HOME.
A bright morning.
Sitting in my cubbyhole, computer room, study (think modesty, realism or Hyacinth Bucket), listening to old classics on the ancient Aiwa and looking out at the familiar back-of-house scene bathed in wintry sunshine, I was at peace with the world until…
A gloomy forecast.
I picked up on news that the Isle of Wight would probably be saddled with two members of parliament instead of one following the next election (due in 2015).
My first reaction probably gets it about right: if this government has agreed to two for one it will only be because it expects another diehard Tory to be elected. Two wet planks wearing blue rosettes are as likely to win as one over here. Oh, following the Bembridge Harbour scandal there were a couple of nods in the direction of orange, but orange is this year’s blue isn‘t it?
Rest assured, whatever colour the pair start out as they will quickly prove to be chocolate fire-guards, the public will be burdened with yet another set of questionable expenses claims, and the Island will have gained nothing
AND ABROAD.
The Middle East.
Churlish really to complain about parliamentarians in this country.
Frequent bloody protest continues in Egypt, despite the removal of President Mubarak.
Hundreds have been killed by Gaddafi’s - allegedly mercenary - army in Libya.
Tunisia seems set to boil over.
We should keep out of it. We should never have been there anyway.
And that’s been my opinion since the nineteen forties.
New Zealand.
The earthquake at Christchurch has taken lives and demolished buildings. The Kiwis have never failed to support us in times of trouble. We should do everything in our power to help them now.
Never could understand why Heath chose to cut them dead and take up with Europe. His French was lousy anyway.
TELEVISION.
Faulks on Fiction. (BBC2)
Somebody at the BBC decided it was time to adorn a prime-time Saturday night spot with a touch of culture and, to the joy of booksellers I’m sure, commissioned Sebastian Faulks to chat about literary heroes, heroines, snobs and villains.
He is an urbane chap, decently educated, and he says little with which even an old-fashioned elementary schoolboy would disagree. Such is the range of his subject, however, that much is overlooked or ignored.
(At this point I think the subject becomes more reading than television and I courteously invite the reader to take it up again further on.)
My Life in Books. (BBC2)
This is another opportunity for familiar faces to impress us with their versatility.
Seems if they’re not skating, dancing or performing silly tasks in an imitation jungle for a couple of overpaid Geordies, they are (as I am sure their agents would confirm) dedicated bookworms.
I would have to be more than desperate for publicity before I agreed to appear on any programme fronted by Anne Robinson, but a couple of otherwise intelligent people now turn up each evening, presumably under the misguided impression they will simply be sought to talk about the books that have shaped their lives.
They really should know better.
'Rita Skeeter' Robinson cannot resist digging the dirt. Artfully choosing her moment she transforms the interview into a prurient quiz session.
Why does she do it?
Most likely answer: “It’s good tele, innit.”
Well, not for me it isn’t. I simply don’t care whether the person she’s talking to is gay, or a reformed cokehead, or a presenter who has been sought out by a dozen illegitimate children. It‘s none of my flaming business. Or hers.
Oh. I shall continue to watch the programme, but only in the hope that one of her victims will tell her where to shove her magic quill. And walk out.
South Riding. (BBC1)
I think I saw the cinema version. Must have been a hundred years ago. Ralph Richardson was in it. Upstaging rascal he was. Always liked him.
Anyway, it’s costume drama on Sunday night again. David Morrissey, Anna Maxwell Martin, Penelope Wilton and a barely recognisable Peter Firth are in it. Nobody upstages them. Douglas Henshall and John Henshaw are along for good measure.
I am fascinated by the closed little world depicted, but not surprised. I’m old enough to remember 'means testing.' From what my seniors told me, if concentration camps had been set up in this country back then there would have been no shortage of volunteers to run them.
Mean little race we can be.
