HOME.
The Bestival.
Last week the monthly lunch club I attend visited the Jolly Sailor at Old Bursledon, a pleasant pub situated along the River Hamble. Upon our return on the Red Jet from Southampton we were met by two police persons and a dear little spaniel dog. They stood halfway along the tunnel leading to and from the jetty at Cowes and their interest was entirely focussed on those disembarking. The police persons maintained an alert look while the little spaniel sniffed methodically. It ended in an anticlimax. None of us attracted special attention.
“They’ll be on the lookout for drugs,” said one of my companions sagely. “It’s the Bestival.“
The Bestival is the final musical event of the season over here. Lasts for four days. Attracts some great groups and some foul weather. Many of the audience are too stoned to know much about either. Granddaughter Jess, a non-smoker, reckons the way to avoid getting high is to avoid low flying clouds. She and her parents - also non-smokers - went, as they always do, for the music and the fun. They were not disappointed. It was a gloriously musical, fun-filled, mud-wallowing occasion and they had a great time.
So where was the little spaniel? I wondered. Did it give up sniffing after its lack of success at Cowes? Well, apparently not. It was on site sniffing the selected. Not everybody. Just enough suspected junkies and recognised pushers to justify its employment.
All sounds very civilized to me.
The Case of the Frozen Ipod.
Few weeks back Maureen bought an Ipod. She obtained a selection of games to play on it and set about hurling exploding birds at pigs in tin hats etc. All went well until she connected it to my computer to do some sort of update or other; I’ve no idea what. Don’t understand any of it. But the contraption froze. Nothing moved,
She went through set procedures; pressed all the advised buttons; sought the guidance of the manufacturer and of family and friends; finally disconnected it and tried again the following day. Nothing moved.
She then took it to the local retailer to say: “Repair or replace, please.”
“Have you tried doing…(blah blah blah)?” said the manager.
“Yes. that doesn’t work.”
“How about…(blah blah blah)?”
“That doesn’t work, either.”
“If you take it to Currys,” said the senior salesman, clearly unaware that he was walking on quicksand, “ they might be able to restart…”
Mild Maureen departed. My Leader emerged. “Never mind Currys,” she interrupted gently: “I bought it from you and I expect you to deal with it. Repair or replace.”
“It’s a 3 megabyte model,” said the manager. “We don’t have any in stock at the moment: we could replace with the 8 megabyte, but that’s £50 more.”
My Leader shook her head. “Can’t afford that. Repair this or replace it.”
The manager fiddled with the controls, got nowhere, asked if he might keep it overnight for further examination.
“Yes, but don’t go breaking into it and invalidating my guarantee,” said the now implacable Leader.
There was, he promised, no fear of that happening.
The next day only the senior salesman was in evidence. The bad news was that they had been unable to unfreeze Maureen’s Ipod. On a shelf behind the counter there was an Ipod with a lead wrapped around it.
“That will be my no cost replacement then,” said my Leader.
The salesman floundered. It was an 8 megabyte job, he would have to phone the manager for confirmation. The manager confirmed. Replacement on shelf. No charge.
“Thank you,” said Maureen.
Eat your heart out Dominic Littlewood.
The Case of the Great Britain Run.
“It’s the Great North Run on Sunday,” I said.
“I know,” said my Leader. “Heather and one of her daughters are doing it.”
(Heather is a friend who lives a short distance from us.)
“They must be keen if they’re going all the way up to Newcastle,.” I said.
“I think they’re doing it in Portsmouth,” she said.
“That’s a helluva long run to the starting line,“ I said.
AND AWAY.
The Pope.
In case you hadn’t noticed, Pope Benedict XVI (an elderly man who has done me no harm) has been here. His visit started in Scotland, where he met HM Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip (an elderly couple who have done me neither harm nor favour), plus the customary coterie of dedicated creeps and devoted ring-kissers. He was then driven off in his popemobile to face the hoped-for crowds.
In Princes Street, surrounded by thickset security men,. he received an enthusiastic welcome from Edinburgh’s cosmopolitan populace. He sensibly had a tartan scarf - which I took to be McPontiff - draped over his shoulders. Coach loads of children, brimming with day-out excitement, were in attendance from Catholic schools.
