IN THE NEWS.
Quick revenge. No matter what Boris Johnson actually said, "Revenge is a dish best served cold" would have been by far the most appropriate comment he could have made as, carefully denying a witch-hunt, he hurried to announce the resignation of Assistant Commissioner Bob Quick and the appointment of his counter-terrorism successor.
A.C. Quick was clearly careless not to have considered the shits with cameras before he climbed from a car carrying undisguised secret material for all to see. It was a dream come true for the thin-skinned parliamentary creeps thirsting to be rid of a man who had recently caused them considerable political embarrassment.
In his shoes my deepest regret would be that I once made the mistake of apologizing for something I had said about them.
High-flyers' wives. To the forefront in the media muckrake over Bob Quick's actions was the revelation that his wife ran a luxury car hire firm from their home. Since the firm was not funded by the taxpayer I'm not sure how discreditable this was supposed to be.
It did remind me, though, that not only has the salary of high-flyers risen hugely over the years but, in local government especially, the partners of high flyers seem to possess a magic password that somehow obtains them a sinecure in social services or suchlike to coincide with their other half's appointment: I presume this little extra to be, like everything in the high flyer's salary deal, an irritating but inevitable consequence of letting public servants take themselves too seriously and our money too easily.
The maxim "if you pay peanuts you get monkeys" cuts no ice with me: so far as I'm concerned, if you up the ante you just get greedy monkeys.
Another playground squabble. And another pointless apology. Yep, this time from the jaw-dropping Scot, no less.
In his begrudging apology Gordon Brown accepted responsibility for the shameful scheme (see crocodile tears) to slate Tories on the internet and, in the same breath, said that was why the person responsible had been removed from office.
So McBride minor has been sent home with a note and another playground squabble has been settled. Hurrah!
Enter the mealy-mouthpiece. This morning a high ranking police spokesman firmly defended their policing of demonstrations.
Well, no matter how wrong an organization may be it will always find a mealy-moutnpiece to insist that it is right. This one is defending kettling and talking of how lucky the protesters in this country are (compared, presumably, to China). It appears not to have dawned on him and his colleagues that even the most peaceful protester is going to become infuriated at being roughhoused by unidentifiable thugs in uniform.
Last week a totally innocent man was killed. He was attacked in full view of millions watching television, His attacker was clearly a former school bully who had found his calling as a riot policeman and was now a baton-happy bastard.
No mealy-mouthpiece can talk that away. There have been too many instances of official bullying since the crushing of the miners.
Now there is modern technology. No good just switching off the CCTV cameras and hiding your faces. Thousands of citizens have mobile photographic recording devices.
You too, officer bully boy, are being watched,
TELEVISION.
A Question of Genius (BBC2). Yet another general knowledge quiz. This is presented by Kirsty Wark.
The questions are difficult and the prize money is poor: it is the good old Beeb at its parsimonious best and it concludes with Kirsty badgering the last person standing with questions about what their final answer may be, appearing to squeeze the answer from them against their will and then waiting...waiting...waiting...waiting to say whether or not they have answered correctly.
By the time she tells them I have usually gone to make a cup of tea: one of these days a finalist will keel over: but it's good tele, innit?
No, it bloody isn't.
It is boring and patronizing to competitor and viewer alike.
Newsnight Review (BBC 2). When Kirsty Wark originally presented this programme Tom Paulin and Germaine Greer were regular panellists.
Never know who is going to be on it now.
Last Friday night Ian Hislop and Michael Portillo gently crossed swords. There was also a pleasant young woman, Clemency Burton-Hill, who did her best to prevent open warfare.
Kirsty appeared not to notice the atmosphere of mutual dislike enveloping the two men. Well, she has experienced it all before, Greer and Paulin didn't always hit it off, either.
I made Hislop a points winner, but that may be because I have never liked Portillo.
Britain's Got Talent (ITV1). The success of Susan Boyle. Amateur talent nights stopped being my idea of entertainment way back in the days when Hughie Green, exuding smarminess, presented Opportunity Knocks.
His show, like this modern version of it, did find the occasional gem (e.g. Pam Ayres and Les Dawson) but relied in the main on a stream of sadly talentless hopefuls who should never have listened to the blandishments of relatives and pub mates before venturing into the lions' den.
I tend to think in terms of the gormless being judged by the giftless.
One should never be too dismissive, however.
Yesterday daughter Roz and granddaughter Jess drew our attention, via YouTube, to Susan Boyle, a Scottish spinster who sang her way to a standing ovation on the first round of the third series of Britain's Got Talent.
Much has been made of her homely appearance and, though she has the voice, she is certainly no Ruthie Henshall.
But I am old enough to remember when you judged singers by their voices, not their looks.
Anyway, Ms. Boyle instantly became a worlwide success: and she's a cat lover.
Good luck to her.
Primeval (ITV1). Mention of Ruthie Henshall reminded me that Douglas Henshall (no relation so far as I know) has left this crazy Saturday night caper where prehistoric creatures as big as houses visit shopping malls and eat the occasional shopper without attracting public attention.
Like Bill Petersen in CIS, ol' Dougie is sadly missed: which is more than can be said for the assembly line of monster fodder not even remembered for their terrified screams.
Comes as no surprise to me.
The British public expects anything to happen in shopping malls.
When daughter Jac lived in Wandsworth she was firmly convinced that mothers only took their children to the Arndale Centre to smack them.
She did not hang around there.
Once, as she was striding through on her way to Sainsbury, a man with a clipboard stepped out and said: "Excuse me madam, have you had an accident in the last three years?"
"No," she replied, without pausing in her stride, "I always walk like this."
Countryfile (BBC1). Come on then. Own up. Which ...king genius thought it a good idea to downsize dear ol' John Craven, move his excellent Sunday morning programme to seven o'clock in the evening and put it in the hands of a bunch of unknown (albeit likeable) juniors?
Sunday morning has always been the right time to discuss cows contracting consumption, badgers being culled and pigs being de-knackered.
I can do without it over my dinner, thanks.
Last of the Summer Wine (BBC1). And is that the same ...king genius who moved this new series from its traditional seven o'clock on a Sunday evening spot to six o'clock so that old guys like me miss the first episode because six o'clock is the traditional time for not-much-with-Aled?
Yes I do buy a television guide.
A very expensive one.
But I should not need to consult a television guide for some programmes: some programmes should be sacrosanct.
If you can't see that, you ...king genius, you're a ...king plank!
SOCCER.
The F.A. Cup. (Semi-final) I woke the cat Shadow and told him that Everton had despatched Man.United on a penalty shoot-out.
"I suppose Man.U. fielded a weak side," he said.
"Don't think it was their full first team," I replied, "How did you know?"
"Just seemed likely. They're in line to win almost everything but they want their best players fit to go for the most prestigious things. National trophies are no longer that important."
"I think that's sad," I mused. "What do you think? "
"I think it's called progress, mate," he said.
HOME.
When is a mess not a mess? A little pile of clean nightwear sat on the first stair leading to Jess's top floor bedroom.
After she had retired to bed it was still there.
In the morning when her grandmother tackled her about it she laughingly admitted to having felt too lazy to move it.
I gave her an old-fashioned look.
"Well I hope you will," I admonished her. "I don't want that mess there forever."
"It's not a mess, Pops," she replied sweetly. "It's creativity."
Collapse (in helpless mirth) of stout party.
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