Post 295. DEPARTING DIPLOMATS.

COST IN WORLDWIDE TRAVEL?

One has to wonder...Why?
This Salisbury business has sure put the poison among the pigeons. Just in case you have been in outer space, Sergei Skripal (a sort of Russian Smiley's People character) and his daughter, Yulia, were found poisoned in Salisbury, England, on the 4th of this month (Post 287 refers).
The poison was Novichok which, apparently, is solely manufactered in Russia. It was a reckless attack and its perpetrators were irresponsible scum: but that's spooks for you.
Now, understandably, because nobody likes the thought of unfettered nerve agents roaming around their patch, the world and his wife have taken against those thought most likely to be behind the attack, Russia. Countries far and wide have dismissed from their nation's Russian embassy a token number of the blatant spooks they have tolerated for years. It seems these embassies have been spookily alive with them. (One has to wonder...Why?)
Now, as these countries expel Russian diplomats and Russia expels one country after another's diplomats in reprisal, hundreds of alleged spooks are on the move. Trains and planes are packed with them. If you're travelling first class, don't talk politics and keep your hand on your passport. If you're not travelling first class you won't meet them anyway.
Their countries pay their fares so they'll not be travelling with the hoi polloi.
God knows how much the total travel cost for all these comings and goings will be, but airlines everywhere must be rubbing their hands with glee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
   
   

Post 294. NOTHING WORKS.

WHATEVER I DO.
It's a Google plot.

So far in my quest to go from Post 288 to Post 300 at a rate approximating one a day I have had more trouble with the publishing than with the writing. Nothing works. Whatever I do.
As the regular reader may have noticed, I tried switching font from Times New Roman to Franklin Gothic Medium and at first that seemed to work. It didn't last. Yesterday's printing struggle was an absolute nightmare.
The end result had me swearing softly because original wording had to be cut or amended in places, but at least it's readable; if a trifle untidy.
I am in no doubt that this is all my own fault. Technology moves apace and a pleasant blog format in 2006 has to be overdue for updating in 2018. For a start, the number of words that old format will sensibly accommodate?
Don't ask me, ask the faceless Silent Bobs at Google and see where it gets you. If they ever spoke out it would only be to tell you there are great blog formats obtainable on Google Gold.
And that's where they mean you to be.
It's a Google plot; depending on your point of view of course.
Me? I could scream the scream

(with apologies to Edvard Munch)  

Post 293. THE POWER CUT ALWAYS COMES.

WHEN THE WORK HAS NOT BEEN SAVED.
It happened twice in succession yesterday.

I had wrestled the blog back from the cat Shadow (not without a show of petulance on his part), made a cup of coffee, weathered a "do the odd job because that's more important than any keyboard" session, acted as elderly retainer for a still lofty cat and we had been paid an unexpected visit by daughter Roz, who is currently suffering from shingles, poor love (there's no justice). She arrived as usual with Buddy (a mad puppy who is thankfully sane enough to avoid the cat Shadow).

After they departed, with my Leader sitting at the ironing board, Shadow surveying the dining room with a 'where's that bloody dog now?' look in his eyes and me blithely settled at my desk with the heading and first few lines of a post on the screen, there was suddenly no computer, no ironing, no electric kettle, no telephone, no television, no anything.

The power had gone.
As you will have gathered, I had saved nothing: not even the heading. Power came back minutes later.
Damage done.
I gently cursed, switched on the computer, tried to remember what I'd been writing, couldn't, began again. I had typed in the heading and a few unsaved lines when the second power cut came. 
It lasted...and lasted...and lasted.
Eventually we were back to second world war neighbourliness. Me on the phone to Derek next door and Derek next door on the phone to the nice lady on the other side of him and so on, until the nice lady on the other side got in touch with 'the electric' who said we'd be back in the warm world again by 5.30 pm.
We were. Bit sooner actually.
Too late for any more ironing, though, or for me to summon up the blog spirit again.
I spent the evening watching our magically alive television (Italians gaining a draw when one of them trips over his own feet in the penalty area? What a surprise) and went to bed with a smile on my face after experiencing again Lars Vogt's superb performance of Beethoven's Piano Concerto No.1 (found it on Sky Arts) and Pekka Kuusisto's joyful rendition of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto at the 2016 Proms: both courtesy of Den's 'erase these at your peril' television recordings.
A good end to the day.
Finally, I recently learned that Buddy has been letting next door know how unhappy he is when Roz is away from home.
I said he had better come here when she is at work then. He can settle on the chair in the conservatory when I am at work there, I suggested.
Huh!

