Post 341. GOODBYE TO 2019

A BEWILDERING YEAR. 
Sad, but with a few highs.

One of  the highs for me.
The very recent kindle publication of  my story for children aged nine to ninety nine. 
Thanks to the efforts of our son, Neil, whose artwork graces the cover, The Badgers of  Deepwood (originally written - and still written throughout - as Deep Wood) can now be bought on Amazon Kindle for the princely sum of £2.30. 
I hope you will think it worth giving a try. The price shouldn't break you and it's a good read, even if I do immodestly say so. 
And an even bigger high. 
The progress made by our daughter, Roz, in completing her chemo sessions and making preparation for the reconstruction of breasts operation next year. Keep a kind place in your heart for her. 
More when we know more. 
And then the sadness.

At the putting down of our dear pal for many years, the cat Shadow, He was all of twenty four/five years old and in fast failing health, so I accept it was the kindest, the only sensible, thing to do for him. But I can neither forgive myself for arranging it nor stem my tears at the memory of it. Us and our animals, eh?  
Nor can we help but worry. 
At the health problems undergone by mates like John A. and Ian D. this year. We can only wish them both a full recovery and all the very best for 2020.
HAPPY NEW YEAR 
To you, too, dear reader.

Don't let politicians get you down!

Post 340. SO THAT'S IT THEN.

THE ELECTION'S DONE.

And the Tories won with a massive majority which will see them in power for at least five more years. 

Clearly the electorate disliked Corbyn even more than it distrusted Johnson. 

Now sit back and wait for the blatant lies, the broken promises, the blanking of the underdog, the disregard for public services, the systematic dismantling of the BBC and NHS, and the shameless kowtowing to a fat reality television twat in America. Make no mistake, it's all in the pipeline now. I trust none of them. 

Get Brexit done? 

Bollocks!

SO FORGET POLITICS.

It's Christmas, hence the slight lateness of this post. 

My Leader and I spent yesterday writing Christmas cards to people we like and respect. If you don't get one it won't be because we don't like and respect you, it will be because we are getting older and increasingly lapse into forgetfulness. 
Ah well. Age is a bugger, but it still beats the alternative.
Anyway, whether you're on the card list or not, if you are reading this, I hope you'll have a joyous, heartwarming festive season. Happy Christmas to you! 

Post 339. A SMATTERING OF ADVICE.

FOR THE WOULD-BE SCRIBBLER,

 

Do use a notebook.

If you are the would-be scribbler who, reading this, has the notion of writing a blog of your own, you may possess and even regularly use an 'ideas' notebook. If you do not, I strongly advise that you obtain one and keep it close at hand to instantly record those moments of genius you get when you least expect them.

I have a notebook and a couple of pads: gifts I seldom use (you may not be surprised to learn). I should use them. I would if I could find them. I just forget where they are and when I do find one I lose it as soon as I've made a note in it. I also kid myself, when I get what I think is a bright idea, that I will easily retain it in my head.

Big mistake.

Lord alone knows how many ideas I'll eventually take to the crem. with me. Reason I'm writing these words now is that the bright opening topic I thought up last week was gone from me by the weekend. You may well be less forgetful than me, but take no chances. Use a notebook.

The forthcoming election.

Back in the early days of this blog (Post 8) I wrote: I shall try not to mention anything faintly political again. I lied. But there's a lot of that about at the moment.

Faux humble pie was much in evidence on all sides by Wednesday evening of last week. Apologies abounded from leading politicians for just about everything from speaking their minds to breathing. This is, after all, the age of 'apology for everything.'

The exception to the rule appears to be the leader of the opposition who has adopted “Let me finish, please,” as his mantra whenever an interviewer attempts to interrupt his remorseless flow. 
I wait in vain for the interviewer to say: “No, Mr. Corbyn, you are here to be interviewed. If you merely want to perform your act, please do it somewhere else.”

By the same token, I do wish some top person, both in Health and in Education, had been bold enough to say to the Prime Minister: “No, Mr. Johnson, our hospitals and schools are not pawns to be used by smiling politicians with their shirt sleeves rolled up. Go back to doorstepping and give healthy grown ups the chance to tell you you're talking bullshit.”

As things stand I don't believe a word said by any one of them on either side.

I think the Tories will get back in. 
There will then be at least five more years of total chaos. 

