2 (16) STILL PLODDING ALONG.

WATCHING. 

What viewers? So far as the sale of our house is concerned, nothing is now likely to happen before Christmas: the last couple of requests to view ended in cancellation only hours before they were due to take place. Seems prospective buyers are discovering (at the very last moment) that money is tight and mortgages almost non-existent. Oh well, the old place has never looked more clean and tidy. It's eerie. 

Facing up to Facebook. Right now my computer Inbox is awash with shared links, updated statuses and new photos. It is lovely that so many nice people want to share their jokes, interests etc. with me and wonderful how the Facebook gurus contrive to let it be known when said interests are on view: I'd make a clever comment on every one if I had the talent or the time. Sadly I don't. Their splendid contributions are much appreciated, though. Thanks, folks. 
TELEVISION. 

The Wright Stuff. (Channel 5) 

There are worse people than Matthew Wright to watch on reality tele (the little unshaven twat who growls: “You've been fired” and the bald headed twat who shouts: “Cooking never got tougher than this”are obvious examples), so I still watch the bikini boy if his guest list includes somebody I think will interest me. A fortnight ago the pair invited to spend an entire week on the panel were the journalist Yasmin Alibhai-Brown and Dr. David Bull. It was a prospective red rag to a bull situation. (Sorry) 

Mrs. Alibhai-Brown is a British Muslim, a socialist and a republican. Dr. Bull is a Brit who has been a prospective conservative MP. He now spends a great deal of his time in America where he appears regularly on television. 
Their confrontation, when it came, was blunt and brief and neither side was the winner. 'Screechy' (the unseen one who talks in the host's ear) must have been delighted. It was what insiders call 'good tele.' I thought the participants were commendably straightforward. Matthew made conciliatory noises and it might all have ended there. But the next phone-in came from a lady who ventured what seemed to me to be a tongue-in-cheek admonition: panelists, she averred, really should be advised not to squabble in public...it ruined their image...(or something along those lines). 

Tch, tch! Exit Never-on-Monday Matthew, the friendly fisherman with the bad back: Enter How-dare-you-slate-my-guests Matthew, tough television front man, bristling with unrighteous indignation. Nobody, but nobody, climbs on their high horse higher than our Matthew once he starts; he can hover at the edge of outer space. And he did. It was like a warm up for the Jeremy Kyle Show. He finally concluded his dramatic denouncement of the flabbergasted caller with a dismissive wave to signal the lecture was at an end. It had been a promising call, too. 

Ne'er mind, I'll still look in when he has somebody interesting, nice, funny, controversial, likeable (perm any two from five) on the panel. He can be a reasonable enough bloke, too, when he's not being Matt the twat. 

War Horse. Directed by Steven Spielberg, written by Lee Hall and Richard Curtis and based on a novel by Michael Morpurgo, this epic, set at the time of the first world war, was shown on BBC1 a week or so ago. Did you see it? Or did the Beeb's surfeit of salutes to WW1 finally prove too much for you? I watched. The photography was top class and the acting matched it. My Leader, no fan of war films whatever the war (she believes that the politicians who start wars should be sent out to fight them), watched it with me once she realized it was more Black Beauty than All Quiet On The Western Front. It had an ominous beginning, an action-packed middle and a happy ending, so it pleased those of us who still covet such things.

Peaky Blinders (BBC2). 

The boys from Brum, led by Tommy Shelby (Cillian Murphy), were back for a second villainous, sex-crazed, foul-mouthed series and it looks like they're set for a third. I recorded the entire series and we watched them over a couple of days. Very steamy and violent and a sound reminder that if you're looking for outright chicanery you need only look for the politician. 

George Clarke's Amazing Spaces (Channel 4). George has found an incredible array of quirky dwellings adapted - from a variety of unlikely beginnings - by a host of imaginative and determined enthusiasts. This is a cracking, original little programme. 

Concerto at the BBC Proms (BBC4). Somebody at the Beeb had a bright idea. In the wake of the Proms, why not repeat a few 'notable' concertos performed over the years? So they showed one a week for four weeks and the chosen 'of notes' were: the melodic Mendelssohn Violin Concerto played by Janine Jansen with the BBC Symphony Orchestra, Mozart Clarinet played by Julian Bliss, Mozart Piano Concerto number 23 played by Richard Goode and Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto number 4 (an extended maze of sophisticated scales and very little else) rattled off by Russian virtuoso Boris Berezovsky accompanied by the National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain. Filmed between 2005 and 2008, all four performances seem rather dated now. 

BACK TO BOOKS. 

