Post 363. GARDENER OR BAKER.

IF YOU AIN'T ONE YOU'RE THE OTHER.

SOMETIMES BOTH. As daughter Roz  has recently proven. A little of her venture into garden restructuring at our humble hovel can be seen above. That border was previously a tangle of tree roots and weeds edging the car park behind the house. Beyond it was a jungle of neglect and neighbouring misuse. Not now. With such outside help as kind family members could give, she set about righting it. 

 New fencing. Ground levelling. Total clearing up job. Voila! 

SHE HAS ALSO boldly embarked on that other staple of the British lockdown prisoner, bread baking. Her first loaf graced our kitchen this week and was an instant success. It was a 'Paul Hollywood's loaf for beginners' recipe which can be found on the net, and the result was well worth a congratulatory handshake. Her great grandfather would have been delighted with her. Granddad's name was Bill Pope and he was probably the only foreman baker in Portsmouth still baking bread after two WW2 blitzes by the Germans in one night wiped out the city's electricity. He knew how to fire up the wood ovens to produce loaves the old-fashioned way and that was what he did.

He would have carefully cut a slice off Roz's loaf, eyed it up, given it an appreciative sniff, and uttered the magic words: “Beautiful texture.” Those two words were his ultimate seal of approval. He would have adored her and she him. Oh, the loaf in the picture, though hers looked very like it, is not the one made by Roz: hers was half devoured before anybody could photograph it. The one above does look good though, doesn't it. Well done Mr. Hollywood. And well done Rosalind Barnden.

 NOT SO WELL DONE.

THE GREAT BRITISH PUBLIC, particularly those of it who, because they could, lethally packed British beaches come the first unfettered glimpse of sunshine.  Despite closed shops, padlocked public toilets, and a plethora of parking tickets, the silly born bastards drove in their droves to the seaside to ignorantly risk furthering the COVID-19 pandemic. Don't ask. I long ago stopped wondering why human beings can be so bloody daft.

Keep far enough apart, dear reader.

Though maybe not that far.

 

Post 362. SOMETHING ORIGINAL?

YOU'RE UNLIKELY TO FIND IT ON TELEVISION.

ORIGINALITY is the programme producer's bête noire. If the coronavirus lockdown in our country has illustrated one negative facet of national television above any other it surely has to be the dogged determination with which the production powers-that-be adhere to the status quo: or amend it to its detriment. Much of today's programming is presented as if the target audience is a class of pre-school children. I watch it briefly, then reach for the 'let's find something other than this rubbish' remote. You have to have some pride. Among my pet hates I would particularly mention the new format of:  

BARGAIN HUNT. Who was it decided that this popular old programme would be improved if you set the contestants a programme presenter's challenge of buying at least one item priced over £70 and/or an item made in a place like Outer Mongolia? Could nobody convince whoever the moron was that you don't spend over £70 for something in a junk shop and make a profit on it in an auction house where the customers (most of whom have only come in to get out of the rain) have absolutely no intention of bidding any more than a tenner for anything no matter where it came from? Did nobody think to mention that the only bargain hunters who ever made a profit at auction were those who spent threepence ha'penny for something that fetched thirty bob or who risked thirty bob on something that magically made them thirty quid (less auction percentage and VAT)? 

For chrissake get back to the timeworn formula. It worked.

POINTS OF VIEW. Let us see the current presenter Tina Daheley on screen. We saw more than enough of Mr. Ubiquitous (Jeremy Vine) for ten years. On each of the last two series I have sent an email complaining about this sexist oversight. Neither approach was heeded. Well, neither complaint started “why oh why oh why...” 

 Do come on though, BBC. Before y'know what you'll be making me pay the licence fee.

AND THERE ARE MORE. But life really is far too short to go over the list of antique twaddle, cooking crap, reality rubbish etc. etc. yet again. As it is:

WE HAVE BEEN WATCHING Prime Video series Hanna (too many episodes: half a dozen would be quite enough) and are increasingly drawn to Netflix and YouTube where many of the repeats are so old even I have forgotten how good or bad they originally were. Recently saw Alan Ladd and his son, David, in The Proud Rebel, a film with Olivia deHavilland which I don't think I ever did see before. It was sensitively directed by Michael Curtiz. Was reminded how unkind technicolour was to actors. The acting was good though: David Ladd won a Golden Globe award as “Best Newcomer of 1958” and a special award for “Best Juvenile Actor.” Hard to believe he's 73 now. Ms. de Havilland, bless her, is 103.