FRIENDS.

Three old pals. 
'Anonymous' John, Ian and David. 
Both John and Ian have had a less than ideal year healthwise. Like most Brits I never quite know what to do or say at such times, but before the year is out I'd like them to know that our (Mo and my) thoughts are constantly with them, as are our very best wishes.

And (combination of dithery memory plus unacceptable inaction) I missed a chance to meet up with David recently. I am sorry about that. Had we met I might have told him how much I appreciated his email comment on the picture below: Just fabulous, I wondered where it had gone! Anyone get the registration number?

Now that's the reaction of a real policeman.

Good luck with the Christmas decorations.            
Mind how you cross the road.

Post 338. AND ANOTHER THING.

ABOUT GETTING OLD.

 

You can't avoid cynicism.
Another election on the way and here they come, oozing from the woodwork, with their visits (jacketless in rolled up shirt sleeves) to hospitals and their paternal posing in schoolrooms surrounded by cute kiddies. It's like a Hollywood casting couch for UK members of parliament. 
Anything goes. 
Today the Tories are saying that if we vote them back in they will drastically cut immigration and that a vote for Jeremy Corbyn will see a veritable tsunami of foreigners flooding our cosy clique of a country. It's an appeal to that shitty facet of the British psyche that used only to be seen on football terraces.

As for old Jeremy himself: at present he seems hell-bent on widening the north/south divide by unfavourably comparing tardy governmental reaction to flooding up north with what might have been had it happened in Surrey. 

Y'know what? North/south/red/blue/stay/leave, I'm sick of the bloody lot of it. 
Will no one ever wake up to the fact that we're now just a piddling little spot on the world atlas, not the Great British Empire we were brought up to believe we were (and had a divine right to be) when I was a boy in the nineteen thirties? Those days will never come back, thank God, no matter how much we depressingly creep to America or try to convince ourselves we are still of worldwide importance. We're not big enough to constantly be indulging in petty area rivalries, either. The North -  South thing is just as stupid as the Catholic - Protestant thing and almost as self-destructive. 
Rulers divide to conquer.
So let's try to find somebody who wants to govern for the benefit of country, not self, without childish point scoring, or playground bullying, or appealing to isolationism. 
I might even vote for them.
What? 
Yeah. It's an impossible dream.
I'd be convinced they were lying.
YOUR AGE SHOWS

In your musical taste, too. 
I know I've said as much before, and may well do again, but I have been reminded ever since Lauren Laverne took over Desert Island Discs on BBC Radio 4 that my musical taste is no longer compatible with that of the majority of modern castaways chosen to reside on that imaginary island. Many of my favourites are no longer with us. 
As I write this, Harry Nilssen (above) is serenading me for the umpteenth time on the Steepletone with A Little Touch of Schmilsson. He follows Georges Guetary whose Ma belle Marguerite CD features 23 mono recordings 1946 to 1951. Wonderful. 
While I would determinedly row my boat away from the music I heard from most desert islands now, Nilssen's rendering of This Is All I Ask and Over The Rainbow, or Guetary's I'll Build A Stairway To Paradise would have me  landing on a tide of musical enthusiasm. 
Takes all sort, don't it.
Back again before the election all being well.
Mind how you go.  

Post 337. WHY SUCH HATRED?

IN THE TWENTY FIRST CENTURY.

 

Is this all there is?
You can buy a hunting knife on the net. You don't need a licence. You can carry an entire set of kitchen knives and, if questioned by the police, say you are a chef. There has been a steady increase in knife crime since 2014. Fatal stabbings take place almost daily. It's as though we are steadily marching back to medieval times. 
What the hell has gone wrong?

Well, for a start, successive governments have depleted the entire public service system. 
We have long had too few police officers (certainly too few walking the beat) and, of those currently serving, many at the top were enlisted from outside the force and have never so much as given evidence in court, let alone stood toe to toe with a wrong 'un. 
Over the last forty years there has been one reduction (impertinently described as reorganisation) after another in every public service: customs and excise, education, local government, the fire service, the N.H.S. You name it... 
No doubt some smart-arse government adviser has been promoted each time on the strength of it, but it has clearly been done to cut costs rather than to benefit the population it is supposed to serve. That population has risen by around eleven million since 1980 and there has been no let up in the government's turn-of-the-century austerity programme. 
Don't be bullshitted by politicians. Since 2010 there has been a reduction of over £30 billion in public spending. This in a country that, determined it can manage its own affairs, is going back to the polls on December 12 after three years of shilly-shallying over Brexit. Is this all there is then? 
It's hard to be optimistic. 