Talking of dated: I have just finished reading Edmund Crispin's Buried for Pleasure: first published in 1948, it took me right back to the days during the second world war when mate Tony and I used to write (and illustrate) our own detective stories in exercise books for exchange readings. All of that is long gone, but I instinctively knew whodunit in the Crispin story and was smugly pleased when it transpired I was right. Well, in a lively little yarn written when I as about twelve years old, I conjured up a murderer almost identical to the one in Buried for Pleasure: six years before Mister Crispin's pre PC masterpiece, too. My neat nipperpiece was called Pay or Die. 

“So was it ever published?” 
What, written in longhand in a wartime exercise book by an elementary schoolboy? Do behave. 

I finished Sally Green's Half Bad (Penguin books 2014) and concluded it was not at all bad. 

And I have just come to the end of Moving Pictures, the story of how the movies invaded Discworld. Written, directed and produced in glorious technicolor by Sir Terry Pratchett, I nodded and grinned my way through every classic-film-referenced reel of it. What a wonderful writer that man has always been. 

THE DETECTIVES. 

The Dr. Blake Mysteries are back on BBC1 and we are in late 1950s Australia where the crime-busting GP, played by Craig McLachlan, is doing what amateur detectives forever do; testing the patience of his town's friendly constabulary and infuriating the local bigwigs. We like his housekeeper and his Standard motor. 
Body of Proof (Channel 5). 

Megan Hunt, played by Dana Delaney, another doctor who finds the time to poke her nose into things that only armed police officers should be dealing with, is back again and busy poking her nose in...Enjoyable if you like Dana Delaney. We do. 
AND OTHER THINGS. 
Here we go again. “It's less than four weeks to Father Christmas time,” said the cat Shadow. “Have you written any cards yet? Or looked for the decorations? Or put the sprouts on the hob?” 
“Don't nag,” I said. “There's plenty of time and I'm always late anyway.” 
“You're getting worse by the year,” he opined. “I think you'd better wish all the nice folk who read this rubbish the Compliments of the Season before it's too late.” 
“I think you'd better shut up before I put you in Cat's Protection and buy a puppy,” I said. The Festive Season has begun so I'll not print his obscene rejoinder. But in case I am not in print again before the slightly slimmer Santa comes down your chimney this year:
       Have a Happy Christmas 

                       Gawdblessyerwunanall.

2 (15) So you wait, you wait and wait...

GIRL DON'T COME.

It's a matter of height. 

If I still had the Sandie Shaw recording of Chris Andrews' timeless words it would have been getting a considerable airing of late. The girl from the estate agents did not come for quite some time; even as I was bemoaning the fact, however, she arranged a viewing. The prospective purchasers came, declared the ceilings too low, and went.We have a step-grandson who stands six foot four or more and he never seems to have found the ceilings too low. So there y'go. Hagrid height viewers apart, all is quiet on the property front. Oh, the agents have changed the offending Garage and Parking notice: six footers with good eyesight and a clear head will easily be able to decipher the replacement. WATCHING. 

Funeral of Lorna Kill. 

The usual family gathering. If it ain't the (what seems like) annual gathering at Portchester in Hampshire, it's the alternative one on the Isle of Wight. This year it was the Island's turn. I refer, of course, to the gathering of solemn faces at a Crematorium. Last Monday family members and friends of 'our Lorna' met at the I.W. Crem to pay their final respects to her. My introduction to the proceedings would have been more solemn had Maureen and I not reached the crematorium doorway alongside Mo's nephew Kelvin who, taking in the rapidly filling block of pews on either side of the central aisle, inquired quietly:“Bride or groom?” Nothing that came afterward could follow that. The pious pedantry of a Jehovah service certainly couldn't. Ah well, to each their own. 

THE DETECTIVES. 

CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. 

Season 14 ended in strangely abrupt fashion with Paul Guilfoyle (Captain Jim Brass) finding a measure of realignment with his drug addicted murderous daughter and, presumably, choosing that moment to retire from the police. How many writers did it take to come up with quite such a tame ending? Mr. Guilfoyle (and Jim Brass) deserved better – much better. 

Scott and Bailey. 

Another series end, but this time a tidy, two-part, feel-good finale to the illustrious career of station boss DCI Gill Murray (Amelia Bullmore, who also wrote the scripts).They'll be back and, with any luck, Ms Bullmore will continue to contribute scripts; her on screen presence will be greatly missed. 

THE BOOK WORLD. 

Current reading: I am a chapter or three into Half Bad by Sally Green, Buried For Pleasure, by Edmund Crispin and Moving Pictures by Terry (“A month went by quickly. It didn't want to hang around.”) Pratchett. More next month. It will go by quickly...

LAST SAY. 

