200(a). End of Part 1. (b) Index 4: Posts 176 - 199

200(a) End of Part 1.
This blogging lark.
My first foray into this blogging lark was, indeed, in July 2006 when The Oldies was edited by a chap called Justin Thyme. Neither they nor he survived the year. I have been pounding the Watching keys under my own name ever since and have lately begun to feel that it must be time for another change; or maybe simply time to pack it in; after all, isn't the ether crowded enough? Sometimes it seems to be nothing more than Objection Alley out there.
My Leader and I discussed it.
“If you give up completely,” she said, “you'll be like a fish out of water.”   
The cat Shadow concurred.
You can't give up now," he opined. "You're too old to do anything but knock out a blog, feed me, watch tele and take Ellis to school. Anyway, where else would I find someone to publish my bloody poetry?"
"I hadn't really thought of it like that," I said. 
Well, matey, it's high time you did. Now get back on that keyboard and thank Kelvin for his last email, Helmut for the on-line Christmas card and all the other good friends who send messages of encouragement and support on a regular basis. Follow that up by printing Index 4, Posts 176 – 199. Then jack it in. But only until the next time."  
And of course he was right.
So thanks to the aforesaid good pals and to all the other kindly readers who push the pageviews chart up a tad when we publish. Thanks also to my Leader, my family, my manager, my agent, Google, everybody involved in the production of i newspaper, the cat Shadow, anybody who has never been thanked at a film, stage or television awards ceremony, all those who meant to send us a card and forgot, all those to whom we meant to send a card and forgot and all those who have decided they will not send cards this year but will give the money to their favourite charity off-licence.

A HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND A PROSPEROUS NEW YEAR TO YOU.

200(b) Index 4: Posts 176 - 199.