TELEVISION.

One can appreciate the madness of The Walking Dead (FOX). It is based on a comic book so it has to be barmy.

Whether the same can be said for the exuberant supporters who flock to The Talking Dead is open to question, but I see actors as the royalty of America, with their fans as voluntary courtiers, so I allow for madness in them. I still watch both programmes, tongue in cheek. 

Well, they're better than antiques, or cooking, or reality rubbish, or quizzes, or people looking at houses they do not intend to buy.

The Dublin Murders (BBC One) is a modern psychological thriller containing characters who are neither entirely sane nor particularly likeable. It dodges to and fro between then and now (the current trend) and at eight episodes is at least two episodes too long. Finally: how many more examples of the headcase hero with whom to bore us can there possibly be?

Ah well. It's better than antiques, or cooking, or reality...    

That's it for another month.
 

Post 336. COMING TOGETHER IS SLOW..

BUT HELPED BY FRIENDS. 

Who are not always human. 
I have written very little since we said our last goodbye to dear old Shadow on 30 August. This is just a quick catch up to let readers know that we amble on aided by Roz, Ellis and the animals. 
Their dog Buddy (above) has seemed particularly concerned that we suffer not from loneliness and is now keeping us company every morning in the same way that Shadow did. He takes up much more room on the bed but obviously means well.

My story for children aged nine to ninety nine, The Badgers of Deep Wood, has long been finished and is currently lingering somewhere between “I really ought to try it out on a publisher but am too bloody old to wait around while one after the other of them throws it on the slush pile for a month or two before returning it unread” and “Our (son) Neil has a memory stick copy of it and has occasionally talked about online publishing. But he's a very busy fellow and when it comes to modern technology I am a complete duffer.” 

It's a good yarn and (who knows?) maybe after I've kicked the bucket it will be published. 

Meanwhile I am 134 pages into the reading of Philip Pullman's Book of Dust - Volume Two - The Secret Commonwealth which has just been published and is another master class in the art of story telling. 

I may manage to feign an interest in Brexit, or Extinction Rebellion (or even the next bloody election) by the end of the month, but if I'm not there, start without me. 

So that's it for now, dear reader, except just to mention that it is 

THE BIRTHDAY TODAY 

of our courtesy granddaughter 

lovely Hannah Woods. 

Wishing you a great day 

and a wonderful future, little buddy.

Post 335. IN MEMORY OF SHADOW

A TRUE FAMILY CAT. 

Shadow Barnden  circa 1995 – 2019. 
It is with deep regret that I report the death of the cat Shadow. He was, of all our feline companions throughout many years, the most family-minded cat ever to befriend us. 
Some time around the year 2000 he came five doors down the terrace in Newport, where we then lived, to permanently reside in our home. He had made up his mind. The nice people at number 7, grandson of whom had left him with them when he moved to the mainland, were to become occasional friends only: they liked him but their resident cat didn't. He would be better off with the new people down at number 2 who were obvious cat people and didn't have a cat. Thus we were adopted: and when we moved here in 2015 it was as a family of which he was a member. 
I like to think the subsequent four years, despite the occasional setback, were happy retirement years for him. 
Sadly, over the past few months old age took its relentless toll and it was with much soul- searching that we had to arrange for the mobile vet to visit him here on 30 August. We were with him when his life ended. 
He was a dear friend and there will never be another like him. 
I can write no more right now. 

Post 334. NOTHING REALLY CHANGES

AS THIS POST SHOWS.

 On the 13th August 2008 (Post 109) I wrote: 

Perhaps I should feel more urgency about things, but I try not to kid myself that my views are of earth shattering importance. A month free of my meanderings will not have global repercussions. For that matter, I do not think the opinions of most people, no matter how honestly held, are of particular consequence. If they think anybody gives a toss they are sadly mistaken. 

In the same post (remarking on an email I had received from a blatant racist) I opined: 

Seems to me most of the trouble in this world is caused by religious fanatics and politicians of every persuasion. I cannot be bothered with them: or the blinkered morons who support them. 