Clockomania. It's that bloody hour again. “Fall back in the fall” be damned. Fortunately the weather here has been good and the kids are on half term this week, but I'm now wide awake at six in the morning and probably will be for a couple of months. Why? There's absolutely no need for it. I'll vote for the first politicians who promise to retain British Summer Time forever. Well, there's always a faint chance the lying sods will keep their word. 

Halloween. It's that 'intimidate the old folks' time again. Doors will be hammered and “trick or treat” demands will be made. My Leader has just gone out to buy a load of sweets for the little gangsters. I blame the Americans, but I blame them for just about everything. The Google Halloween icons are fantastic though, aren't they? 

Mobile phone pics. Thanks to Facebook, since Mo's sister's funeral took place, we have been sent - with the best of intentions I know - several pictures taken on mobile phones by family members. Might have been tempted to print one or two of them but we are all older now and I am, maybe, a bit wiser. The last pic to arrive had me looking a bit like an elderly, overweight Peter Dinklage. It was sent by Kelvin Fay's younger brother, Peter. I'm not sure whether I should thank or throttle him. The jury is out. That's enough for this month. Trick or treat! 

2 (14) More comings and goings.

WATCHING.

Social media friends.

Thoughts on losing them. 

This week the journalist John Walsh's amusing little article in i bewailed the loss of three followers from his list of Twitter buddies. It was not so much that he had lost them, it was more the realization that he would never...ever...know why. Gave me pause for thought, that did. I have thus far avoided Twitter, but (with my Leader's encouragement) now have a Facebook account. I'm not much good at it. In the first place, the craze to spread pictures around passed me by way before computers and ipads came along. I still shudder at the memory of other people's holiday lantern slides. Never sought to inflict my seaside snaps on them. Then there is the one line chitchat. I can't do that. If I could I'd be a stand-up comedian. So I guess someone will defriend me sometime. Bound to happen. May already have done so without my noticing. Fact is, I shan't lose much sleep over it. Most of my Facebookers are relatives – the more distant of whom would pass me in the street without a flicker of recognition – others are virtual friends who seem to collect network buddies like velvet collects dog hairs. I don't have that many close friends. Just a few old ones I cherish. So, nice as it is to have word of the outside world occasionally, I lack the curiosity that would drive me to dip into the lives of others on a regular basis. Good luck to them all, though, even the ones I'd probably loathe (and be loathed by) if we ever met. Keep at it and try not to hurt anybody on the way, eh? 

Another departure. 

And then there were two. 

When I married my Leader I acquired seven sisters-in-law. It came as a bit of a shock. My sole experience of siblings had been two foster brothers. Most of the sisters lived in and around Portsmouth and Gosport. After we moved to the Isle of Wight we saw little of them other than during their short annual visit to a holiday complex here at Puckpool. Five of them have now expired, four in the past few years. At around 3 am on Sunday the fifth October, Maureen's oldest sister, 91 year old Lorna Kill, (a resident of Cowes for her entire married life and more) died here at St. Mary's Hospital, Newport: she had suffered a lengthy, thankfully painless, heart attack and her death was a peaceful one. Back when Mo was very young and needed support, Lorna was one of the sisters who provided it, even though she and her husband were not wealthy and had two children of their own to raise. She possessed a lively temper, but her heart (along with her sense of humour) was in the right place. My Leader once posited to her: “As a girl you were Plymouth Brethren, then you became C of E; now you're a Jehovah's Witness. Are you hedging your bets, Lorn?” I believe her suitably choice response was delivered with a smile. Though we seldom met, I liked her. Whichever heaven you have found, RIP Lorna Kill.  

THE DETECTIVES. 

Television. 

Chasing Shadows. 

This little series starred Reece Shearsmith, Alex Kingston, Don Warrington and an impressive supporting cast. It had a quirky premise and, given the chance, D.S. Sean Stone (seemingly an Autism or Asperger's sufferer), who runs investigative circles around his bemused colleagues, could be on our screens even longer than it took Gary McKinnon to avoid extradition to America. Preposterous but watchable. 

Lewis. Series 8.

Kevin Whately and Laurence Fox are still Lewis and Hathaway. In one of those bizarre twists only feasible within a television police force, Hathaway (after forty days and forty nights – or perhaps it was a year - in the wilderness) has been promoted to DI and is busy rejecting sergeants and struggling with a dicey murder case. To 'boost his confidence,' Chief Superintendent Innocent (Rebecca Front), obviously a very poor psychologist, recalls the retired Lewis to back him up. The first story went quite well and Hathaway did not murder Innocent or Lewis. Give it time.

FILM. 

What we did on our holiday.