Marchlands. (ITV1)
Three families living in the same house at separate times: 1968, 1987 and 2010. The story dodges about a bit, but basically comes down to the mystery of how and why little Alice drowned in 1967. It is a creepily cliched ghost yarn, but very watchable. Only one episode left, so this week Alice will probably tell us what did happen to her; or at least tell the woman who refuses to believe ghosts exist.
Mad Dogs. (Sky 1)
Taped - and have just watched - the first three episodes of this four parter. The last part will be shown on the same night as Marchlands.
Four blokes go to Majorca to visit an ostensibly wealthy mate who nobody with any sense would cross the road to meet.
So far things have gone from bad to worse.
More next time.
READING.
Footnote to Faulks on Fiction.
I cannot agree with Faulks’s contention that, after Sherlock Holmes, there were no heroes between the two world wars.
My boyhood was packed with heroes from our local twopence-a-book-a-week lending library, (two detectives and a western or two westerns and a detective chosen every Friday to be read over the weekend and returned on Monday).
Sadly, purists like Mr. Faulks and the late Julian Symons in his book Bloody Murder, chose to ignore, or sniffily dismiss as unreadable, most of the popular thrillers favoured by we tuppence-a-week bookworms back in the thirties and early forties.
Bulldog Drummond, the creation of ‘Sapper,’ H.C. McNeile, was a hero of that time, so was John G. Brandon’s A.S.P. (the Rt.Hon. Arthur Stukely Pennington would you believe?) and D.I. Patrick Aloysious McCarthy, a loose cannon cop before his time.
The phenomenal John Creasey’s The Toff and The Baron (written under the pseudonym Anthony Morton): Leslie Charteris’s Simon Templar (The Saint) and Berkeley Gray’s Norman Conquest, each cast in the same mould, were gloriously unstoppable amateur crime fighters.
Most of the writers had several pen names (Berkeley Gray - real name Edwy Searles Brooks - was also Victor Gunn, Rex Madison and Carlton Ross) and nearly all of them boosted their earnings by writing Sexton Blake stories.
Blake, with his assistant Tinker - a young man who lived with him without attracting adverse comment in more innocent (even blinkered?) times - was a hero of such likeness to Sherlock Holmes that he must have been a cousin from the other side of the tracks.
Many detectives combined brains with brawn. J.V. Turner, who wrote as Nicholas Brady and also, under his more famous pseudonym, David Hume, produced the Mick Cardby stories. Cardby was a two-fisted private eye with a police inspector father who kept an eye on him. Peter Cheyney wrote about Lemmy Caution and Slim Callaghan, both of them tough private eyes with nobody to keep an eye on them. All were infallible and charming.
Back then most heroes were tough but decent, even our boyhood ones: Rockfist Rogan (Champion) and Wilson (The Wizard) were comic book winners and the likes of Biggles (W.E Johns) William Brown (Richmal Crompton), Richard Hannay (John Buchan) and Tarzan (Edgar Rice Burrows) were champions in hardback.
Yes, fiction was crowded with heroes between the wars.
They may not have been up to Booker Prize standard, but they did exist..
FILM.
The King’s Speech.
It seems I am the only one in the world who has not seen it, so my Leader has persuaded me to accompany her today - she has already seen it but says it is worth a second viewing. Shan’t write about it next time. The awards have already said everything there is to say, though I am told Geoffrey Rush was brilliant and should really have won the Oscar for best supporting actor.
Nice that the best actor Oscar went to Colin Firth, though. Nice, too, that he did not start his acceptance speech by thanking his mother, father, wife, sons, agent, manager, pet cat and the tortoise at the end of the garden.
It’s all so bloody luvvie, isn’t it.
Jane Russell.
News this morning that this beautiful woman has died at the age of 89.
She may not have been the greatest actress in the world, but any lad who saw her debut in The Outlaw and did not madly envy Billy the Kid had to have had something wrong with him.
(Must finish now or the indexing of this will take longer than it took to write it.)
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