Abby Sciuto: 182 Alexander, Vassos: 196 Alibhai-Brown, Yasmin: 183,189,194 Allam, Roger: 193 Anne, friend: 183 Annis, Francesca: 189 Appleton, 'Anonymous' John: 181, 182,187, 193, 198 Appleton, Sheila: 182 Armstrong, Alun: 185 Ayres, Pam: 177,194,196 Bacchus, Sgt. 185 Baer, Robert: 185 Baker, Matt: 176 Baker, Simon: 180 Barenboim, Daniel: 184 Barnden, Jac: 176 Barnden, Maureen: 177,179,182,186,187,188,191,192,197,198 Barnden, Neil: 176,180, 181,186,187,192,193,195,199 Barnden, Pauline: 176,186,187 Barnden, Roz: 178,179,182,186,187,192,197 Bassett, Linda: 187 Bean, Sean: 183 Beaton, M.C. 197 Beckham, David: 194 Beeching, Richard: 180 Biffy Clyro: 182 Blackburn, Tony: 177 Bob, the cat: 182,183 Bodnia, Kim: 179 Bolam, James: 185 Bolt, Usain: 184 Bolton, Michael: 177 Boothroyd, Betty: 192 Boulez, Pierre: 184 Bowen, James: 182,183 Bowles, Lynn: 196 Bradbury, Julia: 176 Bradley, David: 199 Brady, Orla: 185 Brand, Jo: 177 Bretton, Sally:179 Brodie, Nick: 179 Brookmyre, Christopher: 189, 191 Brown, Father: 190 Brown, Joe: 187 Brown, Mrs: 176,189 Bryson, Bill: 176 Buckland, Patrick: 180 Bullmore, Amelia: 194 Burton, Amanda: 179 Caine, Horatio: 182 Caine, Michael: 187 Cake, Jonathan: 196 Cameron, Julia Margaret: 183 Candace (Flynn): 180 Capello, Fabio: 176 Carter, Peter: 180 Caruso, David: 182 Cassidy, Eva: 177 Castle, Rick: 179 Caviezel, Jim: 193 Cersei, Queen: 183 Chapman, Kevin: 193 Chesterton, G.K. 190 Christie, Agatha: 198 Coates, Eric: 184 Coltrane, Robbie: 178 Corlett, Marama: 185 Cowan. Elliot: 185 Cromwell, Oliver: 196 Cumberbatch, Benedict: 187 Dalton, Prof. Leo: 179 Dan the Man: 197 Danson, Ted: 179, 198 Darvill, Arthur: 185 Davis, Phil: 176, 177 Davis (jnr.), Sammy: 196 Dawn, niece: 193 Dee, M&S first aider: 197 Delaney, Dana: 176 Dench, Judy: 177 Dennis, Hugh: 176 DiCaprio, Leonardo: 179 Dickens, Charles: 187 DiDonato, Joyce: 198 Dillow, Ian: 176,195,198 Dimbleby, Richard: 191 Dinklage, Peter: 183 Douglas, Jennifer: 197 Doyle, Arthur Conan: 187,190 Dr. Who: 199 Dunbar, Adrian:187 Dyer, Reg: 197 Eastwood, Clint: 190 Edwards, David Innes: 187 Elba, Idris: 196 Ellis, Mary: 184 Els, Ernie: 183 Emerson, Michael: 193 Evans, Chris: 187,196 Evans, Noah: 196 Evans, Shaun: 193 Fay, Kelvin: 196 Federer, Roger: 183 Fellowes, Julian: 179,.189 Felton, Tom: 179 Ferb (Fletcher): 180 Ferguson, Alex: 194 Filch, Argus: 199 Fillion, Nathan: 179 Fishburne, Laurence: 179 Fisher, Miss: 194 Flynn-Fletcher, Lynda: 180 Ford, Ford Madox: 187 Foyle, Chief Supt. Christopher: 191 Fraser, Hugh: 198 Freeman, Morgan: 195 Frost, David: 177 Fry, Stephen: 181 Gaghan, Stephen: 185 Galbraith, Robert: 196 Gaminara, William: 179 Gates, Bill: 191 Gates, Melinda: 191 Gatiss, Mark: 199 Gently, George: 182, 184,185 Gibbs, Leroy Jethro: 182,190 Gilbert, Olive: 184 Gillan, Karen: 185 “Ginger”: 189 Glaser, Paul Michael: 197 Golding, William: 192 Goodman, Len: 179 Google: 183,187 Granddaughter Jess: 179, 182,187,197 Grandson Ellis: 178,179, 180,182,187,191,193,197,198 Green & Forster: 184 Griffiths, Jaye: 179 Griffiths, Richard: 192 Grimm, Bros: 189 Guinness, Alec: 190 Harmon, Mark: 196,198 Harrison, Ellie: 176 Hart, Miranda: 176 Hartnell, William: 199 Hatfield, Holly: 178 Hatfield, Stefano: 178,189,190,192 Headley, Heather: 188 Heath, Ted: 176 Helin, Sofia: 179 Henson, Taraji P. 193 Hernia, the cat: 187 Hitler, Adolf: 193 Hodgson, Roy: 181 Holland, Dominic: 181 Holland, Jools: 191 Holmes, Sherlock: 187,190 Horwood, Clive Revel: 197 Hoyle. Lindsay: 192 Hucknall, Mick: 184 Huhne, Chris: 176 Hunt, Megan: 176 Hunter, Alan: 182, 184, 185 Hurley, Graham: 185,194,195 Hurt, John: 194 Imrie, Celia: 177 Ingleby, Lee: 185 Irons, Jeremy: 185,195 Jackson, Philip: 198 Jacobi, Derek: 190 Jake, Ellis’s friend: 191 James. Bradley: 189 Jane, Patrick: 180 Jansons, Mariss: 198 Jardine, Douglas: 199 John, Anonymous: (see Appleton). Johnson, Dr.Samuel: 196 Jones, Alyd: 187 Jones, Suranne: 194 Jones, Trefor: 184 Jong-un, Kim: 193 Kay, Peter: 194 Kanakaredes, Melina: 198 Kennedy, Nigel: 198 Kitchen, Michael: 191 Knight, Elliot: 185 Kyle, Jeremy: 177,192 Lancashire, Sarah: 190 Lannister, Tyrion: 183 Lansley, Andrew: 180 Larwood, Harold: 199 Laurel and Hardy: 192 Lea, Ruth: 190 Lederer, Helen: 183 Lee, Vanessa: 184 Leigh, Mike: 177 Lewis, Damian: 179,187 Little Boo: 180,194 Littlewood, Joan: 177 Liu, Lucy: 190 McCallum, David: 182 McCormack, John: 184 MacGregor, Ian: 180 Mack, Lee: 179 McKinnon, Gary: 177 Madden, John: 177 Madness: 182 Malik, Art: 177 Mallard, Dr. Ducky: 182 Mandela, Nelson: 183 Marg, sister-in-law: 197 Matthew, Brian: 177 May, Theresa: 180 Mena, Juanjo: 198 Merkel. Angela: 198 Merlin: 189 Michelle, 196 Mike, brother-in-law: 197 Miller, Jonny Lee: 190 Molina, Alfred: 189 Moran, Pauline: 198 More, Kenneth: 190 Morgan, Colin: 189 Murphy, Dr. Kate: 176 Murray, Andy: 183,195 Nadal, Rafael: 182 Nick:182,197 Nickleby, Nick: 187 Nighy, Bill: 177 Nixon, Richard: 177 Noren, Saga: 179 Novello, Ivor: 184 Obama, Barack: 188, 193,198 O’Carroll, Brendan: 189 Ochida, Mitsuki: 198 O'Dwyer, Eamonn: 197 O’Dwyer, Richard 177 O’Hagan, Ellie Mae: 191 O’Hara, Mary: 187 Orbison, Roy: 183 Pan, Peter: 193 Patel, Dev: 177 Patinkin, Mandy: 179 Patterson, James: 195 Paxman, Jeremy: 183 Peak, Daniel: 179 Pemberton, Steve: 176 Penry-Jones, Rupert: 176, 177 Perry the Platypus: 180 Petersen, William: 198 Phineas (Flynn): 180 Pickup, Ronald: 177 Poirot, Hercule: 190,198 Polizzi, Alex: 176 Potter, Harry: 177, 178,187,192, 197 Powell. Enoch: 194 Pratchett, Terry: 197 Pugh, David: 188 Pullman, Philip: 189 Quinn, Molly: 179 Raine, Jessica: 176 Raisin, Agatha: 185 Rampling, Charlotte: 189 Redknapp, Harry: 176, 181 Reid, Anne: 190 Richard, Martin: 193,194 Rigby, Lee: 194 Rohde, Martin: 179 Robinson, Anne: 177 Rosol, Lukas: 182 Rowling, J.K. 178,187,189, 197 Ruisshaert, Jimmy: 177 Runnicles, Donald: 198 Ryan, Jeri: 176 Santa Claus: 190 Schofield, Philip: 187 Scott, Adam: 183 Selleck, Tom: 196 Shadow, The cat: 176, 181, 182, 183, 184, 186.187,191,194 Sharp, Lesley: 194 Simpson. Andrew: 187 Sinbad: 185 Shaw, Martin: 182, 184 Skeeter, Rita: 177 Smith, Maggie: 177,187 Smith, Matt:194 Springsteen, Bruce: 182 Stark, Ned: 183 Stein, Rick: 188 Sting: 184 Stoppard, Tom: 187 Stuart, Moira: 196 Suchet, David: 190,198 Sullivan, Susan: 179 Sutcliffe, Tom: 189 Tappin, Christopher: 177 Tauber, Richard: 184 Tennant, David: 192 Terry, John: 176 Thatcher, Margaret: 193 Toksvig, Sandi: 184, 185 Topol: 197 Tsujii, Nobuyuki: 198 Vance, Director Leon: 182 Vine, Tim: 179 Wainwright, Rufus: 184 Wainwright, Sally: 190 Walker, Nicola: 190 Walsh, Bradley: 187,198 Warhol, Andy: 187 Watson, Dr. 190 Watson, Emma: 196 Wedge, Chris: 194 Weeks, Honeysuckle: 191 Whitehead, Geoffrey: 179 Wiggins, Bradley: 183 Wilkinson, Tom: 177 Williams, Mark: 190 Wilshaw, Michael: 180 Wilson, Ruth: 196 Wilton, Penelope: 177 Wix, Katie: 179 Wogan, Terry: 196 Wood, Victoria: 189 Wooderson, Sydney: 180 Woods, Hannah: 176 Woods, Mike: 176 Worth, Jennifer: 176 Wright, Matthew: 177,183 Yates, Paula: 191

