COMMENT IF YOU MUST - BUT EXPECT NOTHING.
I was talking to son Neil on the webcam last week and he expressed regret that my year of blogging seems to have attracted little by way of comment.
But, y'know, I am not sure that either the proffering or the receiving of comment is necessarily a welcome addition to anybody's blog. (See my post Not Everybody Will Like You.) The first thing to bear in mind is that there is no brotherhood/sisterhood/personhood (curse all that bloody P.C. stuff) that will guarantee a favourable response should you approach another blogger.
If, for example, your one hobby is patchwork quilting it is unlikely that you will find much in common with a football fanatic or a jazz fiend or a train spotter. If you don't know your website from your blogsite you are unlikely to obtain anything but instant deletion from a computer buff. If you are an old guy who plays all the Harry Potter PC games and reads J.K. Rowling you will probably be regarded as retarded by the younger blogger who plays chess and reads Marcus Aurelius.
From the little I have gleaned in the last year, bloggers are understandably suspicious of any encroachment upon their blog space. If a complete stranger crossed the road and sought to enter your life, that stranger would probably be advised to depart and multiply; so why should you react differently to an unexpected arrival at your blogsite?
Bloggers see most unsolicited approaches as attempts to gain oblique advertising.
And even if you appear to have everything in common with one of them, don't be fooled.
Bloggers are writers - well, some of 'em are - and you should never judge a writer by his writing. Some very accomplished writers have been far from likeable human beings (think of Somerset Maugham, Evelyn Waugh and Randolph Churchill for a start), so I would neither expect, nor necessarily give, a hail-fellow-well-met response to blog comment, no matter how well meaning. That having been said, I have made the mistake once or twice.
But I constantly bear in mind the words of the playwright John Eliot in his book MOGUL, The Making Of A Myth (1970). "Writers...live in shells, sucking nourishment from the world and only giving out squirts of ink. They brood. They harbour grievances. They are subject to fits of depression; and are tortuous and difficult to know. They are cast down by criticism and elated by praise, but secretly, and it goes into their work."
After one of the films in which he appeared it was remarked of the actor Charles Laughton that he stood around the edge of the set waiting to be offended.
In my experience, quite a lot of writers are like that, too.
I don't intend to be one of them.
Can't speak for you.
A CERTAIN AGE.
On the 26th July it was our daughter Jac's birthday. On the 31st July J.K.Rowling reached the same age. According to Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, each of them on that particular day became The Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything.
Jac is a teacher at a primary school and Jo is an internationally famous author. I think Mr. Adams was right on both counts.
Oh, neither of them looks anything like their age, either, but I won't say so for fear of being labelled smarmy.
THERE ARE FEW THINGS MORE CERTAIN.
In this life there are few certainties.
I can think of but three:
If you have gone up to the attic there will be a knock at the front door.
If you are using the lavatory the phone will ring and
If you have finally broken your links with your car insurers...
It was obvious that I was not going to receive my No Claims Bonus details from Age Concern's motor insurance people once I had told them I had found another insurer. I sent a SAE with the request which they returned with a note telling me in so many words that they'd deal with the matter when they got around to it. My letter to them went on 24th June, my new insurance started on 6th July. It is now August 5th.
Not so much as a kiss my...
Am I surprised? No.
I'm sure I'll manage without them.
MORE SPORTING WORDS WITH THE CAT.
"That was a helluva result for England, 62 - 5 against Wales at Twickenham," I said to the cat Shadow.
He was in dozing mode on my lap.
"I think you'll find it was the Welsh second team," he said. "But yeah, it was a helluva result."
"Good to see names like Lawrence Dallaglio and Jonny Wilkinson back in the England side, too."
"Be better still when you feel they can win without names like Dallaglio and Wilkinson in the side," he said.
"Did you go round to one of your mates to watch it on Sky?" I asked
"Na-a-ah. I stayed here for the Women's British Open at St. Andrews. I sleep much sounder with the golf. Mexican girl, Lorena Ochoa was in the lead when I dropped off. She was looking good." He grinned his cat grin. "Playing well, too."
"A lot of them look good now," I said. "I think the days of statuesque golfers like Dame Joan Hammond are long gone."
"Didn't you once say she was a singer?"
"Yeah, she was. Healthiest looking Mimi I ever saw on stage."
"Good was she?"
"Bloody marvellous. Her One Fine Day from Madame Butterfly could last me all week."
"Can't see any of today's bunch being that versatile," he said. "You've seen some remarkably talented people over the years, haven't you?"
I have indeed. He didn't need a reply.
I sighed contentedly and he went back to sleep.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
81. A bit of a C.V.
THINGS NOT TO DO IN RETIREMENT.
At the end of March 1989, faced with yet another unnecessary change in the structure of the National Health Service, I retired. I was fifty eight and had been in the business for thirty two years. I was glad to see the back of it.