No change there then. 

No change either in the following disclosure from the same post: 

I sometimes think I would like to have been an actor: but know I could never have made it. I have a dread of being regarded as a show off, suffer excruciating stage fright and am mortified by rejection. As compensation, I get great pleasure from watching professional actors skilfully practise their craft and enjoy putting together a few words about them when they have particularly impressed me. I feel I need not worry that they may read it. The good ones will be too busy learning their lines. 

Heck! This is an elderly chap's occasional blog, not a column in a national daily. 

Anyway, for what it is worth, as a scribbler I suffer depression occasionally and fools not at all. The depression usually comes at the outset of winter or when the fortnight which constitutes summer has gone. It is remedied by bright colours and plenty of light. The remedy for fools is deletion. And if you are the sort of smart arse who says it takes one to know one...

Click! 

Yep! Nothing really changes. 

Cheeky television programmers are still swamping us with repeats rescued from the archives: eternal damnation would be theirs were it not for the excellent performances of such fine actors as Nicola Walker, Sanjeev Bhaskar, Michael Kitchen David Suchet and the late Geraldine McEwan (to name but a handful of those currently on our screens). I try to resist second – or even third – viewings, but can still find it beyond me to ignore Ms Walker and Mr. Bhaskar's believability in Unforgotten, lovely old Geraldine McEwan's likeability in Marple, Mr. Kitchen's wry twist of the mouth in Foyle, or Mr. Suchet's definitive depiction of the most overplayed detective in fiction, Poirot. I can still be caught watching Endeavour and Lewis, too. 

I continue to have no interest whatsoever in reality television. 
Big brother? Love Island? Christ no! 

I do have a Facebook account, but I seldom look at it and I determinedly avoid Twitter on the grounds that one-liners are for stand-up comedians. 

FINALLY. 

It has been brought to my notice by daughter Jac that she has been unable to message me on the blog. I have no idea why. 

To anybody who has experienced similar difficulty I can only apologise. 

Go safely, my dears. 

There are few of you left.

Post 333. OVER THE CLOUDS.

THEN BACK TO EARTH

In a balloon. Yes! For a start they saw the rising sun from above the clouds. That was followed by what appears to have been a fascinating day before their final return to earth. It happened in Morocco yesterday (pictures are from Roz) and I am so full of joy that all went well for them that I had to let those of you nice folk who have followed Roz's progress since the double mastectomy see how she is right now. 

She, Jess and Ellis will be back on the Island next Tuesday. 

Also next week...

A VISITOR FROM THE MIDLANDS. 

Hannah, Mike Woods' lovely daughter, will be coming to stay for a while with the older of our two daughters, Jackie, and her father who has been Jac's partner for many years. 

Hannah has always been my little buddy and that will never change, even if the picture below does show that a little buddy can quietly transform into a sophisticated young woman. 

That's it again for now.  

Post 332. FAMILY IN AGADIR, MOROCCO.

CATS COMFORTABLE AT HOME.

We thought Roz's cats, Spike (pictured) and Angel, might miss the dog Buddy, their pal from back when Roz bought
them as kittens and him as little more than a puppy. But with typical feline adaptability they have settled to a comfortable life here without him and thoroughly enjoy being spoilt by two old people. He is being looked after by a nice carer at Freshwater for the entirety of Roz's trip with Jess and Ellis to Agadir. 

One of their holiday adventures will be a balloon flight taking them over part of the Atlas mountains. It sounds wonderful and the sort of thing everybody should do while they are still young enough to enjoy it. 

Me? I love the idea but my heart will be in my mouth until we hear that it's over and they are safe. 

Incidentally, on the eve of their departure for Morocco our Jess received news that she is now a fully fledged Master of Pharmacy: passed her finals with flying colours. We are all so proud and pleased for her. She takes nothing for granted and was convinced - as she always has been after sitting exams - that she had not done particularly well. In the event her marks were spectacularly good. 

Well done again, lovely girl. 

POLITICS. 

THEY DID IT, TOO. 

They selected Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson (born in America, educated at Eton and Oxford) to be Prime Minister of the UK and Leader of the Conservative Party. 

A friend sent me the (surely of Irish design) T shirt picture. Well, let's see how things go when they call the next national election. 