Maxie, who comes every six weeks to cut our hair and keep us up to date with what's happening in the world, recommended this little film to us. She and her youngsters, Ruby and Raff, thought it was great. My Leader and I duly went to see it yesterday. It was our first trip to the local cinema together since the last Harry Potter film. I don't much like the cinema. The refreshments are too expensive, the adverts are too loud, the trailers go on too long, the seats are less comfortable than my armchair at home and, in the long run, it costs a damn sight less to wait and buy the video. That having been aired, we enjoyed the film. It is, of course, 'Outnumbered' with beautiful Scottish scenery. Written and directed by Andy Hamilton and Guy Jenkin, the cute kids still have their own say, the grownups still struggle to keep up and ol' Bill Connolly, who clearly has no qualms about acting with children, gives a fine performance as their terminally ill granddad. If you liked Outnumbered, you'll love it.

LAST SAY.

 The cat Shadow, ensconced on my printer, his current favourite work spot, said of a sudden: “I've been reading the blog.” 

“Oh aye,” I said. “What do you think?” 

“Well you seem a bit down,” he said. “I've told you before, things won't change just because you don't like 'em.” I grunted a halfhearted warning, but he knows how to pull the strings. “Take this social media thingy,” he said. “It is something you can either do or you can't. Seems to me most young people can, but they've been brought up with it. Nobody but you is going to care if you're not that good at it. It will still be going long after you've kicked the bucket.” 

I nodded. “Right. Anything else?” 

“Yes. You've always moaned about sound in the cinema. Last time you went you said the bloody adverts were designed either for the totally deaf or to make you totally deaf. You said the noise wasn't that loud in the bloody gun club.” 

“That was a long time ago,” I reflected. “Haven't touched a gun for years.” 

He was not to be sidetracked.“Well, those adverts in the cinema, like the adverts on television, are not going to get any quieter because you don't like 'em.” 

“And they'll still be there long after...” I murmured.

“Precisely,” he purred. “Same goes for reality television in all its forms: the cooking, the quiz and chat shows, bullshitting business people, property stuff, antiques, auctions and celebs going on jollies. It's cheap-to-make tele and you're the only one I know who truly detests it.” 

“Oh dear,” I said. “Shall I buy a dog and stop watching the box altogether?” 

He grinned his best cat grin. “N-a-ah. Anything's better than long walks in the rain with a poop bag in your hand, ain't it?” 

“We must talk again sometime,” I said faintly.

2 (13) Scotland. So now we know.

WATCHING.

Scottish Independence. 

So now we know. 

Scotland, as the entire world will have noted, narrowly rejected independence. It was a satisfying conclusion for just over half the reported 84.5% turnout, a bitter disappointment for the rest and a narrow victory for the Union. I don't think anyone is crowing (yet) and, in true political fashion, the wild promises made by the headless chicken who scurried north from Westminster are already being back-pedalled by the mouthy bantams convinced that Churchill or Thatcher would simply have sent a gunboat up the Clyde and the army into Glasgow. 

In the end it was good ol' Gordon Brown (the jaw-dropping Scot himself) who saved the day for the UK with a spate of rousing deliveries reminiscent of the late Ian Paisley: so persuasive was he, he may possibly have booked himself the most unlikely seat in the House of Lords this century. I'm still glad the Scots are staying, but I'm not looking forward to the aftermath. Stronger local powers in England? Devolution? I do hope not. What crafty, delegating dickhead thought that one up? It sounds like divide and conquer to me. 
The Middle East. 

Haven't we done enough? 

So now it is British bombs on Iraq. Not enough that we went in, toppled the regime of a leader we had helped put in power, made a sorry mess of the aftermath before quietly departing. Not enough that thousands were killed or maimed and there has been religious/tribal war ever since. Now we have become back up team to current American 'assistance' in the country's affairs. Has anybody seriously considered how close this US obsession with draining the entire Middle East of its oil is bringing us to a third world war? Has anybody seriously considered anything at all? We should never have invaded the country in 2003 and our further involvement will only be rubbing salt into a very ugly wound: rushing around arresting turbans all over the UK is no mitigation, either. Will we never stop being bombastic little Britain? Will we never wake up? 
THE EMPIRE HAS GONE!

University time. 

Jessica Daisy Patricia White. 

Our granddaughter, Jess (Director of CSI: Isle of Wight in 2008), departed for Hertfordshire Uni at Hatfield last Saturday. 

Her parents went with her and saw her settled in. I believe she will be studying pharmacy: ask me no more, I spent years paying chemists for their NHS work and know little else about them other than that the majority were very pleasant people with whom to deal. We are delighted that Jess gained a university place (despite Gove's decision to totally fuck up the exam marking system this year) and our love and every good wish go with her. We shall miss her bright presence around here much more than she may think. The absolute best of doom on you, my love. 