Since 1974 there had been several pointless major changes, clearly politically motivated and obviously designed to give bigger empires to ambitious little creeps in the civil service. None of the changes had ever benefited the patient.
The NHS was a mess and still is.
As soon as politicians sense the political gain to be made from mindlessly meddling with a public service you can be sure they will turn it into an administrative nightmare. Currently the NHS is controlled by bunches of faceless, unelected yes-persons called Trusts. I wouldn't trust any of them to control off-peak traffic in a remote village.
Anyway, there was I, retired and still young enough to do something other than go out and sit on a park bench or stay in and watch television.
"Lots of retired blokes play golf," I said to my Leader. "Perhaps I should learn to play golf."
She dismissed the notion instantly.
"I don't think so. You would very soon find that you were not going to become another Faldo or Ballesteros. You'd be in a permanently bad temper and your blood pressure would suffer."
I knew she was right. Always erratic at games, I've never been much of an outdoor type.
I needed an indoor hobby.
"How about the piano then? I had a couple of lessons when I was little. I can still play Drink To Me Only with both hands."
"But you'd never get to play Rachmaninov 2 like John Ogden or the Grieg like Philip Fowke. Think how frustrating that would be for you."
I sighed: I knew she was right.
"Why not try art classes or something?" she prompted. "Or maybe get a little part-time job."
So I obtained - worked at for three years, then took my second and final retirement from - a little part time job.
The job was with Age Concern, a registered charity.
CHARITY IS A SHREWD BUSINESS.
One of the first things you have to understand as an employee new to a national charity is that you are not working for a benign benefactor you are working for a shrewd business.
Charities have honed their collecting techniques over the years and there are now few lucrative avenues left for them to explore. They have become landlords, shopkeepers and insurance brokers. Their manipulation of self-serving politicians is experienced and clever. The vast office blocks from which most of them operate and the plethora of high street charity shops and local administrative offices under their control are not subject to normal business council tax.
They appeal to the well-meaning and are an irresistable draw to publicity conscious celebrities.
I was the district organizer (known here as The Secretary) of Age Concern, Isle of Wight. I worked weekday mornings, was on a small honorarium which barely covered my travel to and from the office, parking and the telephone calls which I frequently made from home in the afternoon. But I was happy enough.
As time went by I came to meet district organizers from across the water; a bloke from Hampshire who I soon learned not to take at face value - either of them - and a nice chap in Portsmouth who had once been a Catholic Monsignor or something and had abandoned his calling to get married. I liked him. I found that they (and hundreds more like them within the organization) were full-timers on very decent salaries. Nothing wrong with that. They were, after all, working for a sacred cow.
I think it was Robert Townsend in his book Up The Organization who maintained that three years was enough time for a manager who gives fully to his job: the rascal should then go gracefully or be carried out kicking and screaming.
I decided it was time to depart.
I wrote a letter to my Chairperson recommending the direction in which Age Concern, Isle of Wight, should head: it included the appointment of a full-time Organizer (which, I stipulated, would not be me) a move from the coastal town of Ryde to the capital town of Newport and the setting up of an Island A.C. shop which at that time it did not have.
I had done all I could. I departed gracefully.
My only connection with Age Concern from then on was through the car insurance which I took out with them in the early nineties and, because I paid monthly by direct debit, was too apathetic to change.
Recently I became disenchanted with their insurance branch. It had developed cunning plans for levying additional revenue. These included turning over the customer's direct debit to a credit company (which, of course, charged interest) and exacting a payment (usually £10) whenever any change was made to the customer's computer details.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't completely dismiss Age Concern. I just started to take their concern for the aged cum grano salis.
So this year I found a far better car insurance deal on the internet.
It pleases me to report that all my recommendations for A.C. Isle of Wight were later implemented.
I wonder who took the credit for them?
BRIEF CHAT WITH A SLEEPY CAT.
"Bit dire without the golf," the cat Shadow ventured, snug and half asleep in my Leader's chair.
"Good, wasn't it, Padraig Harrington winning the Open?" I said. "Nice to have an Irishman as champion again."
"Were you alive when the last one won it?"
"1947, Fred Daly. He was the only other Irishman. Yeah, I was alive."
"Did you follow it?"
"No, all I can remember about golf then was Norman Von Nida throwing his clubs over hedges."
"South African was he?"
"Australian: I think they named a tournament after him."
"Funny how they always honour the bad tempered buggers," he said. "I'm surprised they've not renamed Wimbledon McEnroe Fortnight and had the finalists competing for the You Cannot Be Serious Cup."
I pointed out that ol' Mac has mellowed a lot over the years and that Norman, who died in May this year aged 93, was probably a lovely bloke away from the golf course...
