188. Last moans of the year.

HOME.
Look on the bright side.
Well it happened at last. A few weeks back we became members of that huge club of ill-fated motorists welcomed by the planks in power as "a buoyant source of revenue.”
A short time after Mo came home from the hip operation, and barely a month after she had been granted a blue badge for the car, she mistakenly thought she was free to park in the sole spot available in one of our town’s jampacked streets. Hampered by the crutch she is still using and by limited movement on and off seats, she did not realise that the spot was one where the double yellow lines almost indiscernibly crept up onto the pavement.
So, during the twenty or so minutes that the car was unattended, one of the blue jacketed cash collectors of The Isle of Wight Council kindly put a penalty ticket on it. The spot was a loading bay and, apparently, not even God can park in one of those without a van or lorry to load or unload.
We duly made written representation against the penalty charge and that was duly turned down by whatever plank in power duly turns down such representations.
We then duly joined the ranks of those who duly pay up.
Well, look on the bright side; it was the first time for us and I suppose it will help swell the coffers of whichever bunch of profligates currently thinks it necessary to pay massive salaries to top council employees, extravagant severance and redundancy packages when they are found wanting, and fat retainers when they are miraculously welcomed back as ’advisers.’
It doubtless will also help towards the close on half a million quid filched from the public purse - on this island alone - last year by serial claimants of expenses calling themselves councillors. (The Isle of Wight Council leader, Clr. David Pugh, picked up £35, 370. 70 in allowances and expenses for doing nothing of any consequence and many of his colleagues walked away with far more than the average cleaner will earn in a year and did far less for it.) Over the past few years these pretentious mini ministers have taken on the mantle of ‘cabinet members’ - with or without portfolio would you believe? - and, to ensure that none of their buddies be left out of the trough, have co-opted a bevy of independent (non-elected) members to their ranks.
Frankly, I don’t think any of them could organize a brothel in a red light district, but that’s just my opinion and I must admit to still thinking of council tax as ‘the rates.’
I also, for my sins, believe we were better off in the days when councils - employing public servants, not local government officers - were largely the domain of crooked businessmen and jerry-builders who claimed little in expenses but made up for it by acquiring all the fattest council contracts. You knew where you stood with them. They were honest crooks.
AND AWAY..
US Presidential Election 2012.

Am I alone in wondering why we were bombarded with every aspect of it when America held this 2 billion dollar plus bonanza to elect its president?
Tell me they are that interested in us and listen for the snort of derision.
In the event, President Barack Obama was re-elected and that was the outcome for which I, and clearly the majority of his countrymen, had hoped.
Well the man has done me no harm --- yet.
AND ON TELEVISION.
Royal Variety.
I missed the first hour of this ITV1 offering through watching Rick Stein and Mastermind on BBC2, but soon became aware that I probably hadn’t missed much. I saw the last hour and a half and found it to be the usual combination of obsequious comedians, singers limited to one song and a guest star from across the pond: this year it was Neil Diamond.
With the exception of Heather Headley, star of The Bodyguard musical, I found nothing refreshing in any of it. You can find her live performance on YouTube if you are interested.

Copy and paste: Heather Headley - I Will Always Love You (Live Royal Variety)
Britain‘s best what?
Latest afternoon time filler is yet another cookery programme. This time the participants are cookshop owners and the idea is that a couple of Simple Simon characters swan around tasting the wares of various piemen and finally decide which of them - cue long…long…long… long pause for effect - deserves to stay on the tiresome trail to find Britain’s Best Bakery (ITV1). My Leader is smitten with it and so, I suspect, is half the female population of the nation. I am not.
Where’s the originality? Where’s the urge to present something new?
Nowadays much of my viewing time is taken up asking: “Do we really need this?”
Do we really need more television cookery? Do we have to have another antiques programme? Or another bloody quiz show? Or quite such a glut of reality rubbish?
Can we not do without the array of desperate nonentities and career-faded celebs imprisoned in jungles or glass-walled houses? Clearly the unimaginative producers of goggle box fodder think we can’t, but their world is governed by viewing figures, studio top brass and the whims of advertisers, so to them such bilge has to be an ideal adjunct to endless repeats of Diagnosis Midsomer Murder She Wrote.
Ah well…My TV viewer’s remark at the foot of this year’s report is:
Could do better. Try harder next year.
And that does it for the moans.
SO TO CONCLUDE.
It's almost Christmas.
There have been quite a few bright spots this year, too, but they will have to wait until my next post and that won’t be until the festive season is over. Right now there is quite enough to think about.
Should we be sending cards? Of course we should. The usual nice folk are already sending to us.
Will we get around to well- organized responses? Good lord no!
Are there too many before Xmas lunches planned? Never!
Will the gifts be sorted, wrapped and delivered on time? Ask Mo.
So if you have sent to us, or haven’t, or mean to but forget to, or are expecting to hear from us and don’t, or do but it’s too late anyway…

HAPPY CHRISTMAS, DEAR FRIEND, THANKS FOR BEING WHO YOU ARE.

187. A lot can happen.

HERE…
A lot can happen…
It was five weeks ago last Tuesday that my Leader underwent the hip operation and it is two months since I last ventured a blog post. A lot can happen in a couple of months. Indeed, so much has that I am at a loss where to begin. Let’s start at the unstately pile where we have had an enclosed shower unit installed. It was a no choice situation. Mo would not have been able to climb in and out of the bath for a while yet and I have been showering rather than bathing for longer than I care to remember.
No change is ever entirely straightforward of course - there’s a law that governs it - but the unit is now up and running, I don’t think we’ll miss the bath and we have been able to indulge in the annual splash on our respective birthdays, both of which have been celebrated since last I wrote.
Meantime, we have been on twice weekly visits to surgery for a practice nurse to assess the extent of Mo’s op. recovery. They are taking no chances.
It’s a good practice.
The Anniversary Party.
To my relief I was not called upon to make a speech at our wedding anniversary party. Many nice folk accepted the invitations sent out by Roz who apparently only had Mo’s old phone book in which to find the names and addresses of our friends, some of whom were not listed therein and, when they were, had been entered using Mo’s unique filing system, to wit: first name only; surname only; nickname only; outdated phone number only; both names but only on such page as happened to be handy at time of entry, etc. etc.
We were unaware who was or was not being invited so a few good pals who might have been asked were, regrettably, missed out. It was a nice day, though, and the weather was kind. Our thanks go to Roz, to Pauline and Neil who provided open house and buffet for everybody and to all those friends who did come along or otherwise afforded us their good wishes. Our heartfelt apologies go to those who would have, had they not been unwittingly overlooked.
The Cat Hernia.

Of the several nice gifts we received that day I was particularly intrigued when a hefty parcel was handed to me by a slightly breathless John Appleton with the words: “Careful…it’s heavy.” I was and it was. When, bulging eyed, I finally struggled to a convenient unwrapping spot, it turned out to be a solid stone cat of sleepy demeanour and guaranteed frost/lift resistance. The cat Hernia (choosing the name was not a strain) is now sitting on the kitchen windowsill where he is routinely acknowledged by me and resolutely ignored by the cat Shadow.
Birthday Greetings.

