poat 483. THREE ELECTIONS.

IN A DIFFERENT BRITAIN

FROM THE ONE WHERE I WAS BORN.
Sad but true. It matters not a jot to me that Labour won in Selby and Ainsty, the Liberals won in Somerton and Frome, or that the Conservatives scraped in at Uxbridge and South Ruislip. The country that Messrs Mather and Tuckwell and Ms Dyke are going to Westminster to govern is not the country into which I was born four score years and twelve ago.
I know I have written this before, but it is a sober fact. Throughout my entire childhood the only 'person of colour' upon whom I set eyes was on a cinema screen throwing spears at Tarzan, or singing 'Ol' Man River.' That is now considered a bad thing. We knew no different.
At the elementary school to which I was transferred at around six or seven years, little lads were still arriving barefoot and being fitted out with council boots so nobody would be in any doubt they were from a family too poor to afford shoes like the rest of us. It was that sort of means testing little country, and there are those today who, given the chance, would reintroduce it tomorrow. Empathy? Huh! But it does mean, whatever your race, creed, or colour, that I no more need a media lecture on discrimination from you than I need to hear some fanciful bullshitter sounding off about 'the good old days.' It was not a better country then, it was a different country. It's just more crowded now. And I do not like crowds. Crowds breed gangs and gangs breed bullies, and the biggest bullies get to the top. You only have to appraise the powerful in politics to confirm that.
So, even though I respect the views embraced by kind-hearted Brits in the media (more of them from abroad every year) that there is always room here, and there is loads of money here, and we are an accepting nation here, as a person of no firm political - or much other - belief, I do sometimes wonder how right they are. Is the struggle to rehouse the population of entire countries simply playing into the hands of the bullies who make those countries uninhabitable? And there's good and bad, even in a shifting population. But what else can we do?

Most of my contemporaries are dead and buried or incinerated, so I am too old to do anything.
Of all the mistakes I have made the biggest was in not doing as Maureen suggested, when we were  newly married, and try to emigrate to New Zealand. I weakly argued that a go-ahead country would not want an ex army wireless operator, they only wanted qualified tradesmen.
So we stayed put and, thankfully, both we and our surviving children have managed. But Maureen would have loved, even to have seen, New Zealand, and I didn't give her the chance.
I'm sorry about that. It clearly is a beautiful country, give or take the occasional earthquake.
Meanwhile, midst the same shrill voices of dissent in the the UK, my sole ray of cheer is... 

THE PROMS.

Where last night yet another of my wish list was ticked when Max Bruch's Violin Concerto No.1 was played by brilliant South Korean violinist Bomsori with the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by lively German conductor Anja Bihimaier. Bomsori delighted the Proms audience with an encore by a Polish composer. The rest of the programme consisted of the now customary mixture: i.e. the tuneful and the tuneless, the former to musically entertain and the latter to assertively educate. I'll settle for the former any time. Give us a tune, kid, give us a tune.

That's it for this month.

Even for those who play the fiddle.

Be lucky.  

Post 482. THE PROMS.

A GREAT START

ON TELEVISION.
The BBC Proms 2023 season fulfilled much of my wish list in its first two television broadcasts. On the first night Clive Myrie introduced a programme of Nordic music that opened with (1) Jean Sibelius's Finlandia, featured (2) Edvard Greig's Piano Concerto (a splendid performance by Paul Lewis), and (3) concluded with Benjamin Britten's Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra (presumably on the grounds that a young Nord or two would be watching it). The BBC Symphony Orchestra and Chorus was charismatically managed by Finnish conductor Dalia Stasevska. Three off my list in one night. The second broadcast ticked another two wishes off the list.
(1) It was introduced by Katie Derham, and (2) Finland's Pekka Kuusisto was back.
Pekka conducted Die Deutsche Kammerphilharmonie Bremen. The programme consisted of Andrea Tarrodi's composition Birds of Paradise, Beethoven's Symphony No.! and, with Pekka on violin (in company with Ale Carr), Vivaldi's The Four Seasons. The evening was an enormous success. Oh, the encore was verbatim the one given by Pekka at a similar function in Sweden a while back (see YouTube). But why not? Pull in the audience and you've got a good encore.

