever cockney accompanied by the entire Van Dyke family.
I stopped watching that at around the forty fourth repeat.
So I came up here with the cat Shadow to stay until I had a request for more tea, or went back down to collect ironed shirts or was given the all clear.
I hammered the computer keyboard and he slept.
What's new, then?
Apart from President Barack Obama?
Not much.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
116. New stuff on the box
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation (Series 9).
Here we go again. Dear, likeable Warrick Brown, played by Gary Dourdan, shot at the end of the last series, breathed his last at the beginning of this.
It was harrowing, beautifully acted by the entire cast, left Grissom saturated with blood that ill-matched the new colour of his hair, beard and moustache and left everyone else close to tears. There are twenty four parts to the series. Don't know about you but we can stand that.
Relocation, Relocation.
I like Kirstie Allsopp and Phil Spencer, so I feel a trifle guilty when I find myself saying: "Oh gawd, not that Relo-bloody-cation again!"
Well at least, I tell myself, they occasionally get a couple of their clients to buy something, even if the publicity seeking misfits do drop out as soon as the camera is off them.
Same can't be said for that lovely Pompey girl Amanda-lamba-landa-lamba-Lamb (A Place in the Sun), who I also like. Her alleged property seekers exist only to wander around in the sun, admire Amanda's soon-to-be-a-mum figure and depart with the we-won't-be-buying-now-but-we'll-be-back-in-the-future line that nobody believes, not even them.
I suppose it is a good living for these pleasant presenters. They are dealing with some thoroughly tiresome twits - not to mention estate agents - so there has to be ample compensation.
Trouble is, I don't give a twopenny damn who does or doesn't move, or where to, so long as it's not around here. Too many old buggers have come here to avoid the rat race and succeeded in bringing it with them.
But that's another story.
Ice Road Truckers.
Those supreme lunatics Alex, father of eleven children and seven grandchildren, Hugh, the polar bear, and Rick and Drew, the uncertain finishers, are back.
This time they are driving those thumping great loads over hundreds of miles of frozen ocean. It's a thirteen part series and we shall miss none of it.
WAKE UP!
"Been a quiet start to the year," I remarked to the cat Shadow, more by way of making conversation than anything else.
"Too quiet if you ask me," he replied. "Makes me wonder what shenanigans you're up to when it's this quiet."
"I have no idea what you are talking about," I said loftily.
"Oh yes you do. This time it's that little animated wake-up film. You're hoping to put it on the blog, aren't you."
"I've still no idea what you're talking about," I said, less convincingly.
"Never try to bullshit a bullshitter," he said. "You'll have to tell them it isn't me."
"And you think they'll believe me when I say it isn't you? It's you all over."
He thought for a moment: "Yeah, it is a bit, ain't it," he said smugly.
(Judge for yourself, click here...)
wake-up.wmv
That's a good enough note to finish on.
Here we go again. Dear, likeable Warrick Brown, played by Gary Dourdan, shot at the end of the last series, breathed his last at the beginning of this.
It was harrowing, beautifully acted by the entire cast, left Grissom saturated with blood that ill-matched the new colour of his hair, beard and moustache and left everyone else close to tears. There are twenty four parts to the series. Don't know about you but we can stand that.
Relocation, Relocation.
I like Kirstie Allsopp and Phil Spencer, so I feel a trifle guilty when I find myself saying: "Oh gawd, not that Relo-bloody-cation again!"
Well at least, I tell myself, they occasionally get a couple of their clients to buy something, even if the publicity seeking misfits do drop out as soon as the camera is off them.
Same can't be said for that lovely Pompey girl Amanda-lamba-landa-lamba-Lamb (A Place in the Sun), who I also like. Her alleged property seekers exist only to wander around in the sun, admire Amanda's soon-to-be-a-mum figure and depart with the we-won't-be-buying-now-but-we'll-be-back-in-the-future line that nobody believes, not even them.