Google’s 14th Birthday, celebrated with a birthday cake logo, happened to fall on the day I celebrated my 82nd, so I have commandeered their cake in recognition of my hefty seniority. Since then both my Leader (last Monday) and our granddaughter, Jess, (yesterday) has celebrated/is celebrating another year on this earth. That means we will have had three birthday get- togethers and pass-the-parcels in a month.
No doubt about it, we know how to live.
A belated happy birthday to Google, too.
AND THERE…
A lot did happen.
Heads rolled at the BBC following the Savile scandal and a botched attempt at PM baiting on ITV by sheep in sheep’s clothing Philip Schofield resulted in a slapped wrist for him. Where will it all end?
Everything that happened happened long ago and many of the protagonists are dead. Victims, real and bogus, have since rushed to seek justice and any compensation that may be harvested.
The lawyers will be having a field day again (Charles Dickens got it so right) and, amidst cries that there is no smoke without fire, there will be indignant demands for public apologies, for the closure of Twitter and Facebook, for a complete shake-up of the BBC, for monitoring of the internet and for Lessons to be Learned. Come to think of it, there might even be a demand for compulsory voting at Police Commissioner elections. (What a waste of public money that lot is!)
AND ON TELE…
Emmy Awards.

The usual bunch of British hopefuls went across the pond for this television wingding. It seems an Emmy is the American television equivalent of a cinema Oscar and the Downton crowd were particularly optimistic.

In the event, Maggie Smith, who was not present, got best supporting actress and that was it. The only other Brit to win anything was Damien Lewis, an Old Etonian; he took the coveted best actor award for his ongoing performance in the Fox 21 production Homeland. Incidentally, is there any centre stager currently in politics or showbiz who was not at Eton? Oh…all right…Michael Caine… but they‘d have had to blow the bloody doors off to get him in.

Parade’s End. (BBC2)

Tom Stoppard wrote the scripts and Benedict Cumberbatch had the leading role in this period piece set around the time of the first World War, when social values were being challenged and the suffragette movement was in full flow.
I gather the books were not particularly well received when first published in the nineteen twenties. Pity, but unsurprising in a nation always bedevilled by class snobbery. Writer Ford Madox Ford, an officer in the Welch Regiment during World War 1, depicted the futility of the conflict with an accuracy bred of experience. Neither we nor the Germans learnt sense from it and people like my WW1 conscript grandfather were left pondering the senselessness right through WW2. At least Madox Ford was spared that. He died in June 1939, three months before the second war started.
Despite the sort of glaring fault common to films about the military (British soldiers do not salute when they are hatless, only Americans do that) this was a good series and deserved better than the Friday night viewing spot it was allocated.
Bradley Walsh: Crime Connections (ITV3)
If you were at a bit of a loose end this was an easy enough way to fill in the odd hour one evening a week. There was a decided touch of déjà vu so far as I was concerned because I pretty much invented the idea way back on October 12th, 2008. It can be found in the TELE section of Post 111 - Decidedly Not a Celebrity Diary. The programme makers made a six part series; I did it in a couple of paragraphs. That figures…
Merlin. (BBC1)
Hurray! He’s back! People are still being spellbound, literally, and Arthur is still too thick to realise that his faithful servant is the Wonderful Wizard of Camelot. Old Uther is dead (so only available for guest spots) and Morgana wanders the woods exuding evil from every pore. I’m still an avid viewer no matter who else thinks what.
Strictly Come Dancing. (BBC1)
The professional dancers, singers and musicians remain excellent and the celebrity contestants continue to make incredible progress week by week. Still a top show, with or without the benighted old compere.
Nick Nickleby. (BBC1)
This fine little series (directed by David Innes Edwards) ran every afternoon, starred Andrew Simpson, Linda Bassett and Adrian Dunbar and was the best daily viewing on the box that week.
Gawd bless Charlie Dickens!
AND ON RADIO…
Sunday mornings generally start with Alyd Jones on BBC Radio2. It’s an entrenched God spot but he does have some good guests. A few weeks ago he welcomed that excellent musician and likeable Londoner, Joe Brown.

 When Joe was asked his opinion of current British talent shows he expressed the view that the performers were generally more impressive than the judges, many of whom were totally devoid of any talent whatsoever and no, he would never be a judge; he liked people too much for that. Good for him: there are far too many judges in the world anyway. More recently, Irish singer and harpist Mary O’Hara talked about her life, her career, and a faith that included twelve years as a nun. What a charming woman and, singing or talking, what a captivating voice.
BBC Radio 2 spent last week plugging the Beeb’s Children In Need charity and Chris Evans auctioned off all sorts of ‘once in a lifetime’ (i.e. until this time next year) goodies for which the usual moneyed self-publicists flamboyantly bid. Why anybody would offer thousands of pounds to eat, drink, drive a car, play golf or otherwise act the goat with a sports, showbiz or reality show ‘celebrity’ is quite beyond me, but I assume it has more to do with Andy Warhol‘s “15 minutes of fame” than with any compelling urge to embrace a charitable cause.
Genuine philanthropy is usually more self-effacing.
Still, I suppose CIN week helps a lot of children who, too young to vote, are routinely ignored by the government (of whatever party); so it has to be doing some good.
AND SO TO READING.
J.K.Rowling.

Oh dear oh dear…I disliked The Casual Vacancy from start to finish. Perhaps my working class background and 30’s elementary school education has something to do with it, but I found myself at odds with both the no-hopers stuck in the gutter, for whom I might have been expected to muster some sympathy, and the petty power players on the Parish Council who managed to irritate me even more in fiction than they do in fact.
Truth to tell, I didn‘t much like anybody in this small town saga. They seemed like people who had been kept at the back of the author’s mind until she found the right place to publicly embarrass them.
I’m sorry, J.K., but on this evidence Harry Potter is already calling to you from the wizarding world as clearly as Sherlock Holmes called to Arthur Conan Doyle from Reichenbach Falls in 1903,
Without Hogwarts, you see, the magic has gone.
AND TO CONCLUDE..
Another philosophical chat.
Grandson Ellis was concerned to know how his grandmother’s convalescence was progressing.
Everything was going along well, she told him. Recently she had gone back to her Wednesday evening quilting group; had a lovely evening; he had met the ladies there once, did he remember them?
Oh yes, he said. There was a man, too. Was he still there?
Well…no…the man was the quilting teacher’s husband and, sadly, he died recently.
There was a brief pause for a small boy to muster his thoughts. Then: “That’s a shame,” he said. “How old was he?”
My Leader pondered for a moment: “I think he was about the same age as big Boo, eighty two.”
He eyed me contemplatively. “Hmm…you’re not dead yet, are you.”
“He can’t die,” interposed his grandmother. “He has to look after me.”
“Well when he dies,” he said, “you’ll have to get a butler.”
Don’t you just love the logic of a seven year old?

Thanks for looking in. I’ll  be back sooner next time.

186. First an anniversary - then getting hip.

AT HOME.
Concentrated effort.