Then I heard a faint snore mixed with the purr and it was clear that he had dropped off again.
His conversations can be quite brief.
At the end of March 1989, faced with yet another unnecessary change in the structure of the National Health Service, I retired. I was fifty eight and had been in the business for thirty two years. I was glad to see the back of it.
Since 1974 there had been several pointless major changes, clearly politically motivated and obviously designed to give bigger empires to ambitious little creeps in the civil service. None of the changes had ever benefited the patient.
The NHS was a mess and still is.
As soon as politicians sense the political gain to be made from mindlessly meddling with a public service you can be sure they will turn it into an administrative nightmare. Currently the NHS is controlled by bunches of faceless, unelected yes-persons called Trusts. I wouldn't trust any of them to control off-peak traffic in a remote village.
Anyway, there was I, retired and still young enough to do something other than go out and sit on a park bench or stay in and watch television.
"Lots of retired blokes play golf," I said to my Leader. "Perhaps I should learn to play golf."
She dismissed the notion instantly.
"I don't think so. You would very soon find that you were not going to become another Faldo or Ballesteros. You'd be in a permanently bad temper and your blood pressure would suffer."
I knew she was right. Always erratic at games, I've never been much of an outdoor type.
I needed an indoor hobby.
"How about the piano then? I had a couple of lessons when I was little. I can still play Drink To Me Only with both hands."
"But you'd never get to play Rachmaninov 2 like John Ogden or the Grieg like Philip Fowke. Think how frustrating that would be for you."
I sighed: I knew she was right.
"Why not try art classes or something?" she prompted. "Or maybe get a little part-time job."
So I obtained - worked at for three years, then took my second and final retirement from - a little part time job.
The job was with Age Concern, a registered charity.
CHARITY IS A SHREWD BUSINESS.
One of the first things you have to understand as an employee new to a national charity is that you are not working for a benign benefactor you are working for a shrewd business.
Charities have honed their collecting techniques over the years and there are now few lucrative avenues left for them to explore. They have become landlords, shopkeepers and insurance brokers. Their manipulation of self-serving politicians is experienced and clever. The vast office blocks from which most of them operate and the plethora of high street charity shops and local administrative offices under their control are not subject to normal business council tax.
They appeal to the well-meaning and are an irresistable draw to publicity conscious celebrities.
I was the district organizer (known here as The Secretary) of Age Concern, Isle of Wight. I worked weekday mornings, was on a small honorarium which barely covered my travel to and from the office, parking and the telephone calls which I frequently made from home in the afternoon. But I was happy enough.
As time went by I came to meet district organizers from across the water; a bloke from Hampshire who I soon learned not to take at face value - either of them - and a nice chap in Portsmouth who had once been a Catholic Monsignor or something and had abandoned his calling to get married. I liked him. I found that they (and hundreds more like them within the organization) were full-timers on very decent salaries. Nothing wrong with that. They were, after all, working for a sacred cow.
I think it was Robert Townsend in his book Up The Organization who maintained that three years was enough time for a manager who gives fully to his job: the rascal should then go gracefully or be carried out kicking and screaming.
I decided it was time to depart.
I wrote a letter to my Chairperson recommending the direction in which Age Concern, Isle of Wight, should head: it included the appointment of a full-time Organizer (which, I stipulated, would not be me) a move from the coastal town of Ryde to the capital town of Newport and the setting up of an Island A.C. shop which at that time it did not have.
I had done all I could. I departed gracefully.
My only connection with Age Concern from then on was through the car insurance which I took out with them in the early nineties and, because I paid monthly by direct debit, was too apathetic to change.
Recently I became disenchanted with their insurance branch. It had developed cunning plans for levying additional revenue. These included turning over the customer's direct debit to a credit company (which, of course, charged interest) and exacting a payment (usually £10) whenever any change was made to the customer's computer details.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't completely dismiss Age Concern. I just started to take their concern for the aged cum grano salis.
So this year I found a far better car insurance deal on the internet.
It pleases me to report that all my recommendations for A.C. Isle of Wight were later implemented.
I wonder who took the credit for them?
BRIEF CHAT WITH A SLEEPY CAT.
"Bit dire without the golf," the cat Shadow ventured, snug and half asleep in my Leader's chair.
"Good, wasn't it, Padraig Harrington winning the Open?" I said. "Nice to have an Irishman as champion again."
"Were you alive when the last one won it?"
"1947, Fred Daly. He was the only other Irishman. Yeah, I was alive."
"Did you follow it?"
"No, all I can remember about golf then was Norman Von Nida throwing his clubs over hedges."
"South African was he?"
"Australian: I think they named a tournament after him."
"Funny how they always honour the bad tempered buggers," he said. "I'm surprised they've not renamed Wimbledon McEnroe Fortnight and had the finalists competing for the You Cannot Be Serious Cup."