 

Today, for the first time in a year or more, the cat Shadow spent the morning asleep in that very chair. He's back there now. It's not as if he hasn't got the above settee, too. Little perisher.
I'd swear he hears everything we say.

 

Post 292. I'M SHADOW.

I'M THE POETRY CAT.
A poem by Himself.

Way back at posts 126, It's Poetry Week... and 135, Roofing at home... the old guy who puts cat food down for me published my A Stroll With a Musing Cat and Shadow - The Poetry Cat (a take on T.S. Eliot) respectively: there have been other ditties, too. It seems that people liked them, so now that he has given me a post all to myself, stand by for:

Shadow - The Feline Bard.

I'm Shadow, I write poetry,
A verse does not come hard
I'll write it leaning against a tree,
Or lounging in the yard.
I'll write it for you on a fence
If that is what you wish.
Compose it standing on the stairs
Or in an unwashed dish.
I have no fear of rhyming,
No hang-ups and no cares.
On rooftops they all know me
As the pussycat Pam Ayres.
I do rhyming in the kitchen
And I versify in the loo.
I do doggerel in the dining room
And odes in the living room, too.
But I versify not in the bedroom -
On your bed I'll give forth not a peep
Except only for the gentlest of snore
To let you know I'm fast asleep

If you don't like it, keep it to yourself, eh?

Post 291. WHY CHANGE ANYTHING?

 

 

 

ONLY ASKING.

 

 

 

Because change is seldom ever for the better.

For a start it's clock changing time again. I swear we only undergo this ludicrous routine twice a year to make governments feel they are the bosses.
It does nobody any good and plays havoc with many a digestive system, but the powers-that-be persist with it year in year out.
What?
Oh, somebody else does Big Ben for them. Pathetic.
Truth to tell, so far this year no change (whether it be of Brexit-like importance or The Wright Stuff shuffling newspapers back and forth inconsequence) has in the slightest degree improved our lot.
So why change anything?
Which reminds me:
I still haven't changed the time on the oven clock.

Bugger! 

 

 

 

.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Post 290. WHEN IT CAME TO SINGERS.

GEORGES GUETARY WAS GOOD, TOO.
And far better than most.

 Back at my desk I have the above pictured CD jauntily playing on the Steepletone.
I always liked Mr. Guétary (born Lambros Vorloou of Greek parents in Egypt) because, a naturalised Frenchman, he was more French and a far better singer than most of his contempories in the light music business.
I first heard him in 1947 when he was playing opposite Lizbeth Webb in Vivian Ellis's Bless The Bride at the Adelphi Theatre in London.
The show ran for 886 performances.
He then went on to star with Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron in An American in Paris, his one and only American film. I'll Build a Stairway to Paradise was the best number in that film and his was the best ever performance of it.
I always thought he stole the show and I don't think Hollywood ever quite forgave him.
Georges Guétary continued to give concert performances right up until his retirement to the Riviera at the age of eighty. He died, aged 82, in 1997.
So why, when old pal Ian Dillow has emailed me the name Mario Lanza (below), have I chosen a singer from operetta, rather than an opera, as my listening choice today? Well, counter tenor Georges may have had a lighter voice than bel canto Mario (who I also have on CD), but I think Georges was probably the nicer person.

Can't say more than that. 

Post 289. TODAY IT'S TENORS.

 

THE Original TENORS.

 

 

 

 

 

All three of them.