Coming back to the twenty first century, we have been chilling out with Jason Statham's blood and thunder offerings on Netflix. Apparently he doesn't like that many of them and very bluntly says so. Well, there are far worse action movies being produced without apology by his competitors. Actors should only utter unscripted lines to those of their nearest and dearest they know they can trust. Not all publicity is good publicity. Even the UK government must have realised that. Hancock's half hour as coronavirus patsy for the PM came to a complete end yesterday evening. The PM took the stand in person. There's a surprise.

AND TO CONCLUDE. The monster garden here at our island home is slowly being licked into shape by one of our nearest and dearest, daughter Roz. She has also spared me the expense of buying a violin by cutting my hair: it had reached a lockdown length of hippy proportions. Now I could take a squad on a drill square again and face not a single questioning eyebrow. That's what I call a haircut.

All for now.

Mix from a sensible distance: don't mingle.

Post 361. EVERYBODY HAS A GRIEVANCE.

HENCE THE THREAT TO PIGEONS' LAVATORIES.

IN A WORLD OF RETRIBUTION SEEKERS.

NOW IT'S STATUES. Throughout my boyhood, and certainly until we moved over here, there was a statue of Queen Victoria in the Guildhall Square, Portsmouth. I never gave it much thought. I'm not a royalist, but I'd rather have them in our palaces than a load of bloody politicians: then again, I'd rather have affordable homes for young people than a load of bloody palaces. I'm no great supporter of privilege: but I can't stop it. 

Anyway, I believe the Queen Vic statue is still there, though I gather it is currently under threat from today's militia of aggrieved zealots who, seeking abject apology for our past misdeeds, are threatening to remove all reminders of sins such as slavery from the world they feel it should now be. Some task.

Not to be left out of any possibility of a ruckus, hordes of moronic football hooligans, bored without opposition supporters to kick into A & E, are determined to “protect our heritage” from those would-be erasers of the more unlaudable events in our history. Oh dear oh dear.

When I was working for the - long defunct - Portsmouth Executive Council (NHS) back in the sixties a senior colleague, shooing the pigeons off his office windowsill for the umpteenth time, remarked to me: “Look at 'em, the useless articles. Good for nothing but fornicating, and defecating.”

I grinned and said: “Old Queen Victoria probably sent them here.” The royal statue was just a few hundred yards away. ”Maybe they'll go cooing back there now and crap on her.”

He liked the sound of that. “Good,” he said. “Serve her bloody right.”

And that was that.

The respected art historian Sir Simon Schama (he of the most gloriously unkempt bookcase in the UK) thinks statues should be relocated to museums. An interesting viewpoint. It would cost a lot of money, but it could save a lot of angst. When you think about it, though, there would not be that much sense in such an evacuation. Most statues are just lavatories for pigeons. The majority of us spend our lives strolling past them without a second glance: they are ignored stone effigies of royals and so-called national heroes left there for the pigeons to shit on. Public toilets have been closed to humans for several months now; don't let's begrudge our feathered friends their simple relief. Leave their loos alone. The retribution seekers will eventually find something else for which to seek retribution. If there's a second pandemic it'll probably be that.

I STILL DO NOT SUBSCRIBE to Twitter, and seldom open my Facebook account. Am extremely wary of social discourse.

J.K. Rowling's recent experience of social media backlash (if you're one of her fans, or a determined detractor, you'll know more about it than I do) has done nothing to allay my cautious outlook on expressing honest opinion nowadays.

This much I do know: if I had been a child actor blessed with wealth and fame by the magical talent of a world famous author and, when I grew up, that author had somehow said or written something with which I had misgivings, I would have waited until I next met her to make my doubts known and seek further enlightenment. 

Publicly I would have kept my big trap shut.

All for now.

Keep your distance, it ain't over yet!