Until then: Judico non hominem ab amicis autem suis hostibus.  
Mr. Johnson will understand that. 

TELEVISION. 

THRILLERS STILL FAVOURITE. 

We saw the second series of M.C. Beaton's Agatha Raisin (Acorn TV) and, like the books, it was tongue-in-cheek fun for those who cannot be constantly concerned about Brexit. We enjoyed it. So, apparently, did 96% of Google users. Won't you sleep better for knowing that? (No reply necessary.) I cannot remember whether we ever watched Keeping Faith but we have accumulated an impressive collection of back episodes of it upon which to binge when the time is right. My Leader will instantly recall every series we've ever seen. I tend to remember in bits and pieces and to gain full recollection only in the last five or ten minutes. (Yeah, I know.) In the meantime we are still occasionally beguiled by very very old repeats of Marple and Foyle. No doubt about it, the thriller is still my favourite genre. 

Now there is talk that the public wants a new Foyle series on its screens. I'll drink to that. It would certainly be better than another load of junk dealers or property related rubbish. 

Reality TV - which unashamedly proliferates - remains my bête noire.

AND THAT'S IT.

I've just seen my latest Post viewing figures.

Ah well.

As dear old Berkeley Grey once said: “What do I care? I only write the bloody things anyway.”

Post 331. ENGLAND WON. FEDERER LOST.

YEP. IT'S THAT TIME. 

You can't miss it in this country. 

Wimbledon and tennis tennis tennis on BBC television, at the same time as World Cup (don't ask me) Cricket which, apparently, England won by very narrowly beating New Zealand in the final. 

I gather this was 'one day' cricket: I have never watched it and I'm too bloody old to start now, but well done England, enjoy it while you can. 

As for the tennis. Well, the obvious favourite, Roger Federer, lost in the longest ever final to the reigning champion Novak Djokovic (the one whose support team looks like a police identity parade). 

They've played against each other so many times it would be decidedly déjà vu if they weren't so damned good. 

Anyway, millions watched and enjoyed it and neither of them is going home short of a few shillings and a lot of respect.

HOME. 

Our back garden has been given a bashing. 

Stuart and Dave and a rented digger have demolished what had become a mountain high mass of weed, to reveal the biggest back garden in Wootton Bridge. 

The bedraggled old shed has been broken up and burnt – to the expected complaints from the standard neighbourhood complainant (duly ignored) and some small trees have gone (at least for my lifetime). 

What will happen next? 

I haven't a clue. 

TELEVISION. 

Gentleman Jack. 

We watched Suranne Jones stride through this lively frolic and she didn't put a foot wrong. The real life character Anne Lister was clearly years before her time. 

As usual, in costume drama, the villains were starkly villainous and the pass-me-the-smelling-salts friend of the hero/ine was pretty and pathetic. 

I gather there will be another series. Good. 

Poldark (BBC One) 

In what purports to be the last series, Aidan Turner and Eleanor Tomlinson are back as the demanding goodies, with Jack Farthing still the definitive baddy. Looks like Poldark may be angling to single-handedly abolish the slave trade to America. He'll do it, too, with or without the interference of top brass.

Cheerio. Keep your powder dry.

Post 330. TOO HOT TO WRITE.

SUFFERING SUMMER ENNUI. 

And running out of rude remarks. 

Which, you may be inclined to agree, has to be a first for me.

Looked back at some of my old copy – it wasn't bad - and found that I have nothing more scathing to say about my pet hates now than I had then. 

Politicians are still self-serving troublemaking twits and reality television is still dumbed-down dross for dickheads. 

Sitting at a desk for hours hasn't done much to diminish my girth, either, but as long as I am able to do it I will. 

It has to be better for me than sitting on a sofa watching the box.

MORE IMPORTANT MATTERS. 

Daughter Roz. 

In her fight back to fitness, Roz is taking long walks with the dog Buddy and weekly trips to the gym with daughter Jess. She still gets very tired, but looks more her old self every day. 

Another baby cat. 

This is Betty. She is the latest addition to daughter Jac and her partner Mike's household. Don't be fooled by the little legs, apparently she can jump for England and spends unsettlingly long hours exploring her new neighbourhood. 

I like her already and I've not yet seen her. 