I pointed out that ol' Mac has mellowed a lot over the years and that Norman, who died in May this year aged 93, was probably a lovely bloke away from the golf course...
Then I heard a faint snore mixed with the purr and it was clear that he had dropped off again.
His conversations can be quite brief.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
80. A week of Pottering
POTTER IS STILL WORTH THE WATCHING...
We made it to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on the day after the opening. Five of us went and four enjoyed it. Well, I reckon if you manage to please 80% of your audience you've not done badly.
I thought it was like the other films, good so long as you didn't expect a replica of the book: I enjoyed it. Mind you, I did not believe it to be that much better or worse than the previous four Potter outings. True there is an increasing darkness in the narrative, but that only reflects the mood of the books.
I cannot see why some critics have chosen to unfavourably compare Chris Columbus's direction of Philosopher's Stone and Chamber of Secrets with the later offerings of other directors. Not only had he the task of transforming a bunch of inexperienced children into actors but he had also to set the standard for later productions. I think he did a splendid job.
My apologies now if you have not seen any of the films. Currently there are some good DVD offers on the internet.
Probably my favourite of the series so far has been The Prisoner of Azkaban. Just how much director Alfonso Cuaron had to do with it I don't know, but the recounting of J.K.s clever idea about Hermione using a Time-Turner to transport her and Harry back to where they thought Buckbeak had been executed and thence to the lakeside where Sirius had been magically saved from the Dementors was excellent, as was the earlier scene where Hermione, much to the amazement and admiration of Harry and Ron, punched Draco Malfoy on the nose.
I thought The Goblet of Fire was a bit truncated but it was quite a long book so I suppose director Mike Newell, faced with obvious time constraints, had to resort to some massive scene and character cutting.
This also applied to The Order of the Phoenix which is but a shadow of the book. The director, David Yates, has also been chosen to direct The Half Blood Prince and shooting should commence in September.
It is thought that Deathly Hallows should be out around 2010.
That's my eightieth year but I don't mind waiting.
AND THE READING
I have just finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: allegedly the last book in the Potter saga.
It is a combination of rip-roaring action and stultifying inaction.
My son, fearful of spoilers, read it over the weekend. The action, he opined, was written with a canny eye to the film adaptation. The inaction (my opinion) was either a deliberate ploy to influence the mood of the reader at that point in the narrative or an example of J.K. treading water whilst she determined in which direction to swim next. He thinks definitely the latter.
We are agreed that publishers Bloomsbury need not worry too much about the permanent departure of their famous son. Even if Harry does not come back, Hogwarts will.
Incidentally, without spoiling anything, I knew right away by whom the silver doe Patronus had been sent. Long ago guessed the sender's secret, too. It was a lovely notion and it has kept me a bit smugly know-all since the very first book.
Heck, Jo, I've been reading whodunnits since I was nine years old.
On the lightest of notes, it has rained throughout most of my reading time. When I left the house for the shops the other day I realized that I could remember neither Hermione's spell, finite incantatum, nor Arthur Weasley's meteolojinx recanto (both rain stoppers, courtesy of J.K.) so I pointed my umbrella skywards and formed my own incantation, rainomoroverus, which I terminated suddenly when it dawned on me that I could get back home to find I had brought to an abrupt end the reign of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly woman who has done me no harm).
Joanne Rowling, if by magic you should ever read this, you remain high on my list of favourite writers. Even in the talent blind world of publishing somebody would have had to find you. I'm glad they did it in my lifetime.
We made it to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on the day after the opening. Five of us went and four enjoyed it. Well, I reckon if you manage to please 80% of your audience you've not done badly.
I thought it was like the other films, good so long as you didn't expect a replica of the book: I enjoyed it. Mind you, I did not believe it to be that much better or worse than the previous four Potter outings. True there is an increasing darkness in the narrative, but that only reflects the mood of the books.
I cannot see why some critics have chosen to unfavourably compare Chris Columbus's direction of Philosopher's Stone and Chamber of Secrets with the later offerings of other directors. Not only had he the task of transforming a bunch of inexperienced children into actors but he had also to set the standard for later productions. I think he did a splendid job.
My apologies now if you have not seen any of the films. Currently there are some good DVD offers on the internet.
Probably my favourite of the series so far has been The Prisoner of Azkaban. Just how much director Alfonso Cuaron had to do with it I don't know, but the recounting of J.K.s clever idea about Hermione using a Time-Turner to transport her and Harry back to where they thought Buckbeak had been executed and thence to the lakeside where Sirius had been magically saved from the Dementors was excellent, as was the earlier scene where Hermione, much to the amazement and admiration of Harry and Ron, punched Draco Malfoy on the nose.
I thought The Goblet of Fire was a bit truncated but it was quite a long book so I suppose director Mike Newell, faced with obvious time constraints, had to resort to some massive scene and character cutting.