My Leader shoved sheaves of paper into the shredder and the cat Shadow supervised. There was a surreal air of feline concentration about them and it did not invite disturbance. I disturbed not. Daughter Roz took the picture.
FORTHCOMING EVENTS.
An Anniversary.
Tomorrow, Saturday 22nd September, 2012, Maureen and I will celebrate our fiftieth wedding anniversary. It has been the one and only marriage for the pair of us and its longevity is due to luck, mutual stubbornness and strict adherence to the agreement made at the outset of our liaison: If you know you could say something that would really hurt, don’t say it.
There is to be a party (organised by family members led by Roz, so it will be a good one) to which friends and relatives will doubtless be invited and at which I shall probably be expected to say a few words. I am a poor public speaker so my darling girl may find herself enduring a gabble of awkward platitudes that miserably fails to convey how much I truly appreciate her.
That being the case and in view of the fact that I write somewhat better than I talk, let me express here and now, lovely Nod, in the presence of all the nice people who bother to read this, my heartfelt thanks to you for fifty years of love, laughter, kindness, understanding, three decent kids, everything that has ever mattered in my life and a marriage made in Heaven (well, in Pompey anyway).
You are and will always be the light of my life and what on earth has happened to the wedding day picture I meant to head this piece with?
An Operation.
Just over a fortnight after the anniversary celebrations comes the cold light of day reminder that we are all mortal, i.e. prone to wear and tear.
Mo has been suffering with increasingly painful left hip trouble for a considerable time now and will be undergoing a hip replacement operation at our local hospital on the 9th of October.
Whether you’re religious or not, if you can think of it on the day, offer up a little prayer for her, will you? I shall and I’m not much given to religion.
(See POST OP ACTIVITIES below)
AN AWAY EVENT.
254 OBA. A good weekend missed.
The annual reunion of 1943 - 48 Signals boy soldiers is back at Derby this year. My Leader and I decided after last year’s ‘do’ that we probably would not make it this time. To us the roads in England are an overcrowded nightmare, the cost of ferrying the car across, even at the slightly reduced Island rate, is increasingly prohibitive and the privatised railways appear to be a cash grabbing lottery. With all the goings on here at present it seems our decision to stay put was providential.
There are pleasant folk we shall miss, though, and the ambience of OBA get-togethers is total magic. So, health and the domestic situation willing, perhaps we’ll make it again next year. This year’s reunion will be a good weekend missed. We apologise and our good wishes go to all those stalwarts who do attend and to all those absent through ill health or suchlike.
POST OP ACTIVITES.
Expect me when you see me.
When Maureen leaves hospital she will spend a couple of weeks recuperating at Neil and Pauline’s home. They have a ground floor en suite guest room which will be ideal: our three storey pile would not. So I shall be doing plenty of travelling back and forth doing my husbandly visiting, grandsonly (from school) collecting and Shadowly cat sitting. I have no idea when I shall next be blogging.
Expect me when you see me.

185. A bit more of much the same.

LOOKING OUT.
Without a Shadow of Doubt.
The gurus at Google Blog have incorporated safeguards into the blogging process to protect those of us who blog the embarrassment of concluding a post with unsavoury or inappropriate outsider comments. Like any good idea it has its flaws. Comments finish up being attributed to Anonymous and I have not a clue how to find out who Anonymous is; I know, it sounds daft, but I’m sure it makes sense to the gurus. However, a little while back a kind soul left a message on my spam inbox (whatever that might be) asking whether the cat pictured at post 183 was Leonard, a dear, quiet, black and white moggy who resided with us up until his peaceful death many years ago in Ventnor. The answer (whoever you may be) is: No, that’s just a b/w cats thing, they do look alike but the one in the picture is, without a shadow of doubt, the cat Shadow. He has now recovered from his operation and, to prove it, ventures forth nightly to beat the bounds. Thank you, though, for your intriguing enquiry: if you would like to email: barndens@talktalk.net I shall be pleased to discover who you are and chat further.
Kindest regards to you.
Tho’ April Showers come in May, June, July…
It’s official then: We have just experienced the wettest summer in 100 years. That means it has probably been the worst holiday season in living memory for everybody connected with the home holiday industry and the best ever for cinema owners and anyone connected with holidays abroad. If you have kids, the six week break becomes a long time when you can’t get them out of the house. And if you live in an area prone to flooding…well…
On the bright side, if you’re here you’re not in Syria.
GCSE Results.
More direction changing. More goalpost moving. More (flatly denied) political interference. Our granddaughter did exceptionally well (sat 11 subjects, got 10 A’s and a B), but very many youngsters and their teachers were dealt a formidably low blow without warning when examiners were leaned upon to tighten up the marking system this year.
It is impossible to measure the mischief done to education, the police, the NHS and that ‘buoyant source of revenue’ the motorist, by whatever pillock is in power at any time. All of them are convinced they are the bee’s knees and none of them has a clue. If the whole of parliament and every elected council in the country went on strike tomorrow everything would run like clockwork. The buggers simply don’t know when to leave well alone.
LOOKING IN.
The Borgias. (Sky Atlantic)

Jeremy Irons as Pope Alexander V1 dominates this dissolute drama of papal promiscuity and divine dirty deeds. As could be expected, there is gore galore and scarcely a decent, likeable or trustworthy character left alive.
We watch goggle-eyed.
Sinbad. السندباد البحري (Sky1)

This is glorious tosh starring newcomer Elliot Knight as Sinbad, reliable Elliot Cowan as Gunnar (I imagine the directors used character names when addressing them on set.) and cute Marama Corlett as Sinbad’s almost romantic interest. Apparently production costs have been high but, to be fair, the cast has measured up to it. Could run for a long time. There will surely be more of Orla Brady as arch-villainess Taryn.
Person of Interest. (C5)
A former special forces and CIA man living as a dissolute wanderer (what other kind is there?) is recruited by a surveillance genius millionaire (what other kind is there?) to save potential murder victims from their dire destiny. It’s a crazy premise, very American, very watchable. My Leader and I are hooked. Currently being screened on Tuesday nights at 10.00 if you are of the early to bed type and would like to record it.
New Tricks. (BBC1)

New series: there was an unwelcome outsider and much fretting in the ranks before Jack (James Bolam) left to kick the bucket abroad; his departure followed a superbly acted explanatory scene with Brian (Alun Armstrong).
The evidence suggests this may be the final outing for the cold case crew.
Dr. Who. (BBC1)

Another new series and another reshuffle. The Beeb is starting to look like Cameron‘s cabinet. This time it is Karen Gillan and Arthur Darvill, who are heading for the exit. It will happen around the middle of the current series and will (we are told) be spectacular. Well, they’re nice young actors and for a while they’ll be missed. But actors are nomads. Only those appearing in soaps expect security. This pair are good enough to survive the move.
FILM ON THE BOX.
Syriana.
Stephen Gaghan’s 2005 film is a convoluted tale of skulduggery in the oil world and was, apparently, based on See No Evil, a book by former CIA agent Robert Baer.
A difficult film to follow, the four storylines finally come together in a coherent, albeit ominous, climax which fully confirms my suspicion that America is the most dangerous country in the world. This view is not echoed by our government (forever constrained by economic and militaristic considerations) but is simply that of an old Brit who, as a boy, lived in a country still boasting an empire. That empire is, of course, history.
Reluctant to face facts, our leaders still trot us along behind the USA like an eager little terrier. But we are no longer like them. Theirs has become more and more the greedy, empire-building nation. We’re mostly over that; or should be. We’ve done more than our share of plundering in the past and we shall be paying the price for a long, long time to come.
So forget the cousins across the pond bit. Many of them may be very nice, but as a race they are foreigners who happen to speak a sort of English. Theirs is a gun-happy, ruthless business culture and eventually their pursuit of cheap oil, together with their weapon-wielding connivance in the affairs of other nations, will result in yet another world war. It is sad but inevitable.
And when it comes we should keep the hell out of it!
We should; but we won’t.
AND SO TO BOOKS.

I finished Alan Hunter’s Gently Does It. That leaves me another nine Gently books to read and the dire possibility that I may yet choke on peppermint creams. But to look on the bright side, Sgt. Bacchus, played on television by Lee Ingleby has not yet appeared so perhaps he never will. I am still only halfway through Sandi Toksvig‘s The Chain of Curiosity. My slow reading rate is not helped by constant laughter and an irksome tendency to hysterically read back to my Leader that which she hooted over way back before she passed the book on to me.
I’m not sure that I can revisit Gently when I reach the end of The Chain… Perhaps I’ll go back to Agatha Raisin. I think I have an unread Graham Hurley somewhere, too. How did that come about?

184. Reflections around a recovering cat.

HERE AND NOW.
Music.