N.B.  INDEXES: (1) Post 131 (2) Post 151 (3) Post 175

199. A natural break.

ON THE ISLE OF WIGHT.
Time for a breather.
After I finish this post I shall only return briefly in December to wish you the compliments of the season, tidily, at Post 200. After that I shall publish index 4 which will establish a natural break while I contemplate what next. Whether I shall continue with Watching The Detectives is questionable. I have been producing pretty much the same formula since July 2006, when The Oldies began, so the chances are I may still keep it going for the television stuff. I might then open another blog to run with it. Depends whether I can manage the procedure to set up anything else. Nothing comes easy to me nowadays. That particularly applies to...
Windows 8.
I am of the school which teaches don't look a gift horse in the mouth so my comments thus far on this well-meant gift from our son Neil have been muted. Suffice to say, thanks to the modification (to partial Windows 7) introduced by him after the initial instillation, I continue to pootle along making sparse use of the system's enormous potential and abundant use of my repertoire of foul language. I don't know which of your brilliant computer boffins invented it, Windows buddies, but even the modified Windows 8 is over-complicated. To the average computer illiterate it is murder and, from all I hear, even the most devoted nerd regards it as a fatality.
So, on the billions-to-one chance that one of you may ever espy this, the end of term report reads: Could do better. Next time try not to get carried away with your own cleverness, eh? Make it simple enough for everyone to think they're clever, my dears, and you'll make another fortune. 
Aldi.
A branch of the supermarket chain Aldi Sud has recently opened over here. Yep, two world wars to keep the Germans out and here they are.
My Leader and I gave the shop a try out at the weekend. They seem to have undercut everybody but Lidl - who got here before them - and their produce is pretty good. On the negative side, when you have deposited your goods at checkout you are required to park the front of your trolley up against a loading spot alongside the counterperson who shoves them back into it, willy-nilly, as they are priced: you are then required to remove yourself and purchases to a long shelf at the front of the store, away from the counter, to pack. It is efficient, soulless and Teutonic. We loathed it.
IN PORTSMOUTH.
Football and The Yard.
They say you can tell the state a city is in by the success or otherwise of its football team. In the nineteen thirties the city of Portsmouth was a Tory stronghold and just about every male who wasn't in the navy worked in the dockyard: butchers, bakers and candlestick makers were in the minority. It was a cocky city with a fine football team.
Portsmouth dockyard (The Yard) has now been closed by a government scared stiff it could be told to piss off by the Scots. The navy dwindles and the manager of Pompey football club has just been sacked. It already looks as though another relegation battle could be facing the team at the end of the season: fifteen or sixteen thousand loyal fans don't deserve that any more than an entire city deserves to be consigned to the scrapheap to suit political expediency. Disgusted Portmuthians should make known their feelings at the polls in 2016. Scotland will already have done so.
IN AUSTRALIA.
Cricket.
I haven't followed cricket for years and from what filters through regarding England's performance in the first match of the 2013 Test series, I haven't missed much. I still remember the Aussie outrage after Douglas Jardine set Harold Larwood onto them in 1932 – 33, though. It went on forever.
Now revenge time, with suitable intimidation, seems to be with us again.
Ask me not the details. I don't care. Haven't followed cricket for years.
TELEVISION.
Fifty Years of Dr.Who. (BBC)
Forget the cooks calling themselves chefs and the junk dealers calling themselves antiques experts and the reality rubbish where unrecognisable celebs vie for unpopularity on an unfamiliar stage; the bright sparks at the Beeb decided to revisit Doctor Who, the first episode of which was screened in November 1963. It was a great deal more simple back then. The main anniversary programme in November 2003, The Day of the Doctor was, to say the least, somewhat complicated. Which leads us nicely to:-  
An Adventure in Space and Time.

To accompany the fifty years anniversary programmes, Mark Gatiss wrote this fascinating dramatisation about the people who brought Dr.Who to life. The original Doctor, William Hartnell, was played by David Bradley, the actor who played creepy caretaker Argus Filch in the Harry Potter films.
His performance was bloody marvellous and should earn him a BAFTA.

All for now. Back a bit sooner next month.

198. Normal service resumed.

HOME.
Falling down report.

We are pleased to report gradual improvement in confidence and mobility following our recent falling down experiences. My Leader battles on come rain or shine and my appreciation of the kindness shown by the people who aided me is still equalled only by my anger at whatever useless bastard jettisoned an empty carrier bag in such 'don't give a fuck' fashion. 
Mostly the reaction of friends has been concerned and sympathetic. There was one slightly negative email, but that was from an old mate who managed to fall over his own feet on some stairs last December and doesn't now seem inclined to have much sympathy with anyone else. Well...why should he?
Anyway, our particular thanks go to 'Anonymous' John Appleton and Ian Dillow, both of whom sent messages that cheered us up enormously, and to our constantly supportive family. We're lucky people. 
Storm report.
It happened last Sunday evening and we have not had a storm like it on the Island for many years: it reached its pitch just as grandson Ellis got to bed. Sunday nights he stays with us no matter what. It is written in stone. But he is, he informed his grandmother, a bit nervous of thunder and lightning.
She allowed him to watch her ipad for a little while, then told him a (small-boy-ribald-humour-laden) story about how thunder and lightning really comes about. Really?
Then she settled him down, still giggling, for the night. I looked in ten minutes later and he was sleeping the deep, deep sleep of a happy lad who knows no fear. Every child should have a gran like that.
That bloody hour again.
As I write this piece, the schools are on half-term (which is OK) and the clocks have been put back an hour (which is not). Well, I suppose the kids being on holiday gives us a week to try and get used to waking up at six o'clock when we're totally geared for seven and being ready for lunch at eleven, an hour and a quarter before the bloke with the silly hats and bow ties invites us to go bargain hunting.
I still hate it, though. It's bright too early and it's dark too early and our little gardens are a haven for migrant leaves – religious ones from the church along the way and educated ones from the school opposite – all the more galling because we don't have any trees. I still think we only alter the time because some bugger in parliament has shares in a car battery firm. Have I said all that before? No matter. Think about it.
REST OF THE WORLD.
Spying.
German Chancellor Angela Merkel has accused the American secret services (a bunch called the NSA – look 'em up if you're interested) of intercepting her mobile phone calls. She has responded by taking the logical course of action, a telephone confrontation with President Barack Obama: Well you would, wouldn't you?
The President strongly denied the accusation: Well he would, wouldn't he?
And now the French have joined in: Well they...
So once again the Alice in Wonderland world of the super spook is left looking downright ridiculous. What do these paranoid pallbearers expect to discover? How many expert codebreakers have been enlisted to unravel Chancellor Merkel's hairdressing appointments, supermarket shopping lists et al and turn them into coded messages to and from a sinister figure hellbent on world domination? Took our minds off the shit state of the economy for a couple of minutes though, didn't it?
Lies and insults.
When I was a youngster the standard antidote to name calling was "Sticks and stones may break your bones but names will never hurt you."
Isn't it about time the Plebgate crowd, together with the ubiquitous army of politically correct malcontents waiting to be racially offended by every look or word, were gently advised to knock it off?
As to: "Who told a lie, the police or the MP?" Other than them, who bloody cares? 
The sensitive little souls should be told to get a life.
TELEVISION.
Did you see the proms this year?