Well, you either dote on cats...

TELEVISION. 

We have watched: 

Forces of Nature and The Planets (on BBC Four and BBC Two respectively) presented by the eminently watchable Professor Brian Cox (above). Lots of scenes of the likeable boffin trudging across imitation alien landscapes, but still no evidence of human life beyond earth. 

We enjoyed it for all that. 

We also enjoyed Prunella Scales and Timothy West traversing the canals of Vietnam and Cambodia on their Asian Odyssey. 

I think they must make any of us over eighty feel deflated and inflated in equal proportion. I couldn't steer a model boat across a boating lake, so their canal barge derring-do somewhat humbles me, but their closeness and generosity of spirit then reminds me how lucky I, too, have been to spend the last fifty seven years with my Mo. 

Break a leg, West family! 

London Kills.

Another London cop series apparently shown in America before it got here. Why? It has a good cast and good scripts and deserves better than the afternoon B picture spot given it by the BBC. It ran for a week and finished. Hell, it's Wimbledon again now and nothing, but nothing, must interfere with that.

FINALLY THIS MONTH. 

The cat Shadow.

Has elected himself Guardian of the Slippers. 

It's an age thing.

Yeah, I know.

Post 329. SHADOW SOLDIERS ON.

A SHADOW OF HIMSELF.

The cat Shadow 

The old boy struggles to resist elderly impairment but sadly is no longer the indomitable lad seen in the picture. We keep him going with decent food and drink and a lot of affection. 

He has been part of our family for many years so, come what may, we'll not let him down now. 

Ah! Mistake! 

He caught a glimpse of the above and insisted I add the following contribution of his own: 

Cats need people? 

I'm Shadow, I'm the poetry cat. 

Quite handy with a verse. 

Ready, perhaps, for the knacker's yard. 

But not yet for the hearse. 

My eating habits are becoming erratic. 

I like being cuddled: 

But spend too much time static. 

And my two people pets 

Seem to give not a rap, 

So long as I gets 

To that bloody cat flap. 

As for cats needing people? 

Well, maybe it's true. 

Though never as much 

As their daft pet dogs do. 

So perhaps you'll remember 

When I finally go: 

I'm the cat who did doggerel. 

Not that nice guy below. 

(With apologies to Benjamin Zephaniah.) 

IOW FESTIVAL 2019. 

It's with us again. 

A long weekend of loud music, strobe lighting, traffic juggling, wind, and rain. Roz and Ellis have been. Neither stayed late, but they enjoyed the acts they saw. 

They'll be back there today to see Madness.

 Biffy Clyro are top group tonight. Mo and I won't go. We like Madness and I (in company with the cat Shadow) enjoy Biffy Clyro, but we'll watch them on television. 

We saw about ten minutes of Fatboy Slim's set on the box last night. My conclusion was that those in his audience who did not have an epileptic fit, would be stricken by acute deafness or, at best, a lifetime of recurrent headaches. 

We heard much of it from here and that's some three miles away. Roz assures me the fans enjoyed every moment of it. So clearly I'm not festival fan material. Nothing new there then. 

POLITICS. 

There are lies, damned lies, statistics, and politics. 

In the early days of this blog I seem to remember saying I would avoid politics. That turned out to be about as truthful as the words of most of the contenders in the current bunfight to become Prime Minister of the UK.

Leading the field right now is England's prize liar Boris Johnson, who seems to be favoured by America's prize liar Donald Trump. I think that says it all. 

SO...WHAT? 

So...many people are doing it, that's what. 

Starting a sentence with the word 'so' has become for many people the latest alternative to the insertion of the word 'like' (or the pointless effin' and blindin' spouted by many stand-up comedians) to support every point they make. 

It is an irksome affectation so it will probably go on for longer than I remain alive to swear under my breath when I hear it. 

TELEVISION. 

My Leader and I 

Have been watching The Looming Tower. 
No wonder the world is in such a shambles. What a shower of weird egotistical nutcases. 
And that's only the CIA and FBI. 

I have been watching Years and Years, the Russell T. Davies version of 1984. 

Every bit as frightening as Orwell. 

AND FINALLY. 

Our Roz - pictured below with her daemon, Buddy – (see Philip Pullman's Dark Materials) is making steady progress and it shows. We like the blonde look.