I suppose it is a good living for these pleasant presenters. They are dealing with some thoroughly tiresome twits - not to mention estate agents - so there has to be ample compensation.
Trouble is, I don't give a twopenny damn who does or doesn't move, or where to, so long as it's not around here. Too many old buggers have come here to avoid the rat race and succeeded in bringing it with them.
But that's another story.
Ice Road Truckers.
Those supreme lunatics Alex, father of eleven children and seven grandchildren, Hugh, the polar bear, and Rick and Drew, the uncertain finishers, are back.
This time they are driving those thumping great loads over hundreds of miles of frozen ocean. It's a thirteen part series and we shall miss none of it.
WAKE UP!
"Been a quiet start to the year," I remarked to the cat Shadow, more by way of making conversation than anything else.
"Too quiet if you ask me," he replied. "Makes me wonder what shenanigans you're up to when it's this quiet."
"I have no idea what you are talking about," I said loftily.
"Oh yes you do. This time it's that little animated wake-up film. You're hoping to put it on the blog, aren't you."
"I've still no idea what you're talking about," I said, less convincingly.
"Never try to bullshit a bullshitter," he said. "You'll have to tell them it isn't me."
"And you think they'll believe me when I say it isn't you? It's you all over."
He thought for a moment: "Yeah, it is a bit, ain't it," he said smugly.
(Judge for yourself, click here...)
wake-up.wmv
That's a good enough note to finish on.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
115. Another Year Gone
LET'S START THE NEW YEAR RIGHT.
Here we are, almost a fortnight into the New Year, seasonal decorations down and packed away, forgotten which classic film repeat we most eagerly avoided over Christmas, kids back to school wearing new outfits and shoes and the cost of it all, if seriously considered, more than enough to have us wheeled into Intensive Care.
As Bing Crosby sang in Holiday Inn: "Let's Start the New Year Right."
BOOKS.
Paul O'Grady.
I have just finished reading Paul O' Grady's autobiography At my mother's knee... and other low joints which surprisingly finishes when he reaches the age of eighteen years: i.e. before he found and lost his famous alter ego Lily Savage.
He was clearly the sort of young man he would find hard to tolerate now.
I know that feeling all too well.
Other than that, a working class background and both being childhood duffers at maths is all we have in common.
I do hope he keeps writing, though.
His story, as you might guess, is full of wry humour and a sensitivity he would probably (vehemently) deny.
Frequently funny and at times very moving. I look forward to the sequel.
Arthur Grump.
No, of course that's not his real name, he'll be keeping his real name under wraps for fear of being traced by Gordon Ramsey or the Gallagher brothers. Arthur Grump may even be a pseudonym for all the contributors to the Grumpy Old Gits programmes on television.
Whatever, his book One Grump or Two had me laughing from first page to last.
Loved it.
Then it dawned: he has appropriated most of my blog material for the next three years.
And been paid for it.
Bastard!
TELEVISION.
The Devil's Whore.
This lively bodice ripper, set in the days of the English Civil War, was a four part C4 series. Andrea Riseborough impressed in the leading role, John Simm was splendid as her most ardent supporter and the story reminded us yet again that all they got when they beheaded the appalling Charles 1 was the even more appalling Oliver Cromwell.
Survivors.
This was a six part BBC1 retake on the series of the seventies.
It starred Julie Graham and Max Beesley.
Ended just before Christmas. Should be back,
Like it or not it demands a follow up.
Midsomer Murders.
This turned up on Christmas Eve, for a change was not a repeat, had Barnaby and Jones being dragged off an unwelcome training execise to investigate an explosion, set the scene for future encounters with one of those infuriating high flyers who grace the top posts on every tele police force and, in case you missed it, will surely be shown again and again.
Wallace and Gromit: A Matter of Loaf and Death.
Nick Park again. This was a new one for Christmas Day.
Of course they're great.
But they'll have to watch it.
They're in danger of becoming the replacement for Eric and Ern.