If you didn't, they were good. If you did, weren't they good?
For a start, they included a couple of hugely popular piano concertos: Beethoven's 4^th played by wonderful Mitsuki Ochida (back to the Proms after nearly twenty years and accompanied by the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Mariss Jansons) and Rachmaninov's 2^nd played by the sightless young pianist and composer Nobuyuki Tsujii, (with the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Juanjo Mena). 
Beautiful music; wonderful presentation.
For the romantic classics enthusiast there was a good selection including a fine performance of Beethoven's 5^th Symphony given by the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra conducted by Donald Runnicles and (a truly wonderful experience this year) the Last Night of the Proms where Nigel Kennedy again showed himself to be the finest, funniest, most endearing violinist (and Aston Villa fan) born here in my lifetime and the American mezzo soprano Joyce DiDonato (a glorious voice, a fantastic personality) sang Rule Britannia as though she meant it.The NSA can listen to my telephones any time it likes. I'll listen to her.
Watching the detectives appear and disappear.
After all the hoo-ha over CSI New York outlasting CSI Miami, we now have neither. The New Yorkers, too, have been pensioned off. I never got over the departure of Melina Kanakaredes anyway. Nice bunch of actors, though, and I wish them lots of broken legs in the future.
Now there's only dear ol' D.B. Russell (Ted Danson), with the long-running CSI Crime Scene Investigation crowd, left on the scene and their future has looked uncertain ever since Gil Grissom (William Petersen) left. 
NCIS is still soldiering (or should that be sailoring?) on, but trusty Mark Harmon and his magical team mates can only be there until the suits distributing the dollars decide to dispose of them. Stands to reason, doesn't it? Viewing figures will always be less important than advertising revenue to the people holding the purse strings.
Poirot is currently making his last four appearances (discounting endless repeats on some of those channels that could not exist without them). David Suchet has been the only actor ever to transform the two-dimensional little egotist into a real person and in the first of the series he was joined, fittingly, by old friends Hugh Fraser (Hastings), Philip Jackson (Japp) and Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon).

Over the years the four of them have done Agatha Christie proud.

The English Ripper Street is back: the American Person of Interest is back: and the Sicilian Montalbano is back. All are welcome in our house. We also thoroughly enjoyed The Young Montalbano, an excellent in-between-Montalbano-series series. Well you can't have too much of some good things.
Lastly...and for the only time this year: The Specsavers Crime Thriller Club. This is a six part run-up to the SCTC Awards evening when radiant looking actors and actresses – and some rather uncomfortable looking writers - turn up to feign enthusiasm as the people they didn't expect to get an award are presented with an award by the people they hoped would get an award, but didn't.

Bradley Walsh adequately hosted all six programmes and the Awards show. No surprise there. He is, after all, the most realistic Detective Sergeant on our television screens today. He didn't get an award.
AND TO CONCLUDE.
254 OBA.
This year we were again unable to make it to the 254 Old Boys Association AGM.
It was held in Derby and we originally booked to go. Maureen has, however, had a difficult time since the hip operation and is currently still awaiting information about a scan that took place some weeks ago. [Nobody could ever accuse St. Mary's I.W. of rushing anything. One just has to trust that no news is good news.] So she was not up to the rather lengthy journey and we were compelled to apologise and pull out. In the event, our subsequent falling over sessions would have put paid to any imminent travel plans.
Never rains but it pours, does it. I am just looking outside the window...

