2 (21) IN LESS THAN A CENTURY II.

ADOLESCENT MEMORIES. 

The Forties. 

After a couple of years Harold and Brian's father, Harold Snr., remarried and the boys went back to Portsmouth to live with him. My father, now an overseer of wartime brick shelter building in Pompey, was still working there and commuting from Bognor; so a short time later we, too, moved back. The two families remained close. Enemy planes had been augmented by pilotless V -1 buzz bombs which flew until they dropped and exploded. They were meant to demoralize the nation, London in particular: they didn't. 

Every male seemed to be in uniform back then so, one by one, when we reached the age of fourteen and a half, we three boys joined the army: Harold finished up in REME, I joined the Royal (Corps of) Signals and Brian went into the Royal Engineers. They both made a career of it (Harold going on to become a civilian instructor at Borden); I came out after twelve years. Suffice to say that by the end of the nineteen forties, with the war over, we were all 'old' soldiers and Pompey had the finest football team in the country. 

In 1949 I went to Cyprus to begin a three year term as a special wireless operator. Troopship first to Egypt. (The Empress of Australia)

Nobody went, or came home, by plane in those days. You got there and there you stayed. Shift work. Never mind the sunshine, sometimes it seemed like a long three years. 

More in next post. 

HOME. 

Fascinating. A viewer came last weekend. Apparently flew down from Aberdeen. Seemed to like the place (according to the estate agent) and has gone back to deliberate. 
Another world with the plane now, ain't it? 
THE DETECTIVES. 

Just the two. 

Fortitude: Have you looked in? Gawd! Ennit gory?
Person of Interest: Still as unbelievable as ever and still as watchable. 
AND OTHERS. 

Indian Summers. Julie Walters and colleagues are still cleverly showing us why, as a nation, we are universally detested. How glad India and the rest must have been to see the back of us. 

Four in a bed. My Leader watches this. I look in only occasionally - and shudder. Just in case you, like me, are no follower of reality television, this is a series in which guest house keepers visit rival establishments to make snide comments, find a pubic hair or two and knock a few quid off the price of their room. I invariably finish up determined never stay at another B&B in my entire life. 

Tom Felton meets the superfans. 

This documentary is currently showing on iPlayer. Directed by and starring Tom Felton (Draco Malfoy of Harry Potter fame), it takes a fascinating and sympathetic look at what drives people to become obsessive fans. 

Tom talks to fellow Potter actors, to J.K. Rowling and to several of the most persistent fans: his interviewing technique is open, cheerful, friendly and so un-Draco that you cannot help but marvel at what a bloody good actor he is. When he's being himself he's obviously a charming bloke. 

But I write as one who is too old and sceptical to be anybody's fan. I admire the personable and the talented objectively. In the unlikely event I should ever meet any of 'em, I doubt we would become friends. 

From the tone of this programme, though, there's not much harm in most of those dedicated fans who like to think they are the friends of celebrities. 

If it makes them feel good, why not?

Have a good Easter. 

By the time it is over I may even have stopped muttering about that effing hour on the clocks