I am settled in my chair in the computer room listening, for the umpteenth time, to a self compiled tape of recordings made by the late Richard Tauber. Just reached the end of Eric Coates’s Bird Songs At Eventide, recorded in 1932, and reflected again that it has never been sung better; fantastic pianissimo finish. If you like the tenor voice you can Google Richard Tauber sings - Bird Songs At Eventide and listen to it.
Set me thinking there are many modern singers who would probably benefit from recording old favourites. Some already have tackled medleys of songs by the likes of Berlin, Gershwin and Porter and, even if it does sometimes seem like a last ditch attempt at career revival when a ‘pop icon’ pilfers tunes from the past, it can certainly make for fascinating listening.
Sting, for example, made a very decent job of Someone to Watch Over Me and Mick Hucknall did the same with Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye. Both can be viewed on YouTube.

If you are a fan of Rufus Wainwright he can be seen singing Macushla, a Count John McCormack favourite. If you’d like to hear McCormack’s version it, too, is on You Tube - just look for Richard Tauber - Macushla and you will get a picture of Tauber accompanied by the voice of McCormack. Trust me, I know. I listened to both of them whilst they were still alive. I do love it when technology makes a harmless balls-up, though, don’t you?
And for what it’s worth, I’d advocate young Wainwright include Bird Songs At Eventide in his programme. The outcome might be too camp for my tastes but it would surely appeal to his many fans.
The Olympic Games.

Well we finally saw the back of them - and without trouble - so thank whatever god for that. Friends of ours went to see Usain Bolt do his stuff. Apparently the stadium was marvellous and the London atmosphere was magic. I wouldn’t have gone, but neither would I venture to put flowers at the scene of a fatal accident or place them in front of the home of someone who had died in one. Truth is, I distrust public demonstrations of feeling when they are presented by strangers whose sole motivation seems to be to get in on the act. This time the feeling was friendly and welcoming, but it can so easily be otherwise.. (See the film The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas for a reminder, or consider the misery heaped upon any of the currently oppressed people of the world.)
But well done everybody, be they black, brown, white, yellow or sandy-grey-russet. The 2012 Games were a success that not even Britain’s plethora of detractors could totally dismiss.
Let’s hope everything will be just as peaceful and even more successful for the Paralympians when they compete.
The Cat in the Plastic Lampshade.
I am a little late with this bulletin because, unlike the Duke of Edinburgh, the cat Shadow does not have daily proclamations made about his health, but does have the occasional family visitor. I have spent the past week cat sitting a bewildered moggy wearing an inverted lampshade around his neck. On Thursday 9th of August he was placed in the care of local veterinary surgeons Green and Forster for an operation to remove the lump on his head referred to in post 183. He had no food after 7pm the night before the operation, was kept in overnight with a litter tray, was allowed water only until 7am and was admitted to veterinary hospital just after 8am. He left behind an irreparably smashed, jammed, cat flap (locked to prevent his premature departure) and the strong impression that he was mightily displeased at this outrageous affront to his dignity. That’s my boy,
The cyst was fortunately benign and the operation to remove it successful. We picked him up in the afternoon and he went berserk in the box we took to collect him. At home he became a model patient, went back to the vets after two days to be assessed (My Leader drove: I carried him firmly wrapped in a towel; he quite enjoyed that) There followed eight days of being the cat in the plastic lampshade, professionally described as Buster Collar 10cm and Cat Collar Simba Splash Purple 12” S17. (Don’t ask)
By last Saturday, when we took him to have his stitches and the offending lampshade removed, he was pretty well pissed off, but had reached gold medal standard at lampshade wearing activity, culminating in a determined mountain climb to next door’s kitchen roof trailing the collar strap beneath him: he had by then learned how to scratch it undone.
Discharge accomplished, we drove him home quietly, taking in the scenery, content at a week well spent. Euphoric that it is all over, he has since spent hours fastidiously grooming himself and is now dozing comfortably on the rocker settee in the courtyard. I am still reeling at the combined cost of the operation and the replacement cat flap.
The sun is shining and he thanks you for your good wishes. BACK TO THE BOX.
BBC Proms 2012.

The Proms this year provided a welcome respite from mostly non-stop coverage of the Olympic Games. I still tend to avoid anything modern, so Daniel Barenboim’s wonderful West-Eastern Divan Orchestra performing the Beethoven symphony cycle was, so far as I am concerned, somewhat undermined by the addition of music by Pierre Boulez. But hell, what do I know? I neither read music nor play a musical instrument.
I might have enjoyed An Evening with Ivor Novello, though. Saw several of his musicals way back when he was still appearing in them. Mary Ellis, Olive Gilbert, Trefor Jones and Vanessa Lee were among the fine singers chosen to star in those shows. He knew a good voice when he heard one. So did I…and still do. Sadly, I felt neither soloist in this tribute programme would have particularly appealed to him: well. not for their voices anyway.
I was disappointed. But hell, what do I know…?
George Gently.

Apparently Martin Shaw is to return to our screens next week for another series. My enjoyment of it may be slightly tempered by the reminder that I am still only half way through the first of the ten Gently case files bought for me by my Leader and henceforth must hurry…
BACK TO THE BOOKS.
Alan Hunter’s Gently Does It has thus far proven to be a case of No He Doesn‘t. I try not to blame Mr. Hunter. Nowadays my attention span is prime suspect at every turn of a page. But I do hope Gently goes off peppermint creams before the bloody things make me sick and, in the meantime, my faint curiosity over whodunnit has been totally absorbed by
Sandi Toksvig’s The Chain of Curiosity which my Leader laughed over for a week before passing it on to me to laugh over ever since. I shall certainly have reached the end before my next post.
I may even arrange for Gently to have done it, too.

183. Return of an old reactionary

BACK HOME ONCE MORE.

“No, it’s no good trotting out the stock shot of me and thinking I’ll be so flattered I’ll overlook your craven return to the old format,” said the cat Shadow. “Anyway, that book cover picture of young Bowen’s cat Bob is much more eye-catching than Madam Lady’s amateur snapshot of me. You might at least have found a photo you haven‘t shown before.”
“It’s the only one of you on file and I always liked that duvet cover,” I said.
“You’re bonkers in the head,” he said. ”And a reactionary to boot.”
Bonkers in the head? Well, yes, I’m chatting with a cat. But reactionary?
It is over three decades since I was last called reactionary. Way back in the late seventies, while still a middle manager in the NHS, I openly expressed concern at the mad rush being made by beguiled top officers to buy the Service into the brand new technology of computerisation, Somewhat to my surprise, the Chief Nursing Officer here at the time - nice woman, keen on modern concepts - asked me whether I had always been a reactionary. My response was to question just how much she thought the career diplomats, blindly committed to every new concept dangled before them, really knew about this one.
When, years after my retirement, the multibillion pound computer system purchased by the NHS was revealed to be a technological disaster, fit only to be scrapped, I couldn’t help thinking of that lovely lady and her eager yes-person companions.
If it hadn’t cost us quite so much I might even have smirked a little.
Sudden change does bother me, though. Too much goes unquestioned nowadays. National and local power-mongers hasten into change for the sake of it and the results are often catastrophic.
Those convinced that any change has to be for the better would do well to remember the old adage: ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t mend it.’
That’s enough pensive cliché. New balls please and…
WIMBLEDON AGAIN.

Yep, halfway through the year; usual weather for Tennis at Wimbledon: vaunted folding roof much in evidence: Murray flattering to deceive and Federer walking away with the title. Ah well…
Even the versifying cat Shadow looked decidedly disconsolate as he struck his poetic pose and announced:
Shed a Tear for a Very Damp Year.

So we Brits had a Brit to support in the rain
As Murray sought national glory again
(He was winning, so nobody called him a Scot)
And he could win enough cash to buy a large yacht.
Except, in the way was the champ, Roger Federer,
A Swiss tennis player who is no Helen Lederer
Though his classy delivery is wickedly droll,
He’s not, when you face it, that funny at all.
Thus, anticlimactic, the deafening end
To the hopes of our bedazzled, fine Scottish friend,
Who left with a tear, enough cash for a beer,
And thousands more fans to support him next year.

