HOME AT YEAR’S END.
Not me, buddy.
Following the publication of post 188 a handful of comments (two of them now published) reached me, all from the same source, saying: Hi Mr. Barnden, can you remember the day that I stayed with you when you lived in a very small building in Bournemouth and then I walked all the way back to Southampton where I lived. My feet felt like I had been on one of our first route marches. Have a lovely Christmas. Ginger.
Well, thank you for your Christmas good wishes, Ginger, and I am sorry about your feet which must have been extremely sore for you still to have such a memory after what, I assume, has been a very long time.
But whoever you stayed with back then it was not me, buddy. I have never lived in a small, large, detached, semi-detached or even terraced building in - or so much as near - Bournemouth. Indeed, apart from one conference at a hotel and a couple of visits to shows at the old Winter Gardens (above), I know absolutely nothing of the place.
Your feet would have got very wet if you had walked to Southampton from where I live. My wife and I have been on the Isle of Wight for close on forty five years: Prior to that we lived in and around Portsmouth.
Lord alone knows where your Bournemouth Barnden came from, but if he had a car and let you walk all that way I don’t think much of him.
All the best and have a good New Year. Dennis.
So it didn‘t end after all.
I refer to the world: and who really thought it would? Well, I didn’t, but I’m not a Mayan; in fact, I’m not an anything if you discount cynical old sod: I certainly am that. My Leader tells me I don’t like people and she is about right. I certainly don’t like too many people and, no matter what anybody says to the contrary, there are far too many people in this country now. It is a situation that cannot be reversed.
The alternative would be too awful to contemplate. Better government by fools than by nationalistic bastards. So, although the world may not have ended, the cosy world depicted in all our wartime propaganda films (Went The Day Well? Cottage To Let, The Way Ahead etc.) certainly has. Like it or lump it we are not that nation anymore. And y‘know what?
It really ain’t the end of the world.
It only seems like it sometimes.
SEASONAL TELE SCENE.
On the negative side, Christmas 2012 saw the usual smattering of war films, seasonal specials, Morecambe and Wise reruns and end of series tear-jerkers. On the positive side there was an abundance of good acting, not least from…
Merlin.
Our heroes departed with Arthur (Bradley James) and Merlin (Colin Morgan) jointly giving a superb farewell performance.
We made a half-hearted attempt to stem our tears.
Downton Abbey.
No chance of a grandstand performance from the departing protagonist in this Julian Fellowes’ warm-up for the next series. Word has it the latest sacrificial lamb (who finished up under a classic car with blood leaking from every orifice) is off to make his fortune in America. Good luck to him.
Call The Midwife.
Baby on the doorstep. Chummy with Nativity play hysteria. A wealth of kindness and tolerance and understanding, all in the same strangely pristine slum area. Again though, damn good acting.
Mrs. Brown’s Boys.
A hilarious helping of Nativity nonsense from Brendan O’Carroll and the team. It really should have been introduced with a warning that it could cause death by laughter. I laughed until I was gasping. Word is you either love ‘em or hate ‘em. Whatever…they’ll do for me.
This time they almost did!
As for the rest of it…
We are always impressed by the animated stuff. The Snowman and The Snow Dog, Room on the Broom, How to Train Your Dragon and Ice Age: a Mammoth Christmas were all very watchable. There were also a couple of decent plays in Restless (Charlotte Rampling still deservedly topping the bill) and Loving Miss Hatto, written by Victoria Wood, which had Francesca Annis and Alfred Molina in the leading roles; you won’t do better than that.
STILL READING…
I am a third of the way through Grimm Tales For Young and Old by Philip Pullman and find myself constantly reflecting what a load of codswallop I thought the Grimm brothers were when, as a boy, I first read them. Sadly even the esteemed Mr. Pullman cannot make a silk purse out of every sow’s ear. But perhaps I am simply missing the point of the exercise, so I shall persevere.
The book currently occupying pride of place on my bedside table is Quite Ugly One Morning by Chistopher Brookmyre. Apparently it was his first novel. Bloody brilliant.
And lastly...
A few words about the journalists who weekly/daily bring their respective - and mostly respected - viewpoints to my pedestrian world.
Throughout 2012 I have been amused (sometimes grimly) by the forthright outpourings of The Independent’s Yasmin Alibhai-Brown (still my favourite crusading columnist even if she has made me ponder my initial reaction to J.K. Rowling’s The Casual Vacancy, a book I disliked because I have at sometime met and loathed everybody in it.)