I guess his visit will go down as a resounding success. Nothing was said to suggest that Catholic priests known to have offended against children will in future be defrocked. No lessening of the intransigent stance on abortion and contraception was detectable.
But most Roman Catholics will be happy that he came and I don’t suppose the bill will be anything like the one for the 2012 Olympics.
I believe in none of it, but live and let live.
The Press and the Internet.
And when it comes to live and let live, is it my imagination or has the web finally driven the entire world of journalism into a state of paranoia?
I can understand professional writers becoming irritated at the tidal wave of advice, gossip and (frequently worthless) opinion freely available to those prepared to spend their lives surfing the net for it; but I find difficulty in understanding why proud, hard-boiled journalists should become quite so fearful and indignant at the mere mention of blogland. I thought only the acting profession was that insecure..
A couple of weeks back my favourite tilter at windmills, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown of The Independent, devoted her column to castigating the alleged instigator of those Sunday-rag-like rumours about William Hague which may have drifted past you on television news programmes. In an article headed. The stench from the blogosphere she placed the blame for this, and every other tawdry, spiteful act of minor celebrity defamation, squarely on the shoulders of irresponsible bloggers in general, and one chap (whose name I forget but it’s a pseudonym anyway) in particular.
Short of closing the web completely, or electing a dictatorship dedicated to the imprisonment of internet rabble rousers, I can see no solution to the concern felt by those who see cyberspace as a growing threat to conventional news coverage and our way of life. Change is inevitable and seldom for the better. Newspaper people are no strangers to it.. You just have to swim with the tide. If you don’t, you drown.
William Hague will soon recover.
Many jobless miners never will..
TELEVISION.
Merlin. (BBC1)
Hooray! Merlin (Colin Morgan) is back in a thirteen part package of magic and mayhem.
Brave, thick Prince Arthur (Bradley James), who will eventually take credit for inventing the round table, has still not realized that his put-upon manservant is a master magician. King Uther Pendragon (Anthony Head) is suffering from the unwell wishes of his ward Morgana (Katie McGrath); and Gaius (Richard Wilson) continues to keep a benevolent eye on our hero as does the talking dragon which sounds remarkably like John Hurt.
Stories, locations, special effects are great: acting is excellent.
Love it.
Grandma‘s House. (BBC2)
Beware a series written - or even partly written - by the star. Simon Amstell co-wrote this throwaway little piece and it was none the better for it. Geoffrey Hutchings as Grandpa had the best lines and made the most of them.
But it finished up like a weak, Jewish version of The Royle Family.
Shame: we rather like Amstell.
Joe Maddison’s War. (ITV1)
This lovely old-fashioned play was written by the late Alan Plater and was completed shortly before he died. It was written as a one-off for Kevin Whately, was set on Tyneside in the Second World War, and was perfectly played by the star and a splendid line-up of co-stars including Melanie Hill, Robson Green, Derek Jacobi and John Woodvine.
Loved every moment of it, but I’m an old-fashioned bloke so for me Plater could do no wrong. His Beiderbecke trilogy was a work of genius and he will be much missed.
Goodbye, definitive playwright.
Spooks. (BBC1)
Harry, Ruth, Lucas and Tariq started off at Ros’s funeral. After that I found myself, literally and mentally, all at sea.
Series 9 of this murderous, twisting, treacherous spy romp, is going to be every bit as lunatic as its predecessors. I shall watch and wonder and absorb at least one useful snippet from each of the eight episodes.
Lesson 1: Beware of Spooks bearing booze.
READING.
Graham Hurley.
Finished Angels Passing and am now a confirmed Hurley follower. I know many former police detectives and DI Joe Faraday is so real he could be any one of them.
Must get back to M.C. Beaton’s Agatha Raisin now. I know nobody like her.
FOOTNOTE.
Anniversary.
Maureen and I celebrate our 48th wedding anniversary today. A long time? Yes. WE ARE A VERY STUBBORN COUPLE.
(Helps a bit if you love each other too.)
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