He eyed me gloomily. “Well, what d’ya think?
I thought: Federer…Lederer…really?
“It does rhyme a bit,” I said.
“That’ll do,” he said and marched off to the cat flap. I just went…
BACK TO THE BOX.
The Wright Stuff. (C5)

The producers of Matthew Wright’s morning programme clearly believe it ain’t broke, so it remains resolutely unchanged. Yasmin Alibhai-Brown was back as one of last week’s permanent guests (no doubt to the further annoyance of incensed bigots nationwide) and she clearly enjoyed the opportunity to exchange views and banter with a variety of fellow contributors. I cannot always agree with her, but I will always like her.
Wright still has to curb a tendency to smirk, sneer, or take offence at the slightest provocation, but I think “Screechy” keeps a fairly tight rein on him.
Whether I bother to watch still depends on whether or not I like the guests.
First Night of the Proms. (BBC2)
Found this to be an all-singing, all-prancing, mostly all-boring Brit night with which I was quickly out of tune. I finally departed, disenchanted, and finished up watching old documentaries about…
Roy Orbison (1936 - 1988) (BBC4)

What a remarkable singer this chap was. Barely opening his mouth his voice ranged from baritone to countertenor and everywhere in between. His songs, many of them his own compositions, were catchy, melodic and often sadly romantic. He was also an accomplished guitar player and, among his contemporaries, a highly respected performer.
Sadly there was much tragedy in his life and, as is often the case with a unique talent, he died at too early an age.
Game of Thrones. (Sky Atlantic)

In the first season it was the Starks who were the focus family and Ned Stark (Sean Bean) was the clear hero; a decent man too honourable to survive in a dishonourable world. Season 2 spread the focus more evenly and the unlikely hero to emerge from this mishmash of warring factions was the diminutive Tyrion Lannister (Peter Dinklage) (yes, one of that ghastly Lannister crowd) who proved to be a giant in disguise.
“I will hurt you for this. A day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth. And you will know the debt is paid,” he said to Queen Cersei, one of his own, in Episode 8.
Could anyone doubt he meant it?.
Series 3 cannot come soon enough.
University Challenge. (BBC2)

“Come on - come on!“ Yep, here we go again with another season of scathingly snarled Paxmanisms. I love it and can sometimes correctly answer two, or even three, of the questions. How about you? What?
“You may buzz - you cannot confer!”
AND OTHER BITS.
Golf - The Open.

The cat Shadow skidded in from the courtyard as though the cat catcher was on his tail. “Who won then?” he asked.
“Who won what?” I responded quizzically.”And what’s all the hurry?”
“You know what,” he said, “The Open? Lytham St. Annes? The Open!”
“Big Ernie,” I said. “Ernie Els. Seven under.“
“Bloody’ell,” he said. “What happened to Adam Scott?”
“Fell to pieces,” I said. “Aren’t you getting news up there on the roof?”
“They‘re all half asleep in the sun, Word was that somebody thanked Nelson Mandela so I came in. I didn’t know he was playing.”
“He wasn’t,” I said.
“Caddying?”
“No.”
“Dunno where that came from then…gotta go,” and he was gone again.
He has a lump on his head. Informed opinion suggests it is probably a cyst. Doesn’t seem to trouble him but it has grown a deal larger of late so last week my Leader borrowed Roz’s cat box to take him to the vet. Before it arrived he quietly departed the house. He has thereafter ventured indoors little and never during surgery times. Smart creatures, cats.
Cycling - Tour de France.

Well, swipe me! A man whose name sounds like a down-the-street rival of Open All Hours’ Arkwright, Bradley Wiggins, won the world’s toughest bike race and neither tacks nor tactics could stop him. Great stuff.
Bodes well for the Olympic Games, too, though I still don’t give a flying thrust kick about them and am heartily sick of the relentless propaganda telling me how excited I should be. I hope it all goes off without trouble and I can’t wait to see the back of it.
FINAL THOUGHTS.
A Welcome Visitor.
Our friend Anne has been with us this week. Came on Sunday evening, departs tomorrow (Friday) morning. She has had the best (well, the only) week of sunshine in recent memory and we have enjoyed trips out to places we normally forget are there. One such, Dimbola Museum and Galleries at Freshwater Bay, is run by the Julia Margaret Cameron Trust and contains a wonderful display of the world renowned Victorian photographer’s work. My Leader had been there recently so knew what to expect; needless to say, I was not with her on that occasion. So, not for the first time, Anne (recently a MSc with distinction) managed to encourage the old boy out of his armchair. The three of us had a great trip out to Freshwater and a pleasant meander around, with lunch, at Dimbola.
So if you happen to be on the Isle of Wight and looking for a break from the holiday norm, why not chance a visit to this one time home of Julia Margaret Cameron (1815 - 1879). It is quite unique and you can park outside for free.
Isn’t education great?
Google,
Isn’t it great, too, how those wicked little blighters at Google ring the changes on their logo every now and then to remind you that it is the anniversary of this or the birthday of that. I usually click on to find out what has been said about their topic of special interest; if I had a mind capable of retaining anything for longer than twenty seconds I could be a regular old quiz champ by now. Lord knows how they set about it, but the graphic artistry is superb, the technical application mind-boggling and the subject matter out of this world. I would send congratulations to them but have no idea how to go about it.
Ne’er mind. They don’t need an old Limey to tell them how clever they are.
But well done anyway, Google!

182. Here, there and every(cat)where.

HEREABOUTS.
Isle of Wight Festival (Mud Bath).

Biffy Clyro
Roz, Nick, Jess and (for one day) Ellis went to this year‘s festival. My Leader and I stayed at home and watched it on the box as usual. It cost a fortune to get in: there was torrential rain, mud bath fields, chaotic traffic hold-ups, the stealing of tents, a lot of what is now regarded as good music, a little of what used to be regarded as good music, Bruce Springsteen as main attraction and, Biffy Clyro and Madness apart, very little for which I would have braved either the weather or the mismanagement.
Our lot enjoyed it, though, despite a couple of them picking up head colds along the way, and Ellis made £26 collecting and returning cups at 10p a cup.
That lad will go far in this world.
Isle of Wight Friends.
Throughout the forty four years we have lived on the island my Leader and I have been fortunate in making many good friends, most of them, I think, initiated as a result of Maureen’s warm and kindly spirit (left to myself I am a very limited friend maker).
High on our list of born-and-bred Islander friends are Sheila and John Appleton. Sheila and Maureen originally met through their joint interest in quilting; they soon became friends and, in the way that good friends do, eventually decided to risk all and introduce their husbands to each other.
It was quite a risk, too.
John, I quickly discovered, can spot the bogus a mile away and suffers fools not at all. I liked him immediately. I wonder why? We have been friends for a lot of years now. See each other seldom, but when we do it is as though we met only yesterday. His interests interest me and mine appear to interest him: gawdbless’im, his positive comments on Watching… could almost come from Anonymous John himself..
Mention of which: following my plaintive assertion in Post 181 that I seldom receive blog comments nowadays, Anonymous reacted in the way such nonsense deserves; his comment, if you missed it, was: “…with Faithful Mo and Anonymous John what more could any Author desire?"
What more indeed?
Thanks John, and thanks Anonymous John (whoever he may be).
Our best to you both and, of course, to Sheila.
THEREABOUTS.
European Football Championship.
“It’s Spain and Italy in the final then,” I said to the cat Shadow. “England cocked it up again. ”
“I hate those penalty finishes,” he muttered. “Lads play their hearts out for a couple of hours and then the game’s turned into a bloody lottery.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” I said. “But that won’t be changed now. Truth is, other nations are much better at taking penalties than we are.”
“They should be,“ he said sourly. “They get more practice. Put them anywhere near the penalty area and they become Olympic divers!”
I could see nothing positive in the conversation so I changed the subject to...
Wimbledon 2012.
“That Czech lad Lukas Rosol shook up the tennis ratings,” I said. “Rafael Nadal didn’t know what hit him,”
“Second round defeat wasn’t it?”
“It was,” I nodded. “But I thought you were asleep.”
How could anyone sleep with the row that crowd was making?. Wimbledon used to be better mannered…more restrained,” he said testily.
“You can be a right grouchy little sod sometimes,” I muttered.
“Join the club,” he said.
ON THE BOX.
NCIS. (FX) (Contains spoilers.)