197. Lots of reading and falling.

HOME AGAIN.
A chapter of accidents.
Last week Maureen went to stay with her sister in Alverstoke, Hants. Brother-in-law Mike was away on a walking holiday and my Leader went to keep Marg company for a few days. I gather everything went well enough, though the day after Mo's return home she let slip that she had undergone another fall on her outward journey and consequently was nursing a badly bruised right leg to go with the bruised/cracked/broken rib/s sustained when she tripped on a carpet in our dining room the previous week. No good me berating myself for not being there to save her on either occasion. I actually was with her last Friday when she fell in the street. Her falls are sudden and definite: Superman couldn't save her.
So on Saturday, instead of our planned trip to the Michaelmas Fair at Alverstoke, I took her, nursing a painful right foot, to Beacon Health Centre at St. Mary's, the sole working hospital on the Island since the last NHS shake up. The foot, an x-ray revealed, was not broken, it was sprained. We sighed our relief and I drove her back to Newport where M&S was holding a 50% off sale: not even a one-legged Leader could resist that.
I would, it was agreed, "pop next door to Morrisons" for a couple of items not stocked by M&S.
I was approaching a flight of stone steps leading down to Morrisons' car park when an empty plastic carrier bag from that establishment, carried up by the wind over the top step, inexplicably wrapped itself around my feet and brought me crashing to the pavement just short of the steps. My left hand and right elbow were cut, both knees and a somewhat overweight elderly midriff were bruised and I was badly shocked. I was also very lucky. I had not fallen down the steps and two extremely kind shoppers came to my assistance (one seemed to have nursing experience and the other escorted me back into M&S to find Maureen). Without them I would never have made it back onto my feet, let alone back to Mo, so my heartfelt thanks go to the pair of them. Lovely ladies.
I am grateful, too, for the kindness and consideration shown by the splendid folk at M&S, not least their newly trained first aider, Dee, whose first patient I was and who concluded the dressing of my wounds with the advice that I return to St. Mary's for a check up. (She rang us at home to ask after my progress the next day, too.)
So, bless her, my Leader, she of the sprained foot, drove me back from whence we had shortly before come and my wounds were re-dressed. It didn't take long. After all, we were season ticket holders.
A couple of days later I am feeling much better and do so hope Mo is. She needs some really good luck: about a month ago she was in the car with grandson Ellis when a tailgating white van man drove into the back of them. They were shaken but not physically injured. The car required a fairly extensive body job, was in a local (insurer - designated} garage for a fortnight and was brought back just in time for me to collect her on her return from Alverstoke. Also, before she left for the mainland she had some patterns to photocopy for one or other of her sewing circles. My hp photocopier fouled up attempting the job and, in a foolish move to temporarily replace it, we completely crashed the computer. Screen went black.
The computer lifeboat captain came, carried out all the standard procedures, got nowhere, gently cursed and got in touch with the computer recovery expert.
Dan the Man came. Daniel has been recovering stricken computers for eleven years. He is called in by Stainless whenever one of their computers founders. He carried out all the standard procedures, got nowhere, gently cursed and departed with the computer under his arm. 
For a while I was without wife, car or computer. It was a quiet time.
Anyway, Dan the Man took but a few days to resurrect the computer.
"What was wrong with it?" I asked him.
"It was buggered," he replied.
I do love an expert who doesn't talk down at you with technical details.
And the photocopying? Oh, the newsagent down the road did that at a very reasonable price. Makes you wanta spit, don't it?
Some magical moments.
Fiddler.
Way back in the nineteen seventies, youngest daughter Roz and I went to see Fiddler on the Roof at the Mayflower Theatre, Southampton. It was a beautiful production (Tevye, played by a chap called Reg Dyer, was a mesmerising double of Topol) and when, early on, the chorus line did their cossack-style advance downstage – complete with lighted candles on their hats - a delighted, shining-eyed little Roz turned to share the moment with me; it was a magical experience.
So this year on the 14^th of September, as a slightly advanced 51^st wedding anniversary gift, Roz took Maureen and I to Southampton to see a matinee performance of Fiddler on the Roof, the Mayflower being the first venue of a UK tour directed and choreographed by Clive Revel Horwood (of Strictly Come Dancing) and starring Paul Michael Glaser (of Starsky and Hutch). We had an excellent lunch at the Vestry restaurant and bar before making our leisurely way across the road to the theatre where we were greeted with a notice informing us that Paul Michael Glaser was indisposed. The role of Tevye would be played by Eamonn O'Dwyer.

"That'll be all right," I said."The stand-in always works twice as hard."
He did, too.
In their penultimate performance in Southampton, Mr. O'Dwyer and his colleagues delivered a spellbinding blend of acting, singing, management of the set and, without a separate orchestra, onstage musical accompaniment (many playing several instruments).

 The Fiddler (Jennifer Douglas) not only played cool violin, she had a cool head for heights.
At the end a cheering audience gave the players a standing ovation and this old chap had been transported back some thirty five years.
Thank you, lovely Roz.
Evensong.
To the best of my knowledge the roof is still on Portsmouth Cathedral despite an attendance by my Leader and I at Evensong on Sunday 1st September. We went because our friend from Cornwall, Anne, sings in The Saint Hugh Singers (a select group of choristers gathered from all over the country), which was guesting there. In the event, I think the imposing but slightly overgrown building needed as many defaulters like us as it could get. The congregation was sadly sparse. Pity, because the combined voices, guest and resident cathedral, were a delight to the ear.
We were so pleased to see Anne again, if only for a brief spell.
READING.
The perfect Potter replacement.
A short time after the second Harry Potter book was published, our daughter-in-law, Pauline, asked if we had read any J.K. Rowling. We had not. So we hastily rectified the oversight, became doting followers and happily joined the queue, with granddaughter Jessica, at our local Ottakers, renamed POttakers, every publication night thereafter. It was a magical time.
Now, daughter Roz's partner, Nick, has directed us to four of his favourite Discworld novels and...would you believe it?...we are well and truly hooked again. Both of us have read them all.
I find it hard to believe that Equal Rites, Wyrd Sisters, Witches Abroad and Lords and Ladies, published by Gollancz in 1987, 1988, 1991 and 1992 respectively (and many times since by Corgi), had never before come to our attention; the first of them was published ten years before Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone graced a shelf in any welcoming bookshop.
Have you read them? If you have, you will surely have read the lot. If you haven't, buy all four together. Nobody should read just one.
Oh, for the benefit of the uninitiated, they are the hilariously recounted adventures of witches Grandma Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Margrat Garlick and they are told (with a plethora of footnotes and fine humour) by the comedy genius that is Terry Pratchett.

Now my Leader has purchased Sir Terry's Discworld novel Night Watch and says I should be first to read it. Trouble is, by the time I've regaled her with all the bits I thought were hilarious...
A-a-ah, she'll still read it anyway..
No time for tele talk, it's already October and lengthy periods without the computer have put many hours on my reading time; so not only have I read the four Discworld masterpieces, I dipped back into the Agatha Raisin yarns of the prolific, multi-named M.C. Beaton for another good read, A.R. and the Murderous Marriage. So it is fitting that a picture of Ms. Beaton conclude this post. Cheers, all.

196. Clearing up a few oversights.

WATCHING.
Television I nearly didn't mention.

