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.
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