Series 9 came to the sort of spectacular end beloved of television producers. To the best of my memory (not a particularly reliable signpost) something similar was used way back to conclude a series of CSI New York. At that time I thought it was CBS’s insurance against any of the actors seeking too big a pay rise for the next series. i.e. Get too greedy and you’ll get dead.
Who knows? Perhaps it was.
This time we were left with a massive explosion which appeared to destroy the entire NCIS department (a section never notable for its tight security). As a consequence we witnessed the apparent death of Dr. ‘Ducky’ Mallard (the estimable David McCallum) who had a heart attack and collapsed on a lonely beach: it was an acting performance so good it could have been given by a Premier League footballer.

He ain’t dead of course. He’s already signed up for Series 10.
I imagine just who is or is not dead will be down to who is or is not regarded as dispensable by the suits upstairs. Unless, that is, the devastating effects of the explosion have been a major bluff pulled off by our heroes to draw the unsuspecting bad guy into the open.
I see it this way: With the exception of Ducky and Gibbs, all the familiar NCIS faces (suitably attired in funeral garb and ‘just managed to survive a bomb blast’ make-up) are gathered at Ducky’s graveside to bid him a final farewell, As the coffin is about to be lowered into the grave the lid flies open and Ducky sits up. He stares at the gathering and says: “Pleased with yourself, Mr. Dearing? Well, don’t hide away, come out and take a bow!” The group of mourners then parts to reveal, standing alone at the back, the demented Dearing. Our villain curses a prime-time curse and attempts to pull a cell phone from his pocket. Behind him a pistol carrying Gibbs appears, deftly removes the phone from his grasp, calls: “Tony! Ziva!” and stands back as the two agents smartly divest the snarling mastermind of his remaining weaponry.
“Gibbs! Gibbs! Is the cell phone safe?” cries Abby.
The phone rings. Gibbs speaks into it briefly.
“Safe enough now, Abbs,” he says. “The bomb was back there in his car. Our people have dealt with it.”
As Dearing is led away, struggling and swearing, he shouts over his shoulder: “Curse you, Ducky the devious!”
“Wrong cartoon,” says Director Vance.
[Phineas and Ferb fans will see the joke.]
Whatever happens, NCIS is not yet going the way of CSI Miami.

Poor old Horatio Caine (David Caruso and his acting sunglasses) has been axed. Apparently the show had better ratings than CSI New York, but Miami got the chop while NY was kept on. I guess the sunglasses upset somebody.
There’s no knowing with tele bigwigs, is there?
SEEN IN PRINT.
I am currently reading Gently Does It, by Alan Hunter, one of ten George Gently books obtained for me online by my Leader because I have enjoyed the television series in which Martin Shaw plays Gently (a sort of Fabian of the Yard figure - you have to be of an age to remember).
Concurrently I am enchanted by A Street Cat Named Bob, James Bowen’s tribute to the splendid ginger cat that adopted him and gave his wasted life a whole new meaning.

My Leader read it in two days. Couldn’t put it down. I begin to understand why.
But when it comes to splendid cats, I have a feeling the cat Shadow may be singularly scathing when he discovers that I have attempted to disguise the return to my old Post format by simply rewording the headings.
Ho hum.

181. Another chat with the cat.

BACK TO THE BLOG FRONT.
“All I can say is fuck the formulaic; fiddle with the format!” advised the cat Shadow.
“Avoid alliteration, “ I said sternly. ”It’s practically as pathetic as punning.”
O.K…basic English…scrap the HOME/AWAY/TELEVISION/ READING routine; go for something completely different.”
I eyed him narrowly: “Completely different? How completely different?”
“Well…interesting would do for a start.”
“And when did you last proffer paw to pen?” I queried querulously.
“Now you’re being alliterative,” he said. “And petulant.”
I sighed. Seeking his opinion invites a masterclass in cat candour. Clearly this could become another of those lose-lose conversations to which I have become accustomed over the years.
“Might not the nice people who read me like the format?” I ventured.
“How many actually do read you?” he countered.
To avoid repetition I stifled another sigh and replaced it with a shrug.
Exactly,” he said, “You have no idea, have you? So how many blog comments do you get?”
I shrugged again; well you can’t avoid repetition all the time.
The long and the short of it is that I am not a Stephen Fry or a Dominic Holland. I seek not public applause and I appear not on television, twitter, facebook or the stage. I do not have a novel to flog and the last published comment on any of my blog posts came from old friend Anonymous John (oh, way back at Post 160, just after the death of my mother). I hope nice people are still reading my stuff, but am not aware if they do. I know my Leader does; but she, bless her, is a captive audience. I don’t think our children bother much; a prophet is never accepted in his own country and, whether I like it or not, the world moves on.
“Most comments come directly to me by email,” I said blandly.
“Good job you’re not Pinocchio,” he said, “or your nose would knock me off this chair.”
I risked another sigh. “All right, nowadays they don’t comment very often. Can we change the subject now?”
“Will you change the format?”
“And do what? Bullshit about my experiences at the Edinburgh fringe? Or my week on The Wright Stuff? Or my fellow panellists on QI? Or maybe plug the pantomime I shall be appearing in at the end of the year?”
“Now you’re being daft.”
“Nicely observed. So can we change the subject?”
“Bit of a surprise ol’ Harry Redknapp losing the Tottenham job.” he said.
“Well that really is a change of subject,” I murmured appreciatively. “Not very much of a surprise though, surely? He’s football through and through. A top manager. But it’s a dicey business and these are dicey times. I think he’s become a victim of his own success. Popular with the supporters, respected by the players and a tad too demanding of the owners, that has to be a farewell formula in today‘s climate.”
“Now you’re not being daft,” he remarked, without so much as a hint of sarcasm. “How about Roy Hodgson? Word on the roof says success.”
“Hmm. What do you think?”
“My heart likes the word on the roof but my head counsels caution.”
“Follow your heart but heed your head.”
He blinked and looked puzzled, evidently pondering from where such unlikely wisdom had come. I didn’t know and hoped he wouldn’t ask.
The moment passed.
“Had any thoughts on the tele scene lately?” he enquired casually.
“Only that many current American cop series are reaching their end and seem determined to outdo each other‘s turbans under the bed story lines.”
“You’re not much for that besieged by terrorists stuff, are you?”
“Propaganda bred of paranoia,” I grunted. “A lethal combination. Christ knows what their writers would have made of the blitzes here throughout World War Two or the bombing of Dresden in February 1945.”
“They wouldn’t. It didn’t happen in America,” he said wryly.
“Too right. Anyway, I have become increasingly disenchanted with the international conspiracy to overthrow the greatest democracy ever to chew gum or drink coke. I don’t care whether the perceived villains are based in the Middle East, Russia, China, North Korea, Chile, Mexico or Heligoland, I just don’t believe they exist. Nor do I believe that doctors, scientists and police persons, even in America, tidily talk one after the other and leave the last word to the star of the show. It’s assembly line chit-chat, it’s not human.
“And when it comes to not human, there was a time when most fantasy was B picture material. That was before the film and television world joined the magic circle and special effects went into overdrive. Now screens big and small are seething with Grimm stories, fairytale tales, zombie epics, dragon sagas and dark age legends. It’s Shangri-La for spirits.”
“I thought you liked it…well…most of it.”
“I do, I do. But even phantom kill can become overkill if it’s overdone.”
“You could start watching the cookery programmes,” he said, “there’s more than enough of them still about. Or you could give up viewing and get yourself onto a reality show“
“Now you’re being daft,” I said.
“Touche,” he said. “So what’s on the menu?”
“Well, food is the word, little pal,” I said. “I’m thinking I might take a crash course in cookery, dress up as a ghost and appear on the box as the gourmet ghoul. What do you think?”
“I think it would be a sure-fire success and I think you’re joking,” he said.
“It probably would be and I am,” I replied.
He adroitly changed the subject.
“How did Neil’s Kickstarter campaign for Carmageddon go?” he asked in a purr that suggested he knew the answer.
“It went brilliantly,” I said. “Though I guess he’d rather it was thought of as the Stainless Team’s campaign. But yes, they reached their target, and more, thanks to loads of lovely well-wishers.“
“Great,” he said. “I saw the Hobbes video. You’d have seen me off sharply if I’d acted like that, wouldn‘t you?”
“I would,” I said. “And you wouldn’t.”
He nodded sagely. (How does he do that?)
“Anyway, it’s Ascot now and then it will be Wimbledon,” he said. “I expect to be snoozing for England soon.
“Join the club,” I said.
“Indoors or garden?”
“Wherever…Now…About this changing the format…
“I think you have, buddy,” he said gently. “I think you have…”