THE DETECTIVES. 

Cherchez la femme. 

Rizzoli and Isles is going strong with Angie Harmon as Jane Rizzoli and Sasha Alexander as Maura Isles, Scott and Bailey unflaggingly entertains with Lesley Sharp as Janet Scott and Suranne Jones as Rachel Bailey and the short series Crimes of Passion is good for two more nonplussing films, with Tuva Novotny as Puck Ekstedt attracting corpses like no other honeymooner in Swedish history. For better than good measure, Dana Delaney is back as Megan Hunt in another helping of Body of Proof. Who says nobody writes good dramatic parts for women now? 

AND THE REST. 

Property on tele. 

Grand Designs: Kevin McCloud is still finding incredible people who have incredible designs for living (often at incredible prices). How on earth most of them obtain planning permission from the army of bureaucratic blobs around the country is a mystery that I doubt any of the super lady sleuths named above could solve. I suspect backhanders, but I am a man of suspicious disposition. I have no such suspicions about Location, Location, Location, however. Kirsty Allsopp and Phil Spencer obviously know - and are on knowing terms with - every estate agent in the country. It does help, of course, that they (in keeping with Escape to the Country advisers Alistair Appleton, Jules Hudson, Aled Jones, Denise Nurse et al) are generally on the lookout for properties priced at around three quarters of a million quid; this for people who have just sold their one bedroom flat in London. Writing as a guy who has a dear old three storey terraced house for sale in Newport, Isle of Wight, which has thus far attracted scant interest, I cannot help but wonder whether the average television property punter has the faintest idea what the real world is all about. 

READING. 

A couple of oldies. 

Eric by Terry Pratchett, first published in 1990. A Discworld novel...well...more a novelette really...this little book contains some prize Pratchettisms (e.g. “Midnight dropped off the clock.”) and includes three of my favourite characters: Rincewind, The Librarian and The Luggage; so Sir Tel can be forgiven if it sometimes seemed a trifle wide of the mark. The great man is only human after all. He had to pay the rent, too. 
The Case of the Gilded Fly by Edmund Crispin. A Gervase Fen mystery first published in 1944. Very Oxford donnish. Very much one for the fellows. Very old hat now. 

Blogger gods willing, more next month. 

2 (12) Scotland: we'll soon know.

WATCHING.

Scottish Independence. 

We'll soon know. 

Less than a fortnight to the vote and Alex Salmond's breakaway band, boosted by their leader's crafty ability to convince on television (competitive political bullshitting on the box is another deplorable American import that should have stayed in America), is clearly closer to an historic victory than had ever been envisaged by the smug twits in our fine British Parliament. They, suddenly desperate to save their arses, have now sunk to offering bribes. It's pathetic. I still hope the Scots won't go. Britain needs them and vice versa, but the need is inherently less strong in their case. What they don't need, though, is a government that expects respect. So I hope the moderate majority among them will have no truck with blinkered Scottish nationalism and will opt to put up with the same crap bunch we all have to put up with, at least until the next election. 
For a more reasoned view read Yasmin Alibhai Brown in The Independent.

The joy of house selling. 

Here we go. 

(1) Our house is the only one on this terrace that has a garage and parking, two valuable amenities that are accessed by a road adjoining the terrace. Situated, as we are, close to the town centre, the garage is rara avis, or, as daughter Roz puts it: "As rare as rocking horse shit." After the estate agents had put their board outside, we rang them and suggested they add the words with garage and hardstanding to it. The garage, we said, would sell the house. They said good idea and it would be done next Wednesday; that was the day their boards man puts up the boards. Their man duly came on Thursday and slapped a red worded message on the board. It said: Garage with parking. So that should get them plenty of calls from people looking to buy a garage with parking in the middle of Newport. I only hope they remember to mention the house that goes with it. 

(2) One of the nice young women at the estate agents rang on a Saturday morning to ask if a prospective purchaser could look at the place that afternoon. She (the agent) was alone in the office (she said) so would not be available to show the person around; would we do it? The answer was firmly in the negative. We do not employ agents and then do their job for them. Her response was equable; she would conduct the viewing at a later date. The following Monday she rang again. Could she bring the p.p. around at five o'clock today. We said yes; we would be absent. We shopped from half four until six. The next morning she rang to say that she had waited for the p.p. who had not turned up. It was later established that the lady concerned had forgotten the appointment; perhaps they could do it next week? A friend did warn me there would be times... 

Ashya King and family. 

Books and covers spring to mind. 