 

 

Midst news of another radicalised head case


gunning people down in France, nations at

 

 

each other's throats over political interference


from a social network, trade tariffs widening the


ever increasing gap between America and China


and murderous machinations in the spy world,

 

 

I am back at my desk in the real world: the little

 

 

Steepletone is doing its stuff. And today it's the

 

 

Original original three tenors: Enrico Caruso


(below right),Beniamino Gigli (above) and Jussi


Bjorling (below left).

 

Gigli was the first operatic tenor I ever heard on

 

 

record (old vinyl).

 

 

I had listened to Richard Tauber and Webster

 

 

Booth on the wireless of course, but Gigli was

 

 

something else again. Bjorling was a wonderful

 

 

Swedish tenor and Caruso was the benchmark for


the lot of them, and is to this very day. But I 


particularly liked Gigli. The little man had touches


of individuality(hear the last note of his Che gelida


manina) and I thought he was magic. Still do.
 

 

 

Where I picked up this CD, though, I have no 


idea.

 

 

You'll probably only get the later three now.

 

 

Well, they were pretty good, too.

Dare I say it?

 

 

 

Almost as good as my three.

 

Post 288. FROM HERE UNTIL 300

MORE MODULATED MEANDERINGS.

More frequent, too.
My blog posts up to post 300 are hence to be executed at a rate of knots hitherto untried. Why? Well, for whatever reason, the publishing of those somewhat longer posts has been an absolute beast for far too long and this particular Job's patience finally came to an end. From now on it's a more frequent dose of piano music on the music machine for me and a paragraph or two on the blog for you - if you're kind enough to look for it.
I hope to maintain the more frequent output until Post 300, when I shall publish a final index and Watching will be concluded in favour of a more modern format (if I can find the blighter).
That highly proficient computer guru Giles Turnbull once advised bloggers to turn out regular (possibly daily?) posts if they wanted to be regularly read. I mention Mr. Turnbull only because he was a blogger in whom I took considerable interest way back when I started online scribbling. We have not exchanged as much as a greeting and, to the best of my knowledge, he has never heard of me. But his wise words come back, together with a sad shake of the head, whenever I see my viewer statistics.    
Need I remind you there are lies, damned lies, and statistics?

Back soon.

 

 

Post 287. THEY'RE AT IT AGAIN.

THE MURDEROUS MUTTHEADS.

Yes, save our souls, those overgrown children from the school for spies are at it again: this time they have chosen to play one of their favourite pastimes for murderous muttheads, 'kill the turncoat kid.'
Now I haven't that much time for the alleged former Soviet agent currently in a critical condition in hospital. To me he appears to be just another of those daft buggers who has been playing silly James Bond games.
I do have a degree of sympathy with his daughter, a great deal of sympathy with Sergeant Nick Bailey of the Wiltshire Police, and concern for the many other innocent people effected, though.
Apparently they have been poisoned by a nerve gas known as Novichok: a Russian invention.Who says mad scientists can only be found in fiction?
As is the custom, politicians are spouting outrage and false innocence in equal measure.This has culminated in a Russian bigmouth reminding us that his country possesses nuclear arms so apparently should not be questioned. Bollocks! 
Most of the time, spies - like gangsters - stick to murdering each other, so the rest of us can pretend they don't exist: now we have been reminded again that they do. Appalling, isn't it?
With luck, and a load of decontamination, nothing will come of it all.
Without luck these recalcitrant renegades from the human race will eventually plunge us into another world war.
I'm far too old to let it frighten me, but I do fear for our descendants.
DEPARTURES.
In brief (because this blog is starting to look like an in memoriam column), both Ken Dodd and Stephen Hawking have died this week. Each man had a fine brain and each was an expert in his own field.
Wherever their spirits rest up will be the better for it.
TELEVISION.
We have been watching:
Shetland (good).
Below the Surface (good).
Portrait Artist of the Year (always watchable) and
Homeland (a neurotic nightmare).
We have also seen the entire series of Endeavour (excellent) and Call the Midwife (alive with loud ingenues in labour, fine ensemble acting, and a Judy Parfitt (pictured) performance that brought me close to tears of joy every week).

 (What's that? Recalcitrant renegades from the human race? Hell, if you're a born hack you can't resist the occasional jaunt into journalese.)
Cheers.