126. It's poetry week or month or something.

HOME.

Poetry time again.
The cat Shadow appeared as he does and, to my surprise, did not demand food.
"Something wrong?" I asked.
"Not at all," he said. "The Boot-Kicking Scot's team got beaten in the Champion's League Final and the departed Portuguese-in-the-posh-overcoat's team won the F.A. Cup. There is a God."
"I know you're not a Ferguson fan, but since when did you support Chelsea?" I demanded.
"I don't," he said. "But it does y'good to see them win something in the wake of Mourinho."
"Oh, does it?" I said.
"It does," he said, "but that's not why I'm here."
I was intrigued. "All right then, why are you here?"
"Because it's poetry week or month or something, mate, " he declared triunphantly, "and I have a poem for you."
I eyed him with customary suspicion: "Go on then."
He struck his poetic pose and announced:

"A Stroll With A Musing Moggy."

Along this wall and that flat roof
I'm seeking nightly for the truth
Of what I am: of who I be
A muse while scratching for a flea
And marking off my boundary
By spraying up the same old tree.

Foursquare, fourscore, foreshore, forsooth,
I'm getting longer in the tooth
No more accepting I'm perverse
For bandying with nonsense verse
Nor heeding those who cannot see
The innate graciousness in me.

Humans allergic to my touch
Them as just can't bear me much
Worried gal and aggressive chap
Who'd like to see me off the map
Onto their lap I'll surely pitch
And stay until they've got the itch.

Goodbye, auf Wiedersehen, farewell
The curfew tolls the flippin' knell
Of any climbing, rhyming cat
Who aspires to Poet Laureate
The post has gone to Carol Anne Duffy
Feminine if not female fluffy.

So atop this wall and that flat roof
Seeking nightly for the truth
Hiding under hedge and van
A Jehovah Witness in the Vatican
I know, too, I shall never be
The Oxford Professor of Poetry.

Let's face it, I'm too cool a cooky
To draw attention to another's nooky
Honi soit qui mal y pense
Ruth Padel should have more sense.
You're not forgiven when you win a fight
Not when you are the one who's right!

He had a quick wash and eyed me expectantly.

"Did the guys on the roof help you with that?" I queried.
"Not this time," he said proudly.
"It shows," I said.
"How kind of you," he said.
I chose not to correct him.

TELEVISION.

CSI NY (Five).
A short time ago I saw an interview in which Gary Sinise, who plays Mac Taylor in CSI NY, talked about the early days of the show.
Seems the regularly featured players were encouraged to personalize their characters and this somewhat inhibited expression until they had finally developed the role.
Back then I joked that he had but two acting expressions.
Apologies being all the rage, I shan't apologize.
He is certainly much more expressive now.
Even his eyebrows sometimes get in on the act.
Truth to tell, one of my favourite acting moments came in a CSI NY episode.
Stella Bonasera, who had been cut by a piece of glass removed from an HIV positive victim, gave life-saving CPR to Dr. Sid Hammerback: she later had to convey to the doctor her fear that she could have infected him with AIDS.
Massively contrived though it may have been, the scene where Stella (Melina Kanakaredes) broke the brittle news to a wonderfully fatalistic Sid (Robert Joy) was mesmerising.
Gok's Fashion Fix (C4).
In Post 109 I was a trifle sniffy about fancily priced fashion and I now regret that.
Bleating on blogs will not save the third world.
Acceptance that vast riches will attract, (and succumb to) vastly inflated prices is just common sense.
Gok is close to the end of another series and it has been great fun.
Weekly he re-outfits a fashion misfit, re-garbs a star, tests items of female apparel on a heavyweight group of lasses from Rotherham and dresses his fashion models in High Street clothes to compete on a catwalk with costly designer outfits chosen by Brix Smith-Start.
In the latter he has to date emerged the joyful winner five times and the generous loser twice.
My Leader and I watch and wonder and laugh.
It's hard not to like Gok Wan.
Eurovision Song Contest (BBC1).
There was a bit more Brit interest this year following the departure of ol' Tel Wogan and the introduction of a Lloyd Webber song entitled (over optimistically) It's My Time.
Andrew L.W. and singer Jade Ewen were reported to have blitzed Europe trying to sell the song in advance, so nobody could accuse them of not taking a crap competition seriously.
Graham Norton, an arch version of his predecessor, came across as equally unimpressed by it all.
Gawd bless 'im for that.
Divided (ITV1)
Talking of crap, we have here a quiz produced by sadistic shits hellbent on proving that it is not only Members of Parliament who are avaricious arseholes.
I have watched it a couple of times and on both occasions, sadly, the producers' case has been proven.
It is presented by Andrew Castle and to any nice person going to become a contestant I would offer the following advice: in the unlikely event that you look like winning, take a note with you to read out when you are asked to say what your share of the prize money should be; have it go along the lines of: I shall accept Share A but only on the clear understanding that I require the Share A prize money to be divided into three equal parts - one part to go to me and one part to each of my fellow contestants - and that my two fellow contestants (being Share B - pointing to one of them - you: and Share C - pointing to the other - you) agree to their shares also being divided equally between the three of us.
Let Andrew Castle, the studio crew and the entire viewing public take note that we three contestants have agreed to take equal shares of the total prize money we have won on Divided today.'
Then gently point out to the other contestants that they can either do it your way or get nothing because you will veto anything else until the kitty runs dry.
I don't know if it will work and I don't really care.
It is something else I shall not be watching again.
The Classical Brit Awards (ITV1).
Watched this: did you? Classic mutual admiration. I think Classic FM has got a lot to answer for.
Britain's Got Talent (ITV1).
Watched this: didn't everyone? I think Diversity, Susan Boyle and Julian Smith were the right choices in the right order, even if the news of their success was marred by the usual stupid...agonizing... long...drawn...out...wait...which the daft bastards who run these programmes think adds to the excitement.
The final was good old-fashioned music hall.
Don't know about the preliminaries.
Didn't watch them.
RHS Chelsea Flower Show (BBC).
Watched this on and off. This year there seemed to be less of the exhibits than there was of Alan Titchmarsh who has started to dress as though he's expecting a knighthood.
Who knows?
I may even yet refer to him as Sir Titchy.