Never judge a bookie by his runner, never judge a runner by his religion and never judge anybody or anything on initial media coverage. Last month I was guilty (like many another I'm sure) of believing that Brett and Naghmeh King had probably removed their five year old son from a Southampton hospital because their religious beliefs were opposed to him receiving treatment there. That, apparently, was not the case and I, along with many another, owe them an apology. The couple, as the world now knows, had taken the little lad, who has a brain tumour, to seek proton beam treatment, available abroad, that they thought would be better for him than the standard radiotherapy obtainable under NHS arrangements here. Doctors at the Southampton hospital had disagreed and thought moving the child at that time would endanger his life. What followed seems to have been a textbook example of mutual bloody-mindedness. One can only hope poor little Ashya will obtain maximum benefit from whatever treatment he is finally given and that the vultures of the legal business have not flocked to persuade the Kings that they should enter into costly litigation. Everybody thought they were doing their best by the boy. That will surely remain their prime concern.

THE DETECTIVES. 

Two new arrivals. 

Crimes of Passion (BBC4). 

This is a short Swedish series (try saying that without your teeth in) which has been based on stories written in the late 1940s early 1950s by Maria Lang. There are three main characters: Puck (a smart girl), Eje (her boyfriend, later husband) and Christer (a randy police superintendent). Puck is the leading light, the stories are dated; the net result is easy viewing. Such is not always the case with 
The Suspicions of Mr Whicher (ITV): there was a pilot episode last year: the station is now screening two more. 

Paddy Considine plays Whicher and struggles more patiently than I ever would with English class distinction and lousy lighting. Worth the exasperated sighs and squint-eyed viewing though. 

The Fates willing, back after the referendum.

2 (11) Wish us luck, eh?

CURRENT AFFAIRS. 

In my Isle of Wight office.

The cat Shadow has just fallen off the narrow shelf behind my computer. He sleeps there, sun through the window, when I am writing. His fall was cushioned by the curtain and the desktop, so the only harm done was to his dignity. He said a muted “bollocks,”had a quick wash and sedately departed the desk when he caught the scent of my Leader's freshly cooked chicken being taken from the oven. He'll do. 

We are leaving Newport I.W. 

In case you do not already know (and at times it felt as though I was the only one who didn't), we have put our Newport house on the market. The agents are Hose Rhodes Dixon and the details are on their website. We have been very happy here over the last thirteen years, but my Leader has not fared particularly well since the hip operation and those who love us have become worried that, with two flights of stairs, the old place is likely to become more than we can manage in the not too distant future. Age and infirmity, my dears. So the idea is that we shall move back to the village of Wootton Bridge, where we first settled when we arrived on the Island forty six years ago; we were there for over thirty years, so should quickly feel at home again. And we will be in a bungalow, to the relief of all concerned. Wish us luck, eh? 

Will Scotland leave the UK? 

We're now about a couple of weeks away from the Scottish Independence vote. I hope they don't go, but will not be surprised if they do. It is the nature of countries to look for independence. In Cyprus, circa1952, I was told by a charming young Greek communist: “We don't want EOKA, we just want your lot out.” They subsequently avoided that union with Greece and got us out. They also lost half their country to the Turks. I can't help wondering how much it was worth it. So I hope the Scots will stay. Independence is a myth anyway: don't the Yanks already own Aberdeen? 

Speaking of Americans...

 Two famous actors gone. Lauren Bacall, following a stroke at the age of 89 and Robin Williams, who sadly took his own life at the age of 63. A friend who worked in Customs and Excise once plucked up the courage to compliment Lauren Bacall on being even more beautiful in real life than she was on screen: she kissed him on the cheek for his cheek and told him he was the nicest customs officer she had ever met. He was certainly the happiest that day. From all one has heard, she really was a lovely person. I gather that, at his best, so too was Robin Williams. He was a disturbingly talented actor and comedian who was addicted to drink and drugs and suffered bouts of severe depression. One can only regret the way his life ended and feel sympathy for those he left behind. Also RIP a famous Englishman. Richard “Dickie” Attenborough at the age of 90.

Lord Attenborough was a powerhouse in the world of British cinema: a gifted actor, far-sighted director, brave film producer and the definitive luvvies luvvie. He will be an immensely hard act to follow. 
TELEVISION.
Under The Dome is back and Big Jim is still alive and we find that extremely aggravating. New Tricks is also back and it would be easy to say we find that extremely aggravating, but we don't: the only one of the old old guard left is Gerry Standing (Dennis Waterman) and the new old guard has been carefully chosen. Tamzin Outhwaite, Denis Lawson and Nicholas Lyndhurst were safe choices; viewing figures will not suffer as a result of their arrival on the scene. Anyway, the stories amble along just as they always have and we fans still find them easy viewing. A personal thought, though: If Nicholas Lyndhurst is the sort of actor who takes his character (retired DCI Dan Griffin) home with him, life must be pretty darned miserable in his house right now. Do him a favour, scriptwriters, cheer the bugger up! In complete contrast, Hell on Wheels is back and “Doc” Durant is still alive and we cannot help but find that aggravating. 
READING. 
Have just read: Guards! Guards! and Pyramids (Corgi), both by the incomparable Terry Pratchett. We laughed fit to bust. If you like Sir Tel you will have read them; if you don't you won't and that's your loss. Have also read: The Silkworm by Robert Galbraith (Sphere).