This also applied to The Order of the Phoenix which is but a shadow of the book. The director, David Yates, has also been chosen to direct The Half Blood Prince and shooting should commence in September.
It is thought that Deathly Hallows should be out around 2010.
That's my eightieth year but I don't mind waiting.
AND THE READING
I have just finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: allegedly the last book in the Potter saga.
It is a combination of rip-roaring action and stultifying inaction.
My son, fearful of spoilers, read it over the weekend. The action, he opined, was written with a canny eye to the film adaptation. The inaction (my opinion) was either a deliberate ploy to influence the mood of the reader at that point in the narrative or an example of J.K. treading water whilst she determined in which direction to swim next. He thinks definitely the latter.
We are agreed that publishers Bloomsbury need not worry too much about the permanent departure of their famous son. Even if Harry does not come back, Hogwarts will.
Incidentally, without spoiling anything, I knew right away by whom the silver doe Patronus had been sent. Long ago guessed the sender's secret, too. It was a lovely notion and it has kept me a bit smugly know-all since the very first book.
Heck, Jo, I've been reading whodunnits since I was nine years old.
On the lightest of notes, it has rained throughout most of my reading time. When I left the house for the shops the other day I realized that I could remember neither Hermione's spell, finite incantatum, nor Arthur Weasley's meteolojinx recanto (both rain stoppers, courtesy of J.K.) so I pointed my umbrella skywards and formed my own incantation, rainomoroverus, which I terminated suddenly when it dawned on me that I could get back home to find I had brought to an abrupt end the reign of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly woman who has done me no harm).
Joanne Rowling, if by magic you should ever read this, you remain high on my list of favourite writers. Even in the talent blind world of publishing somebody would have had to find you. I'm glad they did it in my lifetime.
Monday, July 09, 2007
79. Floods, fanatics and a film.
FLOODS AND LETHAL FREAKS.
What a week. First of all the floods which left thousands of people in desperate straits, then the attempts at mass murder by religious maniacs.
The floods are proof of just how wicked nature can be and the terrorists' activities are a reminder of the depths to which depraved humanity can descend.
Only time, a massive effort by the social services, a determination by government at all levels to spend more of the taxpayer's money on the needs of the taxpayer and less on unnecessary wars, quangos and pointless consultancies, will enable us to overcome similar or worse flooding in the future. The cure will be up to the politicians
They will doubtles appoint a quango to report and teams of consultants to advise...
I fear there is no cure for the mind of the twisted fanatic, either.
On Tuesday it became clear that the majority of those intent on indiscriminate killing were - and in some cases still are - employees of the National Health Service.
Doctors, would you believe?
In my time in the NHS all doctors took the Hippocratic oath which bound them to a code of medical ethics. I thought the standards of some of them tended more towards hypocritical than Hippocratic but I seldom experienced any evil in the medical profession. Minor larceny, lechery, arrogance, indifference and political connivance, yes; evil, no.
So what the hell has driven some apparently intelligent professional people to become monsters?
Who knows?
When it comes to analysing lethal freaks in pursuit of a divine mission I defer to the experts. Writing in The Independent, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown and Johann Hari gave reasoned opinions as to what had motivated the abortive bomb attacks in London and Glasgow.
I carefully digested their views and I am trying to be level-headed.
But my conclusion is that the bomb happy bastards are mad.
FAREWELL WIMBLEDON
The cat Shadow stirred on my lap, lifted a sleepy head, inquired: "Is it over?"
"Yes. And you're getting very heavy. Want your dinner?"
He stretched languidly, got to the floor, scratched behind an ear, said: "Who won?"
He is convinced that tennis was invented as an armchair cure for insomnia.
"The women's was won by Venus Williams, an American," I related patiently. "The men's was won by a Swiss called Roger Federer."
"Just as well Andy Murray couldn't make it," he said. "He's too young, anyway. He'd have finished up like Tim Henman."
"Murray's older brother, Jamie, did very well," I informed him. "He and a Serb called Jelena Jankovic won the mixed doubles."
"Get away. Really?"
"Really. They were wild cards and they won 6-4, 3-6, 6-1 against a Swede and an Australian who were No. 5 seeds."
"Great." He started towards the kitchen: "Dinner."
I followed him.
"A Scot amongst the winners, eh?" he said. "Someone else to be described as British by the media."
I forbore the usual trite cliche about sarcasm.
He's right.
I gave him an extra helping of his most expensive cat food.
HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX
The film opens here on the 12th. We shall not book seats for that day. We'll let the over-priced sweets and drinks brigade fill the place with excitement and litter and wait to hear how much they enjoyed it. We'll go at a later date in a slightly quieter atmosphere. We'll sit back in comfort and make up our own minds.