Jonathan Creek.
Good to see Alan Davies back in this barmy but beguiling load of tosh.
As a change from QI it was nice for him to be the winner, too.
I know it was supposed to be a one-off, but I hope another series is in the offing.
Above Suspicion.
This two-parter provided the opportunity for Jason Durr to prove that he is more than just that good looking bloke on the motor bike in Heartbeat. He has (according to Wiki) performed with the Royal Shakespeare Company. He was certainly on his mettle here.
Kelly Reilly and Ciaran Hinds were fine as the duo of typical Lynda La Plante coppers hellbent on bringing him to justice.
The 39 Steps.
Rupert Penry Jones, apparently dispatched to a previous life by the explosion in Spooks, turned up here as the John Buchan hero, Richard Hannay.
Read the book at school.
Have seen the films starring Robert Donat, Kenneth More and Robert Powell.
Don't remember much about it.
Certainly don't remember the spy girl, Perhaps she was a reincarnated spook, too.
Oh, for good measure there was a touch of The Lady Vanishes thrown in.
Anyway, it filled up an hour and a half of prime time tele and hurt nobody.
NEW SERIES.
Dexter. (Series 2.)
More lethal logic from the murderers' murderer, Dexter Morgan.
Sgt. Doakes doesn't find him at all funny and I am still in a bit of a quandary about whether I should.
QI.
Alan Davies is reported to have doubts about whether the move to BBC1 and expansion to a 12 part series is entirely a good thing. Well, he may be the constant loser in this Stephen Fry showcase but he's nobody's fool.
He could be very right.
NCIS. (Series 5)
Hurray! They're back! Yeah, the lot of them: Jethro Gibbs and his acting haircut; lovely Abby; beautiful Ziva; nice guy Timothy; dear old Ducky and trouble magnet Tony who just can't wait to have his head smacked.
That's our Friday nights booked for a while.
AND FINALLY, A LESSON LEARNED (WITHOUT APOLOGY).
Last year we were regularly promised that lessons will be learned or apologies will be made for one thing or another.
The lessons to be learned were invariably lessons that should have been learned long ago.
They weren't then and...guess what...they never will be.
As for apologies, I make no apology for believing they are mostly feeble attempts at avoiding litigation: cynical cop outs.
They are seldom made by those who should be making them.
The real culprits in this world never apologize lest it be construed as a sign of weakness. The real culprits come in a variety of guises to cover their greed, spite and vanity.
They are without exception treacherous, paranoid, power-crazed and surrounded by sycophants. They rush mankind headlong into wars for which there is no reason and from which there is no return. They ignore disease and starvation.
They are national leaders.
Here endeth the lesson.
"And," as Dave Allen used to say. "may your God go with you."
Here we are, almost a fortnight into the New Year, seasonal decorations down and packed away, forgotten which classic film repeat we most eagerly avoided over Christmas, kids back to school wearing new outfits and shoes and the cost of it all, if seriously considered, more than enough to have us wheeled into Intensive Care.
As Bing Crosby sang in Holiday Inn: "Let's Start the New Year Right."
BOOKS.
Paul O'Grady.
I have just finished reading Paul O' Grady's autobiography At my mother's knee... and other low joints which surprisingly finishes when he reaches the age of eighteen years: i.e. before he found and lost his famous alter ego Lily Savage.
He was clearly the sort of young man he would find hard to tolerate now.
I know that feeling all too well.
Other than that, a working class background and both being childhood duffers at maths is all we have in common.
I do hope he keeps writing, though.
His story, as you might guess, is full of wry humour and a sensitivity he would probably (vehemently) deny.
Frequently funny and at times very moving. I look forward to the sequel.
Arthur Grump.
No, of course that's not his real name, he'll be keeping his real name under wraps for fear of being traced by Gordon Ramsey or the Gallagher brothers. Arthur Grump may even be a pseudonym for all the contributors to the Grumpy Old Gits programmes on television.