No apology for again publishing the above picture of the author. This is the second Cormoran Strike thriller. Like The Cuckoo's Calling it starts off slowly, as does the mutual attraction that clearly exists between Strike and his lovely assistant Robin Ellacott: their prospective romance still gains painfully slow momentum. She stays betrothed to a twat called Matthew and he, who has taken two books (and close on 900 pages) trying to get over a beautiful nightmare called Charlotte, is unable to see the woodland for the bluebells. I begin to wish they'd get on with it. Mysteries are being solved while they're being coy. I like them both, though. Liked this book, too. If I didn't like Cormoran Strike for any other reason (and he is the sort of bloke I would approach very very cautiously) I'd like him because he has an even sillier bloody name than Gideon Fell, Gervase Fen, Sexton Blake or Sherlock Holmes. That apart, Robert (J.K.) Galbraith, unlike some respected female crime fiction authors (Ngaio Marsh and P.D. James for example), is a convincing writer of male dialogue. Strike never sounds as though he might be light on his feet. Both Alleyn and Dalgliesh sometimes did. Please don't talk to me about their feminine side: I lunch once a month with a bunch of ex policemen; they don't have a feminine side between them. 
TAILPIECE. 
The world our descendants have to face. 
War in the Middle East and in The Crimea/Ukraine. 
Two world wars in the last century promised to bring "peace in our time." There has been no let up to brutal conflict of one sort or another ever since. If it isn't religious, it's political. Silly born bastards led by ambitious cretins are killing each other off all over the Middle East and, under cover of that, in the area alongside Russia. The arch villains, as usual, are religious dogma and political avarice. Now we are seeing pictures of ten year old children bearing arms for ISIS and, from the USA, hear that a nine year old girl accidentally killed a firearms instructor who was teaching her how to fire a 9mm Uzi submachine gun. Are they all mad? In England, the Jehovah's Witnesses parents of a five year old being treated for a brain tumour in a hospital at Southampton, peremptorily removed the child, still on a drip, to a place initially unknown. Presumably they acted through religious conviction. Well, they have the right to follow whatever religion they choose, even that one. How sad, though. 

NB Baby Ashya King was later rushed into hospital in Spain and his parents arrested. Ever wonder whether religion, any religion, is worth it? And as for a political creed, as well get committed to an asylum. None of it promises much for our grandchildren or their children. One can only hope that when (if) they get to our time of life, they will be expressing the same concerns because not that much has changed after all. Enough for this month.   

2 (10) Here we go again.

WATCHING.

The Commonwealth Games. 
As I have written before somewhere, in my youth I was a very keen follower of athletics: I particularly admired the prowess of long distance runners A.F. H. Newton and Paavo Nurmi; the quiet determination of amateur middle distance runner Sydney Wooderson, (holder of what was then the world record for the mile, 4 mins, 6.4 seconds); the definitive sporting Englishman Lord Burghley (a fine hurdler and much respected athletics administrator) and the magnificent American athlete Jessie Owens (who rubbed Nazi noses in the excrement four times at the 1936 Summer Olympics).

For myself, as I have also written before somewhere, nothing earth shattering. At around sixteen years of age I was captain of the Royal Signals junior cross country team (based at Catterick Camp, Yorkshire) and we were top of the North Eastern Counties (junior) league; that's about as far as it went. I did love it, though. So it is with regret that I find myself saying: “Thank Christ the Commonwealth Games is over!” Why? 
Because, as I know I have written before, only a very small handful of people regularly go to athletics events nowadays. (The last time I turned out was to watch Sydney Wooderson at Pitt Street, Portsmouth, circa 1944, when he won the mile in about 4mins 10/20 secs and finished not even breathing heavily.

