2 (2) Celebrations and suchlike.

LAST SATURDAY.

The 1^st of February was our son Neil's 50th birthday (try saying that without feeling old) and the entire family, together with a goodly selection of friends, met at Pauline and Neil's coach house residence for posh party nosh and a few bevvies. Daughter Roz produced a splendid birthday cake in the shape of a Carmageddon car and the Stainless crew arrived in some force to help see it off: they are a good bunch, even if the "demented Banksy style" birthday present with which they adorned his car (it gave a whole new meaning to the description "car tool kit") did put him at minor odds with the law. 

Anyway, gawd bless coppers with a sense of humour.

Family, friends, workmates and car are all back to pristine normality now. 

I think everybody had a good time.

NEXT SATURDAY.

1,000th edition of i coming up.

Next Saturday the newspaper with the fastest growing circulation of them all, i, will be on news stands for the 1,000^th time. I really did buy the first edition and the lad in the newsagent's really did say: "There's not much in it," and I really did consider the reply: "Well you didn't expect tits for twenty pence, did you?" And that really does seem a very long time ago.

For a while I read The Independent every Monday and i for the rest of the week. This enabled me to take in Yasmin Alibhai-Brown's column and Tom Sutcliffe's TV review: they were both Independent on Monday people.I think Mr. Sutcliffe is now a BBC radio 4 broadcaster, but Yasmin A-B sometimes turns up in i to create bobsy-die (usually with the utmost justification) about something some dickhead (or bunch of dickheads) has or has not said or done. I would hesitate to disagree with her, even from 78 miles away. 

My newsprint reading is now confined to i and The Radio Times. Well, RT still publishes cast lists for films and plays and i still has the former editor, Stefano Hatfield (now editorial director of London Live), contributing an article every Monday that (unlike ol' Fergie since his retirement at Man U) is happy and amiable and cheers me up no end.

I generally end up smiling, too, when the north countryman with a Welsh name, Owen Jones, takes off on one of his left wing outpourings. My grandfather was a proud member of the Bakers' Union and a staunch supporter of the old labour party; my mother's political outlook was red labour and I, at one time, was an active member of two (innocuous) unions simultaneously; so I'm with Owen, even if I do think nearly all politicians, of whatever ilk, are lying rapscallions.

I'm also laughingly with Mark Steel, politely in awe of Andreas Whittam Smith and constantly in accord with Simon Kelner, a damn good journalist.

Current editor Oliver Duff and sub editor Rhodri Jones cannot be other than on the ball. Look at the people who are keeping a (surely benevolent) eye on them.

I have just one question: now that i has become more successful than a critical news industry thought it could ever be, shouldn't it be joined by a Sunday i?

Perhaps one day I will write and suggest it.

DEAR OLD PAL ADVERTS.

It's the start of another year and time to receive the sort of Dear Dennis/Maureen letters that presume we have full pockets and empty heads and will be keen to: (1) test drive the latest model of our (rather elderly) car (2) replace our (now outdated) sewing machine and (3) spend a truly exciting fortnight's holiday on a deep sea fishing trawler in midwinter.

We appreciate that businesses have a living to make and it pays to advertise; we just wish they would show as much concern for the environment as they do to get their unwanted invitations printed and shoved through our letter box. Ah well, better that than...

THOSE GAS AND ELECTRICITY BILLS.

British Gas has just alerted us online to the state of our Gas and Electricity accounts and we are mightily in debt on both of them. Why is this? In common with anybody who can read, or who owns a working television, we are well aware that we have become sitting ducks in the telescopic sights of the nation's privatized profiteers (the last three governments of this country have a helluva lot to answer for) but we have been paying our bills by direct debit for years and find it intolerable and incomprehensible that British Gas could not bother even to guestimate the effect their enormous price hike would have on us (or indeed on anyone who pays by D/D) and advise an adjustment to our monthly payments.

One can only surmise, now, that public utilities - along with banks and the majority of the rail companies - are irretrievably in the hands of the greedy and incompetent. 

FILMS ON TELEVISION.

Did you see Hanna, a film about a robotic little girl who has been trained by her 'father' to become the ultimate soldier? It was another of those all-action films in the style of Bourne, Mission Impossible etc. Acting was good throughout and we particularly enjoyed the transformation of Rev (Tom Hollander) into a blonde hit man; wickedly polite. Don't ever lend him your biro.

The Thirteenth Tale.

This film had Vanessa Redgrave (as a dying author), Olivia Colman (as her biographer) and a convoluted plot with a twist in the tail. The director was James Kent.

It was worth the watching.

DETECTIVES ON TELEVISION.

Sherlock and Marple.

If Britain has shifted around a couple of degrees in the past few months it will be because Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle are revolving in their graves.

A recent episode of Marple had Julia McKenzie dodging in and out of woodland like an elderly yeti on speed. When she finally tackled the murderer she was alone and could (indeed, would) have been his next victim in the twist of a neck. He gave himself up. Would you believe it?

Sherlock (Benedict Cumberbatch) still, somehow, has his sidekick. The great detective is now subjected to visions that make clues sprout out of supporting cast members and any photogenic item of scenery. His eyes dart about and he gabbles in high speed gobbledegook. Nobody has had him committed. Well, not so far. But Martin Freeman as Dr. Watson (the friend who ought to have had him committed) has married and his new wife is, it turns out, some sort of hit woman. Would you believe it?

A-a-ah. It's easy viewing.

The Bridge.

I loved every sombre second of this second series in which there was never a doubt that Saga (Sofia Helin) and Martin (Kim Bodnia) were destined for the compulsory Scandinavian unhappy ending.

Wonderful, wonderful viewing. The cat Shadow slept through every episode.

DETECTIVES IN PRINT.

My Leader discovered a couple of Graham Hurley's Faraday and Winter yarns and it became difficult to get a word out of her: I don't know whether I should have been peeved or relieved. Anyway, she enjoyed them immensely. Told me he's a very good writer and well worth reading.

I said OK, I'll look at them later. 

Another world, ain't it?

Daughter Jac bought me three thrillers including Standing In Another Man's Grave, the latest from Ian Rankin, which I have just finished reading. John Rebus is back for a Cook's Tour of Scotland with some corpses thrown in. When it is adapted for television Ken Stott (below) will find it a doddle. Just sit him in a Saab, set him off from Edinburgh to Inverness via Pitlochry and leave him to it. He'll enjoy it and so will we.

I THINK THAT'S ABOUT ALL FOR NOW.