180. Just a few more candid views.

MAKE WAY FOR THE HIT PERSONS.
(1) Sir Michael Wilshaw.
Give a government long enough to show it is incapable of doing any better than did its predecessors and wait for the trusted establishment hit persons to make their appearance.
Step up new Ofsted head Michael Wilshaw (remember Ian MacGregor? Richard Beeching? Steel? Coal? Railways?) who, clearly of the belief that peacekeeping is for the puny, insulted everybody in his former profession when he told a conference of head teachers: “Teachers don’t know the real meaning of the word stress,” and went on to pontificate about how stressful life was for his father in the Fifties and Sixties, doing long hours in three different jobs and at weekends to support a growing family. (Come back, Norman Tebbit, all is forgiven!)
Stress, he opined, was what he was under when he started as a head in 1985 in the context of widespread industrial action. Teachers were walking out of class at a moment’s notice and he was the sole lunch monitor every day for three years. He was also covering five classes in the sports hall when there was no one to teach them because his colleagues were working to rule.
What a popular little bugger he must have been.
Well, he was in teaching for 43 years (26 of them as a headmaster) and along the way became the only schoolteacher capable of defining stress.
This was not your defusing a booby-trapped bomb or dodging friendly fire from your American cousins sort of stress, understand; nor was it your commonplace trapped down a coal mine sort of stress. Oh no. This was your real life, down to earth, prolonged school dinner duty and people working to rule sort of stress. This was tough stuff.
But he did not, I notice, mention any class of forty plus children which included a large handful of ‘special needs’ cases and more than a dozen different birth languages. Perhaps he managed to ignore classes like that.
No doubt he hastened, too, to make known his loyalty whenever some prick in parliament, advised by the bevy of mostly failed academics that constitutes Ofsted, decided to move the educational goalposts yet again.
HMI have become a byword for crass negativity and this pompous Ofsted mouthpiece did nothing to allay the suspicion that the inspectorate is in dire need of a detached watchdog. Think: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
Nobody inspects inspectorates in this country, do they?
(2) Andrew Lansley.
Less to write about here. Beleaguered Health Secretary Lansley tried to convince the Royal College of Nursing’s annual conference that the number of clinical staff in the NHS has increased since the 2010 election, despite the fact that the number of qualified nurses has gone down by 3,000.
He was heckled and jeered for his audacity and RCN general secretary Dr. Peter Carter later made it clinically clear that he and his colleagues thought Mr. Lansley’s comments were a nonsense and patently untrue..
Dr. Carter will be right. Trust me: I was never a doctor, but I paid them.
(3) Theresa May.
Even less to write about here. The Police Federation conference held in Bournemouth gave the Home Secretary a no more sympathetic reception than her unsympathetic address to them deserved. She was, they warned, destroying a police service admired throughout the world.
They, too, were right: but what did they expect from a bloody politician?
TELEVISION.
The Bridge. (BBC4)
A good series which, predictably and appropriately, came to an end on the bridge. I have no idea whether the Danish/Swedish co-producers intend screening more stories featuring detectives Saga and Martin, but I hope they do. They‘ll be daft if they don‘t..
The Mentalist. (C5)
This saunters along effortlessly, enlivened by the occasional con man wisdom of Patrick Jane (Simon Baker). In a recent episode he was talking to a hospitalised gangster and, having ascertained that the man was having trouble getting to sleep, said: “The cure for that is to count one as you breathe in and two as you breathe out.”
Later in the story the gangster confirmed the method had worked for him.
So I tried it. Yep. It worked for me, too.
Phineas and Ferb. (Disney HD)

It is my lot, as a grouchy grandparent, regularly to view whatever tele title is current favourite of the manipulative little remote control purloiner known to me as Little Boo.
Thus far this year I have survived Grandpa in my Pocket, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Tom and Jerry, various loud American kids’ shows and, now, the animated across-the-pond comedy Phineas and Ferb. Daily appearances of this inspired lunacy have so far led to eighty-plus recordings on my Planner list - and that’s before an advertised new series begins.
For the uninitiated, Phineas Flynn and his English stepbrother Ferb Fletcher are a pair of genius boys determined to allay summer vacation boredom by undertaking a mind-boggling series of grand schemes - usually in their back garden - to the intense irritation of older sister Candace Flynn, who is determined, forever unsuccessfully, to “bust” them (i.e. disclose their OTT project) to their unwitting mother, Lynda Flynn-Fletcher.
Meantime, back at the happy homestead, Perry the Platypus - the boys’ pet platypus - who, unbeknown to them, is a secret agent for the O.W.C.A. (Organisation Without a Cool Acronym) heads a cast of weirdly believable supporting characters.
I am completely hooked; which, I think, rather pleases Little Boo.
The Olympics. (All Channels)
Are my Leader and I the only people in the country who are not remotely interested in The Olympics? Be honest, do you hasten to a sports stadium every weekend in summer to watch people fire pistols in the air; run; jump; or attempt to throw something farther than anybody else?
Do you religiously watch athletics, even on television? If you do, you’re in the minority. Once upon a time I did, but the amateur world of Sydney Wooderson is long gone and I have no appetite for field and track professionals.
At the height of inflation, this lot is costing a fortune. Count us out.
Oh, we’re not interested in the bloody Eurovision Song Contest, either,
Thought you might like to know.
LAST WORD
Carmageddon: Reincarnation.

Following protracted negotiation, Stainless Games (the video games company founded in 1993 by Patrick Buckland and our son, Neil) finally recovered the full rights to Carmageddon and a Kickstarter campaign, aimed at supporting the reintroduction of the game to loyal former players and discerning newcomers, is currently underway.
For a man whose son has permanently made a living from graphic art, I must shamefacedly confess my total ignorance of what makes for a good video game. But I am reliably informed that vast numbers of discerning games buyers have enjoyed the car/person/ground-breaking lunacy of Carmageddon since it was launched in 1997.
Stainless are a lovely team and deserve every possible success with their new venture.
Go to: Carmageddon: Reincarnation to learn more from me boy.

