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.