Ah-h-h, my mind is made up already. I'm going to hate Dolores Umbridge, adore Linda Lovegood and revel in the rest of the superb cast playing roles they have made their own.
So that makes me childish?
Of course it does.
So what.
What a week. First of all the floods which left thousands of people in desperate straits, then the attempts at mass murder by religious maniacs.
The floods are proof of just how wicked nature can be and the terrorists' activities are a reminder of the depths to which depraved humanity can descend.
Only time, a massive effort by the social services, a determination by government at all levels to spend more of the taxpayer's money on the needs of the taxpayer and less on unnecessary wars, quangos and pointless consultancies, will enable us to overcome similar or worse flooding in the future. The cure will be up to the politicians
They will doubtles appoint a quango to report and teams of consultants to advise...
I fear there is no cure for the mind of the twisted fanatic, either.
On Tuesday it became clear that the majority of those intent on indiscriminate killing were - and in some cases still are - employees of the National Health Service.
Doctors, would you believe?
In my time in the NHS all doctors took the Hippocratic oath which bound them to a code of medical ethics. I thought the standards of some of them tended more towards hypocritical than Hippocratic but I seldom experienced any evil in the medical profession. Minor larceny, lechery, arrogance, indifference and political connivance, yes; evil, no.
So what the hell has driven some apparently intelligent professional people to become monsters?
Who knows?
When it comes to analysing lethal freaks in pursuit of a divine mission I defer to the experts. Writing in The Independent, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown and Johann Hari gave reasoned opinions as to what had motivated the abortive bomb attacks in London and Glasgow.
I carefully digested their views and I am trying to be level-headed.
But my conclusion is that the bomb happy bastards are mad.
FAREWELL WIMBLEDON
The cat Shadow stirred on my lap, lifted a sleepy head, inquired: "Is it over?"
"Yes. And you're getting very heavy. Want your dinner?"
He stretched languidly, got to the floor, scratched behind an ear, said: "Who won?"
He is convinced that tennis was invented as an armchair cure for insomnia.
"The women's was won by Venus Williams, an American," I related patiently. "The men's was won by a Swiss called Roger Federer."
"Just as well Andy Murray couldn't make it," he said. "He's too young, anyway. He'd have finished up like Tim Henman."
"Murray's older brother, Jamie, did very well," I informed him. "He and a Serb called Jelena Jankovic won the mixed doubles."
"Get away. Really?"
"Really. They were wild cards and they won 6-4, 3-6, 6-1 against a Swede and an Australian who were No. 5 seeds."
"Great." He started towards the kitchen: "Dinner."
I followed him.
"A Scot amongst the winners, eh?" he said. "Someone else to be described as British by the media."
I forbore the usual trite cliche about sarcasm.
He's right.
I gave him an extra helping of his most expensive cat food.
HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX
The film opens here on the 12th. We shall not book seats for that day. We'll let the over-priced sweets and drinks brigade fill the place with excitement and litter and wait to hear how much they enjoyed it. We'll go at a later date in a slightly quieter atmosphere. We'll sit back in comfort and make up our own minds.
Ah-h-h, my mind is made up already. I'm going to hate Dolores Umbridge, adore Linda Lovegood and revel in the rest of the superb cast playing roles they have made their own.
So that makes me childish?
Of course it does.
So what.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
78. In the Wettest June on Record
GLASTONBURY (BBC)
Lest anybody be in doubt as to the two main reasons for the recent appalling weather one of them is Glastonbury, a joyful mud bath which attracts big musical names from all over the world. This year was no exception. Starting with the likes of Rufus Wainwright (a vision in Pierrot stripe) through to Dame Shirley Bassey (a vision in split-skirted pink) and rounded off by The Who (no vision but their set included Pete Townshend's Who Are You and Baba O'Riley which are used to introduce CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and CSI.NY respectively) it just had to be a winner.
The Beeb gave it considerable coverage and, from what I saw, Ol' Shirl. alone was worth whatever it cost them. From her designer rainwear (DSB for Dame Shirley Bassey prominent on the wellies) to her this is what a star should look like stage dress she was queen of all she surveyed. I thought she was great. I love the Dame bit, too. OK, so they're all Dames now: Shirley, Judi Dench, Helen Mirren, Elton John...
But you can't begrudge them. They are fine entertainers who invariably support a plethora of charities.
So now to the second reason for the appalling weather : -
WIMBLEDON (BBC)
I was reading when the cat Shadow came in.
"I've got a couple of poems for you," he said.
"We wrote them between us up there on the roof."
I eyed him suspiciously: "Go on then."
He struck a poetic pose.
"Poem one: Wimbledon Is Here Again."
Wimbledon is here again.
It will rain and rain and rain
Drowning the alarm bells meant to ring
To warn that Cliff is going to sing.