In the mishmash of easily forgettable tele that has flickered before me of late, I almost overlooked Crossfire Trail, a decent 2001 western which turned up a couple of weeks back. I'm sure it had been on before but the old memory only cut in occasionally; so Mark Harmon as a smarmy villain and Tom Selleck as "Jesse Stone in a cowboy hat" were still, after twelve years, compulsive viewing.
Saw the series end of The Returned. What is it about beautiful scenery that brings out the weird in thriller writers? I was able to find no more logic in this fascinating French zomby yarn than I do in the actions of the New Zealand "duelling banjos" characters inhabiting Top of the Lake; but I imagine all will be revealed one day. In the meantime, the daftness is enjoyable and the scenery is exquisite.  
Oh, Luther came to an end, too. Rumoured to be the last series ever. Pity, because no matter how dire things became for our hero you could always sense the presence of his psychopathic fairy godmother, Alice, in the background. And when she arrived it became quite another story.
Idris Elba and Ruth Wilson headed a strong cast.
THINKING.
Random scribbling.
I am not, as any decent journalist (and I believe there are still a few about) would quickly surmise, a professional hack; I'm just that sad individual dismissed by Dr. Johnson (on April 5^th 1776) with the words: “No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money.”  I write because I like to write. Sod Samuel Johnson. 
Trouble with being a random scribbler, though, is not what you write or how you write it; it's what, in the end, you unintentionally leave out.
My short term memory – mid and long, too, for that matter – does not improve with age. In my last blog post I had intended thanking Kelvin Fay for his message. The thanks were to be made on behalf of the cat Shadow so they were of some import: but, along with something else that I meant not to forget but cannot for the life of me remember, I forgot. Anyway, now that I've reminded myself, thanks Kelvin, hope you and yours are well.
Local council election.
I had also intended making mention of the Isle of Wight Council election held a couple of months ago. Anybody who read Post 188 (and several along similar lines) will know my opinion of our last bunch of elected representatives. Not to put too fine a point upon it, I thought they were overgrown school prefects and serial expenses claimants. I am realistic enough to appreciate, however, that the alternative would be a big mistake: which is why I can never entirely favour the idea of abolishing the royal family; they may be nothing more than unbeatable winners in Britain's most one-sided lottery, but they have to be a better option than palaces packed with pestilential politicians, elected or not. Cromwell was proof that you can do worse than keep a king and his kin.
In the event, the citizens of this little island unceremoniously dumped the controlling Conservative council, electing in its stead a mixed bag of former Tories and Liberals calling themselves Independents. Same meat, different gravy. I am not overly optimistic, but we'll see.
Post 195 revisited.
Heading post 195 "Friends - please email me!" might have been a good idea had I thought it through. Those who regularly read the blog and/or sometimes email their funny forwards to me have mostly got in touch; it simply did not occur to me at the time that there were going to be those who no more had my email address than I now have theirs.
Mine is barndens@talktalk.net and, for the record, I still have no desire to be fiercely friendly on Facebook or tiresomely talkative on Twitter.
But social networks can strike a spark.
My Leader keeps in touch with people by phone, ipad and text and does, occasionally, look in at the Facebook entries of family and friends. The following, glorious, spark of lunacy was posted on Facebook by daughter Roz's pal Michelle:
"I don't have Alzheimer's, I have Sometimers: sometimes I remember and sometimes I don't."
Know the feeling, Mich., know the feeling.
The necessary attitude.

When Terry Wogan left BBC Radio2 and handed over the breakfast show to Chris Evans, I was somewhat dismissive of the new lad. Shouldn't have been. He knows his stuff and has gently remodelled the programme to suit a wider listening public: nowadays we miss him when he's not there. He is also a natural radio broadcaster, which has one distinct drawback; he shares with the illustrious Wogan the disadvantage of being better heard than seen. Like Wogan, though, he cannot resist the temptation to appear on the box, so it was no surprise that he invited us all to look in on him (via the web) when he broadcast from Glastonbury. It proved to be a masterclass in the art of radio presentation and not at all what I expected. For a start, I had always cheerfully imagined the daily offering coming from a vast studio in which Mr. Evans, Lynn Bowles, Vassos Alexander, Moira Stuart, a celebrity guest and little Noah were all present and were joined every Friday by the singing ghost of Sammy Davis Jnr. If Glastonbury was anything to go by, nothing could be more removed from fact. Here your garrulous DJ sat alone at a desk faced by a proliferation of switches and a pile of notes. He spent a lot of time switching switches, shuffling papers and staring into space. Just occasionally there would be a physical presence to talk to, but mostly he talked to his microphone; a lonely man addressing an invisible audience. It was shoulder shruggingly boring. But he comes across as a happy chap; which is understandable when one reads that he is a multi-millionaire who owns a fleet of classic cars and (apparently without anywhere to put it) a bridge.  He has, without question, the necessary attitude.
Anyway, it makes someone who sits alone in front of a computer and earns bugger all look like a bit of a blockhead, doesn't it?
Don't answer that.
READING.
The Necessary Aptitude.

I finished reading Pam Ayres' memoir and then failed to mention it in my last post; don't know why (Sometimers, perhaps). Suffice to say it echoes many of my childhood and working life experiences, is quite beautifully written and provides an uplifting message to anybody who feels (or has ever felt) they do not have the necessary aptitude.  

Lovely work, Pam, you're a good 'un.

The Cuckoo's Calling.
The dialogue is excellent throughout this crime novel by Robert Galbraith and the description of people and places is faultless. Plot and action take some time to emerge, but are worth the wait.
Private investigator Cormoran Strike is an updated version of Slim Callaghan, Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade. He even acquires the easy-on-the-eye secretary, Robin Ellacott, who has been sent by a 'temp' agency to which she obviously will not return when the story finishes.
I enjoyed it (do still enjoy 'almost any whodunit by anybody') and have no doubt it will make a good film. I think Mr. Galbraith knows that, too. This may be his first crime story but I believe he has probably been published before. Perhaps in a different genre under a different name, eh. 
Anyway, when it is filmed, (and it certainly will be) Strike should be played by Jonathan Cake and Robin by Emma Watson. Won't be, but should.
I very much look forward to Strike 2.
'Bye for now.

195. Friends - please email me!

THE LAUNCH OF A NEW COMPUTER.

Afloat again.