There was also a very good high jumper whose name eludes me and Sgt. Brown of the Portsmouth Police won the three miles walk in world record time.) I think the extreme following for the last Olympic Games - and this latest lot in Glasgow - has been down to high-powered nonstop publicity and the ever increasing onlooker desire to feel close to an event (births, deaths, weddings, funerals, accidents, games), any event. So we were treated to an overkill of runnin', jumpin', throwin', swimmin', divin', fightin' and sweaty chattin' on the Beeb for an entire fortnight. It quickly became tiresome and the rubbish reality shows, together with the soaps, must have made hay while the sun was shining in Scotland. None of this was the fault of the Games participants. All the athletes who took part, whatever their discipline, win or lose, did a splendid job. Scotland, too. Very little wrong, ever, with the way Scotland does things. But it will all be forgotten later this month when football starts again. Nobody, except the winners, remembers who won what or by how much when an athletics meeting is over. Try naming all the competitors in the last 100 metres dash you watched. If you can, you need to get out less. 

The Middle East. 

What do you say about the wicked goings on out there? Any force that will kill women and children without compunction is evil; any faction that will use women and children as a human shield is vile: and any nation that allows the immoral bastards among its citizenry to sell arms to either or both of them - is a model of democratic excellence and sound business sense: well, that's what they tell me, the immoral bastards. 

56 Up. 

This lovely reality tele series (where cameras return at seven yearly intervals to check on the progress of participants first filmed when they were seven years old) belies all my worst opinions about the genre. My Leader and I have watched it from the outset and it has always been worth the seven years wait. This year was no exception and showed all the protagonists to have become respectable middle-aged people. Sadly, following the update on Lynn Johnson, it was reported that she died in May 2013 after a short illness. A nice family woman, she was a librarian up until local councillors started giving top council officers vast salary deals, themselves ludicrously high expense packages and many worthwhile people (librarians and their like) redundancy. Sad world sometimes, isn't it? 

THE DETECTIVES. 

Not much change. 

Most of the programmes are repeats (e.g. Midsomer before the producers were browbeaten into employing a regular quota of ethnic minority actors) so there is no shortage of Frost, Morse and Poirot. I can still sit through two hour long episodes of Foyle's War and Montalbano, but generally ignore the rest; saw them all when they were new. Word is that Lewis (Kevin Whately) and Montalbano (Luca Zingaretti) are to return soon:

so, too, Midsomer (which I assume will be carefully tailored to evade the PC scrutineers longing to be offended). Ah well. Honi soit qui mal y pense. 

All the best to you and yours.   

2 (9) Back to square one – almost.

WATCHING.

Could you read it?

I am a grade 2 listed diabetic who has been very lucky; over the past couple of years, despite murmurings in the direction of age-related cataracts, the prescription from my optician has not changed. So I was able to read the tiny lettering (the apparent designer type size for Google Chrome is TNR14) in which Post 2 (8) appears. But it really is small, isn't it.? Google Chrome, of course, does not extend to the user the old fashioned choice of small, medium or large type size. Proof, were it needed, that no change, for whatever reason, is ever for the better.That having been said, an email, purporting to come from the Inland Revenue to tell me I may be due a refund (some hopes), arrived recently: it was promptly given the 'we cannot process this' treatment by those same Google buddies. Can't complain about that, can you? Anyway, I have gone back to square one – almost – and upped the type size for this contribution. See how it goes.

I'll sit anywhere dot com.

Two trays used by family members when snacking whilst watching tele (dreadful habit...don't tell me) had been stacked upside down on my footstool. The cat Shadow, being a cat, seized the opportunity. My Leader, who had only abandoned the trays for a few minutes, laughed:

“Look at that. I'll sit anywhere dot com.”

TELEVISION.

Gawdelpusitsgamesagain! 

Yep, games again. Tennis (the itches are back in force - Djokovic beat Federer in the men's final), golf (the Women's British Open blew through Royal Birkdale in windy weather) and footie (the World Cup was won by Germany on ITV and the Beeb at the same time). If you didn't follow any of it you had to read a book or go sky diving or mountaineering.

Alan Hansen.

The football pundit retired after the world cup. He played football as a central defender for Partick Thistle, Liverpool and Scotland and followed that with 22 years at the BBC as one of the experts on Match of the Day. This is a man who experienced the best and the worst in football moments. Cup and league successes were offset by both the Heysel and Hillsborough stadium disasters. His television work has shown him to be as cool a pundit as he was a player and he will be a very hard act to follow. Good luck and good golfing, Mr. Hansen.

THE DETECTIVES.

Grimm.

Another season finished and this time Nick has been divested of his Grimm status by the infuriating Adalind. If you are interested it looks as if Season 4 will start on October the 24th this year.

CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

Apparently series 15 has been commissioned. It needs to be a little more positive than season 14, which seems to have lurched from the unlikely to the unbelievable with scarcely a twitch of Ted Danson's spectacles. Paul Guilfoyle, who has been Captain Jim Brass since the show's inception, will not be in it. Written out. Shame. We liked him. Good luck, tough guy.