There'll be strawberries and cream
And there'll be champagne
And lots of Sue and bloody rain.
He looked at me. I grunted in my best non-committal way.
"Poem two, Prime Ministers," he announced : -
BLAIR'S RESIGNATION (ALL CHANNELS)
Goodbye, Tone.
It's the other one, Brown,
Who's now the coolest dude in Town
No jaw-dropping,
All smiles,
No frown.
Promising Government of Renown.
(The price of cat food won't come down.)
He had a quick wash before enquiring: "What d' ya think?"
"Definitely doggerel and decidedly not Andrew Motion," I replied.
"Knew you'd be impressed. Can I tell the guys on the roof?"
"Feel free."
"Great. A bit of praise cheers them up no end."
I went back to my book : -
HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE
This is the penultimate book in Jo Rowling's super series and the one to read before the Deathly Hallows comes out on July 21st. Did not matter that I had read it twice before, once I got started I was hooked again. Now I shall be properly prepared for the last story, which I shall try to read less quickly than I have read the others (how do you do that with a book you know will be a page-turner?) because, like every Potter fan, I want it never to end.
There is a bonus, though. The film Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix will be released on July 12th. Then we'll have the Half Cut Prince (sorry, J.K.) and the final film still to come.
Meantime, July 2007 is Potter month. Hurray!
Oh, one last thing: keep writing, J.K., keep writing!
Lest anybody be in doubt as to the two main reasons for the recent appalling weather one of them is Glastonbury, a joyful mud bath which attracts big musical names from all over the world. This year was no exception. Starting with the likes of Rufus Wainwright (a vision in Pierrot stripe) through to Dame Shirley Bassey (a vision in split-skirted pink) and rounded off by The Who (no vision but their set included Pete Townshend's Who Are You and Baba O'Riley which are used to introduce CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and CSI.NY respectively) it just had to be a winner.
The Beeb gave it considerable coverage and, from what I saw, Ol' Shirl. alone was worth whatever it cost them. From her designer rainwear (DSB for Dame Shirley Bassey prominent on the wellies) to her this is what a star should look like stage dress she was queen of all she surveyed. I thought she was great. I love the Dame bit, too. OK, so they're all Dames now: Shirley, Judi Dench, Helen Mirren, Elton John...
But you can't begrudge them. They are fine entertainers who invariably support a plethora of charities.
So now to the second reason for the appalling weather : -
WIMBLEDON (BBC)
I was reading when the cat Shadow came in.
"I've got a couple of poems for you," he said.
"We wrote them between us up there on the roof."
I eyed him suspiciously: "Go on then."
He struck a poetic pose.
"Poem one: Wimbledon Is Here Again."
Wimbledon is here again.
It will rain and rain and rain
Drowning the alarm bells meant to ring
To warn that Cliff is going to sing.
There'll be strawberries and cream
And there'll be champagne
And lots of Sue and bloody rain.
He looked at me. I grunted in my best non-committal way.
"Poem two, Prime Ministers," he announced : -
BLAIR'S RESIGNATION (ALL CHANNELS)
Goodbye, Tone.
It's the other one, Brown,
Who's now the coolest dude in Town
No jaw-dropping,
All smiles,
No frown.
Promising Government of Renown.
(The price of cat food won't come down.)
He had a quick wash before enquiring: "What d' ya think?"
"Definitely doggerel and decidedly not Andrew Motion," I replied.
"Knew you'd be impressed. Can I tell the guys on the roof?"
"Feel free."
"Great. A bit of praise cheers them up no end."
I went back to my book : -
HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE
This is the penultimate book in Jo Rowling's super series and the one to read before the Deathly Hallows comes out on July 21st. Did not matter that I had read it twice before, once I got started I was hooked again. Now I shall be properly prepared for the last story, which I shall try to read less quickly than I have read the others (how do you do that with a book you know will be a page-turner?) because, like every Potter fan, I want it never to end.
There is a bonus, though. The film Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix will be released on July 12th. Then we'll have the Half Cut Prince (sorry, J.K.) and the final film still to come.
Meantime, July 2007 is Potter month. Hurray!
Oh, one last thing: keep writing, J.K., keep writing!
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
77. Books, practices, praise and Becks
WHERE MY BOOKMARKS ARE RESTING
A month or so back I finished The Once and Future King by T.H.White.
Book 5, The Book of Merlyn, did contain much of the material used in Book 1, The Sword in the Stone, but that which was original was moving and a fitting conclusion to an epic work.
It was commendable, too, that T.H.White and his publishers did not play the trick played many years ago by the author Leslie Charteris (in collusion with Hodder and Stoughton and his American publishers) of renaming books previously published and presenting them, with a miniscule reference to the change, as new material.