 

With the good old Dell close to sinking (see Slightly Adrift last month) son Neil, the computer lifeboat captain, decided we had best scuttle her. He subsequently arrived and presented me (gratis) with a brand new Compaq class replacement powered by Windows 8. Following a valiant attempt to coax some updated know-how into my unreceptive head, he departed muttering that something would have to be done about “those fucking rectangles..” (The tiles providing access to the new system.) True to his word he was back in a couple of days and uploaded (downloaded? I'm never sure) a modification which has transformed the Windows 8 into something more like the 7. He then asked if there was anything else I would like transferred off the old Dell. That unearthed...Problem 1: My Leader, well aware that I am disinclined to part with clapped out mechanical favourites, had taken the scuttling advice to heart. The day after he installed the replacement she consigned my old Dell, powered by the beloved Windows XP, to the nearest refuse tip. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

So to...

FRIENDS – PLEASE EMAIL ME!

Problem 2: With the departure of the old Dell went all my pictures and my address book – including short cuts to my Fw friends. So, dear ol' pal, if you were (and would like again to be) on my Fw list, I'd much appreciate an email from you carrying an up-to-date email address. Doesn't have to be a long communication. Just a one word message. “Balls” will do. All I have to do then is find the new address book and learn how to Fw on Bcc again. Simple ain't it?  Gawdblessyer...hope to hear from you soon.

ON THE BOX.

Wimbledon.

Been little else on the telly has there? Oh well, the weather's been good and, with the departure of all the favourites but the great Scot and Djokovic, I thought this year Andy Murray might...just... possibly?
So I settled back in my armchair. contentedly awaiting the start of the men's final. Then, to my dismay, the cat Shadow appeared and he was obviously hellbent on poetry.

“Wimbledon again,” he said brightly. “I have a poem.”

I tried to look encouraging, though I know I didn't sound it:

“Go on then,” I said.

He struck his poetic pose and emoted:

Tennis on ice.

For those who slithered and skidded and fell

Wimbledon this year has surely been hell.

Slipping and sliding on treacherous grass,

Spending less time on their feet than their arse,

Bemoaning the fact that they ever came near

S.W. 19 for this slipperiest year.

Nadal and Federer went out in a flash,

And Serina cut not quite her bold usual dash

None of them seemed to know what way, or which

To deal with obscure names that ended in 'itch.'

Lisicki beat Williams, shedding tears of relief

Then lost to Bertoli and shed tears of grief.

So to the men's final – this time there's no hitch:

It's the Scot Andy Murray and the Serb, Djokovic.

He eyed me expectantly.
I pondered: “Couldn't you have waited until after the men's final?”   
“That could go on for hours,” he said. “And Murray might not win.”

How do you reason with logic like that?

“Anyway, I'm off for a snooze in the sunshine,” he added. “It will be bedlam in here until that lot's over.”
He didn't come back until the bedlam was over; it was time for his dinner and, as the world now knows, Murray had won.

“See,” I taunted. “you could have got a historic moment into your poem.”

“I can't wait for the football season to start,” he said, “then I'll be able to sleep indoors again. Football crowds are quieter.”
He can be such a dismissive little bugger sometimes.

Rest of our viewing.

The Returned. French updated zombies in a beautiful location. I like it, in an 'admire the scenery' sort of way.

The Borgias. More medieval mayhem surrounding an indestructible Jeremy Irons.

Luther. Why do all tele heroes (Gibbs, Jo, etc.) finish up being investigated by establishment gits with nothing better to do? It started when remote – politically directed – interlopers were introduced into US television dramas to ride roughshod over maverick detectives and their doting acolytes. Clearly it is a recognised and understood thing in America.
Now it is happening to Luther. He's English. He should tell 'em to fuck off.  
Me? I'd tell 'em it's lazy scriptwriting.

READING.

Graham Hurley. I have finished reading The Perfect Soldier in which Mr. Hurley points an accusing finger at this - and every other - country involved in the manufacture and sale of Perfect Soldiers (i.e. anti-personnel mines). I have to admit the story left me in despair for humankind. Whatever happened to civilization? If the author is right (and I would never doubt his research) there are now more mines than people in Angola; in Cambodia there were so many anti-personnel mine victims they were running out of crutches and, in the final stages of the Falklands conflict, the departing Argentinians randomly scattered mines from helicopters so that islanders will forever be in danger from them: On East Falkland, the author tells us, there are beaches where it will never be safe for a human being to walk again. Over 100 million A/Ps are spread around the world, particularly in Third World farming areas, and 26,000 people a year, mostly civilians, are killed or maimed by them.
We are far from blameless. At the time this book went to print Britain was responsible for a fifth of the world market in arms sales.  Yeah, proud Brit...think on...

James Patterson.

Four Blind Mice is another Alex Cross yarn; this time Dr. Cross – think Morgan Freeman - comes up against the US army, represented by a kill-happy clique of rogue Vietnam war veterans. Mr. Patterson may seem to effortlessly produce these short-chaptered yarns (115 chapters/309 pages), but don't be fooled: the man is a craftsman and in Four Blind Mice his villains are horribly acceptable all-American buddies. Whatever did happen to civilization? Yeah, proud Yank...think on...

Ian Dillow.

Not a book from Ian, though he really should write one (perhaps with me) before it's too late (for either of us}. Meantime he has emailed me this little gem. I hope it will cut and paste. Well...you know me and modern technology...But If it does, I dare you not to smile.

Mendel's Defecatory Principle.

This is a deceptively simple philosophy that an exceptionally gifted friend has been slaving over and refining for most of his life.

I am delighted to report that he has fine-tuned the principle to its absolute quintessential essence.  This he has completed to a degree that it may now be shared with a select band of friends that may appreciate its elegance and simplicity.