Whatever, his book One Grump or Two had me laughing from first page to last.
Loved it.
Then it dawned: he has appropriated most of my blog material for the next three years.
And been paid for it.
Bastard!
TELEVISION.
The Devil's Whore.
This lively bodice ripper, set in the days of the English Civil War, was a four part C4 series. Andrea Riseborough impressed in the leading role, John Simm was splendid as her most ardent supporter and the story reminded us yet again that all they got when they beheaded the appalling Charles 1 was the even more appalling Oliver Cromwell.
Survivors.
This was a six part BBC1 retake on the series of the seventies.
It starred Julie Graham and Max Beesley.
Ended just before Christmas. Should be back,
Like it or not it demands a follow up.
Midsomer Murders.
This turned up on Christmas Eve, for a change was not a repeat, had Barnaby and Jones being dragged off an unwelcome training execise to investigate an explosion, set the scene for future encounters with one of those infuriating high flyers who grace the top posts on every tele police force and, in case you missed it, will surely be shown again and again.
Wallace and Gromit: A Matter of Loaf and Death.
Nick Park again. This was a new one for Christmas Day.
Of course they're great.
But they'll have to watch it.
They're in danger of becoming the replacement for Eric and Ern.
Jonathan Creek.
Good to see Alan Davies back in this barmy but beguiling load of tosh.
As a change from QI it was nice for him to be the winner, too.
I know it was supposed to be a one-off, but I hope another series is in the offing.
Above Suspicion.
This two-parter provided the opportunity for Jason Durr to prove that he is more than just that good looking bloke on the motor bike in Heartbeat. He has (according to Wiki) performed with the Royal Shakespeare Company. He was certainly on his mettle here.
Kelly Reilly and Ciaran Hinds were fine as the duo of typical Lynda La Plante coppers hellbent on bringing him to justice.
The 39 Steps.
Rupert Penry Jones, apparently dispatched to a previous life by the explosion in Spooks, turned up here as the John Buchan hero, Richard Hannay.
Read the book at school.
Have seen the films starring Robert Donat, Kenneth More and Robert Powell.
Don't remember much about it.
Certainly don't remember the spy girl, Perhaps she was a reincarnated spook, too.
Oh, for good measure there was a touch of The Lady Vanishes thrown in.
Anyway, it filled up an hour and a half of prime time tele and hurt nobody.
NEW SERIES.
Dexter. (Series 2.)
More lethal logic from the murderers' murderer, Dexter Morgan.
Sgt. Doakes doesn't find him at all funny and I am still in a bit of a quandary about whether I should.
QI.
Alan Davies is reported to have doubts about whether the move to BBC1 and expansion to a 12 part series is entirely a good thing. Well, he may be the constant loser in this Stephen Fry showcase but he's nobody's fool.
He could be very right.
NCIS. (Series 5)
Hurray! They're back! Yeah, the lot of them: Jethro Gibbs and his acting haircut; lovely Abby; beautiful Ziva; nice guy Timothy; dear old Ducky and trouble magnet Tony who just can't wait to have his head smacked.
That's our Friday nights booked for a while.
AND FINALLY, A LESSON LEARNED (WITHOUT APOLOGY).
Last year we were regularly promised that lessons will be learned or apologies will be made for one thing or another.
The lessons to be learned were invariably lessons that should have been learned long ago.
They weren't then and...guess what...they never will be.
As for apologies, I make no apology for believing they are mostly feeble attempts at avoiding litigation: cynical cop outs.
They are seldom made by those who should be making them.
The real culprits in this world never apologize lest it be construed as a sign of weakness. The real culprits come in a variety of guises to cover their greed, spite and vanity.
They are without exception treacherous, paranoid, power-crazed and surrounded by sycophants. They rush mankind headlong into wars for which there is no reason and from which there is no return. They ignore disease and starvation.
They are national leaders.
Here endeth the lesson.
"And," as Dave Allen used to say. "may your God go with you."
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