Tom Sutcliffe continues to mirror image my Weekend’s Viewing - always a great boost to the elderly ego - and, Tuesday through to Saturday, the executive editor of i.
Stefano Hatfield, a man not nearly as pompous as his title suggests, regales me with the shortest and best editorial in the country.
I can only wish continued success to all of them this year.
A HAPPY AND PROSPEROUS NEW YEAR TO YOU, TOO!
Not me, buddy.
Well, thank you for your Christmas good wishes, Ginger, and I am sorry about your feet which must have been extremely sore for you still to have such a memory after what, I assume, has been a very long time.
But whoever you stayed with back then it was not me, buddy. I have never lived in a small, large, detached, semi-detached or even terraced building in - or so much as near - Bournemouth. Indeed, apart from one conference at a hotel and a couple of visits to shows at the old Winter Gardens (above), I know absolutely nothing of the place.
Your feet would have got very wet if you had walked to Southampton from where I live. My wife and I have been on the Isle of Wight for close on forty five years: Prior to that we lived in and around Portsmouth.
Lord alone knows where your Bournemouth Barnden came from, but if he had a car and let you walk all that way I don’t think much of him.
All the best and have a good New Year. Dennis.
So it didn‘t end after all.
I refer to the world: and who really thought it would? Well, I didn’t, but I’m not a Mayan; in fact, I’m not an anything if you discount cynical old sod: I certainly am that. My Leader tells me I don’t like people and she is about right. I certainly don’t like too many people and, no matter what anybody says to the contrary, there are far too many people in this country now. It is a situation that cannot be reversed.
The alternative would be too awful to contemplate. Better government by fools than by nationalistic bastards. So, although the world may not have ended, the cosy world depicted in all our wartime propaganda films (Went The Day Well? Cottage To Let, The Way Ahead etc.) certainly has. Like it or lump it we are not that nation anymore. And y‘know what?
It really ain’t the end of the world.
It only seems like it sometimes.
SEASONAL TELE SCENE.
On the negative side, Christmas 2012 saw the usual smattering of war films, seasonal specials, Morecambe and Wise reruns and end of series tear-jerkers. On the positive side there was an abundance of good acting, not least from…
Merlin.
We made a half-hearted attempt to stem our tears.
Downton Abbey.
No chance of a grandstand performance from the departing protagonist in this Julian Fellowes’ warm-up for the next series. Word has it the latest sacrificial lamb (who finished up under a classic car with blood leaking from every orifice) is off to make his fortune in America. Good luck to him.
Call The Midwife.
Baby on the doorstep. Chummy with Nativity play hysteria. A wealth of kindness and tolerance and understanding, all in the same strangely pristine slum area. Again though, damn good acting.
Mrs. Brown’s Boys.
A hilarious helping of Nativity nonsense from Brendan O’Carroll and the team. It really should have been introduced with a warning that it could cause death by laughter. I laughed until I was gasping. Word is you either love ‘em or hate ‘em. Whatever…they’ll do for me.
This time they almost did!
As for the rest of it…
We are always impressed by the animated stuff. The Snowman and The Snow Dog, Room on the Broom, How to Train Your Dragon and Ice Age: a Mammoth Christmas were all very watchable. There were also a couple of decent plays in Restless (Charlotte Rampling still deservedly topping the bill) and Loving Miss Hatto, written by Victoria Wood, which had Francesca Annis and Alfred Molina in the leading roles; you won’t do better than that.
STILL READING…
The book currently occupying pride of place on my bedside table is Quite Ugly One Morning by Chistopher Brookmyre. Apparently it was his first novel. Bloody brilliant.
And lastly...
A few words about the journalists who weekly/daily bring their respective - and mostly respected - viewpoints to my pedestrian world.
Throughout 2012 I have been amused (sometimes grimly) by the forthright outpourings of The Independent’s Yasmin Alibhai-Brown (still my favourite crusading columnist even if she has made me ponder my initial reaction to J.K. Rowling’s The Casual Vacancy, a book I disliked because I have at sometime met and loathed everybody in it.)
Tom Sutcliffe continues to mirror image my Weekend’s Viewing - always a great boost to the elderly ego - and, Tuesday through to Saturday, the executive editor of i.
Stefano Hatfield, a man not nearly as pompous as his title suggests, regales me with the shortest and best editorial in the country.
I can only wish continued success to all of them this year.
A HAPPY AND PROSPEROUS NEW YEAR TO YOU, TOO!
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