Pekka Kuusisto (for the benefit of any unapprised reader) is a truly great entertainer.
ALSO ON TELEVISION.

I have watched two mini series on BBC: The Sixth Commandment, and Body On The Beach: What Happened to Annie? Both are based on true events. The sordid side of real life does not appeal to me, but Sixth has a wonderful cast, and Annie a spooky fascination. I think they can still be watched so I shall say no more about them now. Just go carefully, friend. It's a weird world

Post 481. IT'S CYNICAL WARFARE.

WHEN YOU CAN BE BLOWN UP

JUST WALKING THE DOG.
It is cynical and cowardly warfare, but the most dangerous countries in the world are still producing landmines and promoting the use of cluster bombs. Now America is gifting cluster bombs to Ukraine for use against their Russian invader. Presumably because psychotic Russians are using them on Ukrainians. Has nobody ever heard the expression two wrongs don't make a right? Has nobody stopped to think that it won't be Russians who are killed or maimed by the unexploded residue of this cursed weapon when the invader has eventually departed? It will be another of those places in the world where you can be blown up just walking the dog. 

Is there no end to human senselessness? Apparently not. So, closer to home:
WHAT AN UTTER IDIOT!

As I write, the name of a BBC 'senior' who has been accused of unspecified but inappropriate behaviour involving a young man/some young men has not been divulged. Whoever it is won't remain nameless for long, and his career with the BBC will (may already) be over.
Why on earth didn't the fate of Phillip Schofield stop him in his tracks? What an utter idiot! 

TELEVISION.

BBC Proms are back on Friday 15th July. Hurray!

A recent prelude to them was the BBC4 Perfect Pianists From BBC Archives programme of 2016, presented by David Owen Norris, himself a fine pianist. It is now safe among my recordings.
And that'll do for now.

Take it easy

Post 480. DEJA VOUS?

WITH NO HELP FROM THIS LITTLE GUY.

WE DID THE USUAL CHORES.
There followed a visit to St. Mary's Hospital, Newport, me for a blood test initiated by my oncologist: Mo as my constant companion and faithful driver. It has all happened before. It happened again this week: Monday: Mo waited in the car.
A nice young woman shepherded me through the blood test process. I was in and out in half an hour, thankful again for the kindness and competence of a, doubtless underpaid, hospital staff member who will, in the current (caring?) climate, be required to pay to park her car in the grounds of the very place where she does such valuable work. Don't talk NHS Trusts to me!
We had a good trip home in the 4pm traffic and, for a change (hollow laughter), watched:
TELEVISION.
Still OK for the news and weather, most of which is painfully believable.
The rest is a mishmash of predictable chat shows, quizzes, and reality rubbish. I sidestep much of it. Mo is more open-minded. Films save the day for me. Recently we saw Tom  Hanks and Mark Rylance in the 2015 film Bridge of Spies, directed by Steven Spielberg. Based on a  true story in the Hollywood sort of way: Well scripted. Well acted. Thought provoking. We also saw Angelina Jolie in a gloriously daft Maleficent film. Needs no thinking. Just sit back and enjoy it.

At home alone (generally when Mo has departed with a book or to a tea and cakes morning), I rely on compact disc or television recordings, and on YouTube. Nearly all classical stuff.

What's the point of growing old if you can't be a predictable bore? And know it. And not care.
THAT'S ABOUT ALL FOR NOW.
Oh, if the surge in the number of folk who looked at WATCHING last month was not an illusion, I wonder if I praised somebody whose huge fan club reads anything that mentions their star's name. Or whether I have somehow been mistaken for another writer entirely. Nice anyway.

A WEEK AWAY FROM THE START OF THE PROMS.

MORE THEN.