 

 

194. Still slightly adrift.

MAINLAND.
Sinister forces.
I have long pooh-poohed the implication - furthered by innumerable US television cop and spy dramas - that America (together with any country that may be defined, vaguely or otherwise, as one of its allies) is under constant threat from sinister forces in kaftans, turbans and shoes with upturned pointy toes.
Now there has been the Boston bombing which killed little Martin Richard, followed last week by the savage murder of Drummer Lee Rigby at Woolwich.
In the face of such gratuitous brutality, what on earth can one think, say or do?
Well, apart from expressing how much one abhors the perpetrators and sympathises with every one of the relatives involved, very little.
I suppose anyone who questions the existence of a vast organisation hellbent on world domination (al-Qaeda or whoever) has to ask whether the instantly identifiable people who committed these atrocities were under instruction from such an organisation, or were simply individual fantasists seeking their own twisted glory.
I think probably the latter.
I regret (but can conjecture why) the police refrained from putting them six foot under, but trust they will spend the remainder of their sick lives in maximum security prisons. In the meantime, knee-jerk attacks on peaceful Muslim individuals and communities must cease, as must the constant demand on them to apologise for the sins of their lesser brethren.
If all religions were forced to seek forgiveness for the sins of their fallen members, every one of them would be in a state of constant apology.
Bully boys cannot be allowed to run riot, whatever their colour or creed.
Speaking of which…
Last Monday in i the columnist Yasmin Alibhai-Brown reported that since the Oxford sex abuse case and the slaughter of Drummer Rigby she has been receiving letters (some adorned with swastikas, others with pictures of Enoch Powell) containing “words of such odium that it felt as if acid was burning my hands.”
Her heinous crime? Simple. In a world where Johnny Foreigner can no longer be silenced by the threat of a gunboat, she is an unflinchingly outspoken Muslim.
Oh dear oh dear. How very dare she.
But this is a woman who only speaks her mind; she neither preaches hatred and sedition, nor supports those who do. And, the PC Brigade notwithstanding, are we not still supposed to be a country where freedom of speech is a right and common courtesy the norm?
So, no matter how little we relish another’s views, should we not respect his or her right, within the law, to express them? The ‘proud Britons’ who sent those shitty missives to Mrs. A-B have clearly not learned the cardinal rule of being a true Brit.
Fair play.
But why would they? Shits write shit. And usually join shit organisations like the BNP.
Which brings me to the average elderly Brit’s inborn dislike of a cosmopolitan society. We have long been multi-racial in this country and there’s no turning back. Even the most determined isolationist cannot fail to see that. No good moaning. Learn to live with it.
Or, in modern parlance, suck it up!
ISLAND (OF WIGHT).
More cat chat.

The cat Shadow was nicely settled on a plastic-bag atop the seat of his favourite armchair - a regular spot nowadays - and appeared to be sound asleep when, of a sudden, he said:
“David Beckham has hung up his boots then.”
I struggled my electric recliner into an upright position and stared across at him.
“Thought you couldn’t be bothered with football any more.”
“Oh, I can’t,” he said. “But ol’ Becks is world news, ain’t he? He’s not just football news.”
“By which I take it you do not see Sir Alex Ferguson’s retirement as world news?”
“What? The boot kickin’ Scot? Na-a-ah, he’s just football news - and Manchester football at that.“
“Well they did win the Premiership again,” I said. “You’ve got to give it to the man, his team has a mightily impressive record.”
There was no response except for a gentle cat snore to inform me the chat was at an end.
He never did like ol’ Fergie.
TELELAND.
More comings and goings.

Scott and Bailey (that wonderful pair Lesley Sharp and Suranne Jones) together with their no-nonsense boss DCI Gill Murray (Amelia Bullmore) have now completed the eight part Series 3 shown on ITV and are on blissful good terms again. As it happens, though, I know a lot of old (male) coppers and - if they could be bothered to watch - they would wet themselves laughing at the idea of a police department run by a team of suffragettes. I blame the Americans (see Body of Proof, The Mentalist, Castle, etc.) but I have long blamed them for everything. Why not? They brought bloody chewing gum over here during the war.
I cannot be sure they were responsible for the convoluted storylines in the Dr.Who series which has just finished on BBC1, though; but I do suspect the writers have been producing what they imagine may be acceptable in the US. Anyway, young Matt Smith appears to be signing off as The Doctor (to go to America, perhaps?) and in the final episode we caught a glimpse of John Hurt: make of that what you will.
I’m a bit beyond caring about most tele stuff right now. Still can’t abide either the contestants or the presenters on most reality shows (The Apprentice, Four in a Bed, MasterChef and Perfection are prime examples) and even begin to tire of all the CSI stuff. Just how many “the only one of its type in the tri state area, the entire country, anywhere in the world, or the whole of the universe” can these people keep finding? OK, so it makes the crooks with bad foreign accents easier to catch in the space of an hour including adverts. But it’s lazy scriptwriting.
Fortunately there is still a little light relief to be found.

On Channel 4, the excellent Peter Kay’s The Tour that Didn’t Tour - Tour gave us the biggest laugh we have had this year. That man is magic.
We have also quietly enjoyed Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries Series 2, even if episode 13 (the last) did somehow get lost from our Planner. Alibi has just started a rerun, so we’ll see it eventually.
And then there was Murder on the Home Front which was pretty much CSI: Foyle’s War. I enjoyed that.
FILMLAND.
Epic

It being half term we took little Boo to see this animated film directed by Chris Wedge who also directed Ice Age.
Epic was totally different from the Ice Age films but no less a value production. Any film that keeps an eight year old boy glued to his seat for nigh on a couple of hours has to have a good plot and a lot of action.
Not as funny as Ice Age but we all enjoyed it.
BOOKLAND.
Pam Ayres.

The Necessary Aptitude, A Memoir, (Ebury Press) first published in 2011, is a beautifully written autobiography. My Leader has read it. I’m about a third of the way through: Pam is still at school and her childhood memories keep taking me right back to mine.
Maureen and I may be rediscovering the past for months to come.
And as if to prove that good books can, like buses, arrive in pairs:
Graham Hurley

I am two-thirds through The Perfect Soldier (Macmillan) first published in 1996. This is set in Angola and Molly Jordan’s reckless son, James, has died in a minefield. Her life in chaos, she flies out to the war torn country determined to discover the whys and wherefores of his death. Andy McFaul, the battered ex soldier and mine clearance expert who recovered James’s body, is not initially the most sympathetic of allies…
Mr. Hurley’s Angola has me well and truly hooked.
I’m just so glad I never had to go there.
SEEKING LAND.
Still slightly adrift.
The late finish to my May post is down to an intermittent fault that has bugged the old Dell of late.
The computer lifeboat captain has been notified and I believe he may be launching the lifeboat.
I shall try to publish this before we sink.