179. Potter afterthoughts (plus the usual).

WARNER STUDIOS TOUR.
Further reflections on our April 2nd trip.
There are bound to be afterthoughts; when there is so much to see it is beyond the capacity of a grasshopper mind to register everything and I am easily sidetracked at the best of times. Half a mo…
[Coffee time.]
Now…where was I? Oh…yes…sidetracked and afterthoughts.
For a start, the official guide book - upon which I neglected to comment - is beautifully illustrated, packed with fascinating facts and a must as both a tour companion and a treasured memento. There is also a digital audio guide for hire (choice of eight languages; English version narrated by the excellent Tom Felton) which I’m sure works beautifully for everyone but the techno-nothing old guy. Say no more.
I failed to mention the Ollivander’s setup containing wand boxes labelled with the names of everybody who ever worked on the films. A pleasant young woman showed us around there and impressed by knowing the wand box whereabouts of any cast member mentioned to her.
(Below: Jess and Ellis are on the Knight bus.)

I also overlooked the giant chess pieces, the fantastic card models of Hogwarts and environs, the moving models (monster book, mutant baby Voldemort etc.) and the exhibition of costumes worn by cast members. It was a surprise how tall many of the actors appeared to be: Robbie  Coltrane as Hagrid was one helluva size! At the card model display I asked a young guide, who I gathered had had about three months training, whether he was now au fait with everything on the tour and he said yes, he thought so. I said it would take me a whole lot longer than three months to take in the half of it and he laughed and asked whether we had enjoyed it, though. Well, of course, we had. And that was before we so much as glimpsed the piece de resistance which comes right at the end and is breathtaking. Then to the shop again. Yes, it is pricey, but it’s a special day out, ain‘t it. By the time we came out everybody but my Leader had a souvenir (they really should get some decent sized models of Dobby).
Later, maybe?
Three hours for the tour is a good estimate: we started at 1.30 in the afternoon and finished at 4.20.

(Three happy travellers on Hagrid's bike.)

It was worth every minute.
HOME.
Medina College Music Department Spring Concert.
Granddaughter Jess is a chorister in Medina College Choir which, together with the college ukulele orchestra, steel pans and a small brass section, treated an appreciative audience to an eclectic mix of music at this year’s Spring Concert. My Leader had previously been to one of the choir’s concerts so knew what to expect; I had not and did not. Should have guessed, though. They were a total joy and, saving the best ’til last, their rendition of Toto’s Africa was a tour de force unsurpassed by any arrangement I had previously heard. Superb. There really is not much wrong with the youngsters of today.
Costa Wight.
Here in the sunny south we have enjoyed some Mediterranean style weather. The hedgerows are thick with daffodils and, in a rare spell of sod-the-cost County pride, the Council has had the majority of roadside hedges neatly trimmed. A stately home owner would be proud of them.
There has to be a catch; given council involvement there always is.
Snippet of family conversation.
A local supermarket was selling packets of panties, Roz told Mo, six for £5 if you bought the plain, £8 for the fancy; all cotton; excellent value.
“They’ll have come from China,” I opined. “Everything comes from China nowadays. It‘s the cheap labour.”
“My school pencils come from Germany,” said bright little know-it-all Ellis.
“That’s because the Germans have got all the lead,” I said. “They stole it off our church roofs during the war.”
He thought about that for a moment, then he laughed:
“He’s lying again,” he remarked to his grandmother.
I do believe she may have agreed with him.
TELEVISION.
Titanic disaster. (Most channels)
In mid April 1912, through a combination of bad luck, insufficient lifeboats and overweening imprudence, the Titanic went down killing 1,517 of the 2,223 people on board. 92% of the 2nd class male passengers and over three quarters of all the passengers travelling 3rd class perished. It was that most treasured of all Brit historic happenings, a bloody disaster.
So one hundred years later the story had to be ghoulishly picked over for the umpteenth time and, as if a 3D Leonardo DiCaprio wasn’t enough, former welder and now dance judge Len Goodman weighed anchor with a so-so three part documentary series, a boatload of morbid bonkers-in-the-head souls set sail for the spot where the luckless liner sank, a commemorative musical muse was executed and playwright Julian Fellowes took a classy dive off the Titanic top board to complete an unexpected belly-flop.
I only watched Goodman, who I like because he reminds me of my uncle Bill. Couldn’t be bothered with the rest. Well, I know how it ends.
Silent Witness. (BBC1)
Currently ploughing through series 15 and nothing really changes. Oh, Amanda Burton long ago departed, presumably to stare into space elsewhere, but the remaining forensic pathologists are still poking their unwanted noses into police business and somehow emerging unscathed. They are still led by weird Professor Leo Dalton (William Gaminara) who, not content with losing his wife and children in a hit and run accident early in series 9, has now decided he wants to lose partner Janet (Jaye Griffiths). Don’t bother to ask why. I neither know nor care.
Homeland. (C4)
The American fetish with turbans-under-the-beds has never been more evident than in this finely balanced homage to national paranoia.
Damian Lewis is excellent as Sgt. Nick Brodie, a marine who went missing in Iraq, spent eight years in captivity and has suddenly been set free. Question is: has he or has he not been ’turned’ by the enemy?
Answer is: we shan’t find out. Not in this series, anyway. It has been so successful it is now all set for series 2 and, if it then remains popular…?
I shall continue to keep an eye out anyway. Good, well acted, stuff is always worth watching, even if it clearly is a load of propagandist bilge.
And I still think Mandy Patinkin is at his best when he’s singing.
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. (C5)
We have reached Series 12 here. Laurence Fishburne has been succeeded by Ted Danson as team leader. The writers have produced some decent story lines and ol’ Danson has produced a suitably quirky new character. I like it.
Not Going Out. (BBC1)
Back for Series 5 and worth it. Lee Mack, Tim Vine and Sally Bretton, together with Katie Wix, Geoffrey Whitehead and a well chosen supporting cast, seldom falter with Daniel Peak and Lee Mack’s cheerful, occasionally LOL, scripts.
Castle. (C5)
I again make mention of this relatively light-hearted take on an all-too- familiar subject only to say how beautiful is Molly Quinn who plays Alexis, Rick Castle’s (Nathan Fillion) daughter and how delightfully Celeste Holm-like is Susan Sullivan as his mother, Martha. Americans can be such likeable people.
It has been the making of their film industry.
The Bridge. (BBC4)
More subtitled mayhem. A corpse is placed in halves on either side of the border on a bridge between Denmark and Sweden: a joint investigation by the law forces of both countries is launched and the two most incompatible detectives in the whole of Scandinavia are forced into unwilling partnership. The Swedish detective is Saga Noren, a semi-autistic young woman played by Sofia Helin and her Danish counterpart is Martin Rohde, a shambling, happily married man played by Kim Bodnia. Their sole likeness is that both are damn good investigators.
It’s another hit for the Vikings: demands close attention, too. You won’t so much as blink; well, not if you want to keep up with what they’re saying you won’t.
Four episodes in and we are well hooked.
RE:: NEW BLOGGING EXPERIENCE .
Blogger has a new look!
Those cunning kids at Blogger have been at it again. Following protracted warnings (which I should have heeded) they have introduced their completely new streamlined blogging experience that makes it easier for me (they say) to find out what I need and focus on writing great blog posts.
Gawdblessem! I just wish!
Their completely redesigned dashboard - not seen by you unless you have your own blog - will, I’m sure, be welcomed by bloggers all over the world (or, if you are an American, the USA) so I may be a somewhat lonesome dissenter; but the truth is, lovely Blogger designers, I neither like nor fully understand your new dashboard.
And that’s the trouble with change: the older you get the less you want it.
Ho hum.