I am thinking of Meet The Tiger (Later called The Saint Meets The Tiger) The Last Hero (The Saint Closes the Case), Knight Templar (The Avenging Saint), She Was A Lady (The Saint Meets His Match) and The Holy Terror which later became The Saint versus Scotland Yard. That, by the way, is to name, or rename, just a few.
My father regarded the whole thing as a blatant deception. He eventually forgave me for remarking that he should have read the small print. He never forgave Mr. Charteris and he discontinued looking for the Sign of the Saint.
Coincidentally I have just finished a Saint short story, The Smart Detective, which is contained in my current bedtime read The Television Detectives' Omnibus edited by Peter Haining (Orion 1992). Had my father been alive to read it he would no doubt have remarked that any plot which depends on the hero being that lucky is not a plot at all.
He would have been right. Sadly, a similar criticism can be levelled at many of the stories in this collection.
Never mind, in preparation for the publication of J.K.Rowling's Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows next month, I am reading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince yet again.
Now there's a darned good read.
DID IT ALL START IN AMERICA ?
In this country we used not to applaud between the movements of a symphony or a concerto. Who started doing that? Was it the Americans? We certainly didn't. We did not leap to our feet at the end of an act or a song or a recital to applaud the turn or the soloist or the orchestra, either. We sat in a sensible fashion and applauded just as heartily without drawing unnecessary attention to ourselves. I mean, why would we stand? To applaud each other? To make sure everybody knew we were there? To be sure we were ready for the national anthem?
Did it all start in America? Perhaps I unfairly malign Americans. Perhaps it wasn't them at all. They do have some cranky ideas though.
Who else would invite the three tenors to perform and then induce them to sing a selection of ancient movie numbers so that creaking musical has-beens in the audience could take a bow? Who else would conclude a concert by Andrea Bocelli with a totally incongruous diving and firework display, presumably on the grounds that he wouldn't see it? Who else?
Well, not us, I hope. Though we do become dafter every day. Latest craze is to sing the national anthem during play at international soccer matches. Why? The Queen is not a football supporter. The late, great, Tommy Cooper is said to have asked her if he could have her Cup Final ticket. Perhaps it's because Land Of Hope And Glory is not PC enough and too few people know the words to This Royal Throne Of Kings.
I dunno: and if you think you do I'll thank you not to tell me.
UNQUALIFIED PRAISE
Noel Coward once said: "I can take any amount of criticism, so long as it is unqualified praise."
Good old Noel, just about anything he didn't say was said by Oscar Wilde. For that matter, pretty much anything done by Oscar Wilde was done by good old Noel. Only he wasn't caught.
Where was I?
Oh, yes: unqualified praise. If you looked in earlier you may have seen another kind comment from John 'Anonymous' A. It now rests elsewhere. I transferred it on the grounds that the publication of one nice comment is fine but more, too soon on, will have you looking askance and me looking in mirrors. [Nowadays I avoid reflections - not quite sure who the old guy is.]
But thanks again, John.
And at the risk of sounding like a letters editor: this correspondence is now closed.
BECKS VICTORIOUS
I was pleased to see that Becks finished his Real Madrid stint on a high.
The cat Shadow was pleased, too, though I think he was marginally more pleased to see the four expensive boxes of cat food bought for him by my Leader on her last trip to Marks & Sparks.
I worry that he may become too grand for ordinary grub.
Anyway, good luck to Becks in America. He's still a winner so he should do well.
A month or so back I finished The Once and Future King by T.H.White.
Book 5, The Book of Merlyn, did contain much of the material used in Book 1, The Sword in the Stone, but that which was original was moving and a fitting conclusion to an epic work.
It was commendable, too, that T.H.White and his publishers did not play the trick played many years ago by the author Leslie Charteris (in collusion with Hodder and Stoughton and his American publishers) of renaming books previously published and presenting them, with a miniscule reference to the change, as new material.
I am thinking of Meet The Tiger (Later called The Saint Meets The Tiger) The Last Hero (The Saint Closes the Case), Knight Templar (The Avenging Saint), She Was A Lady (The Saint Meets His Match) and The Holy Terror which later became The Saint versus Scotland Yard. That, by the way, is to name, or rename, just a few.
My father regarded the whole thing as a blatant deception. He eventually forgave me for remarking that he should have read the small print. He never forgave Mr. Charteris and he discontinued looking for the Sign of the Saint.
Coincidentally I have just finished a Saint short story, The Smart Detective, which is contained in my current bedtime read The Television Detectives' Omnibus edited by Peter Haining (Orion 1992). Had my father been alive to read it he would no doubt have remarked that any plot which depends on the hero being that lucky is not a plot at all.
He would have been right. Sadly, a similar criticism can be levelled at many of the stories in this collection.
Never mind, in preparation for the publication of J.K.Rowling's Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows next month, I am reading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince yet again.
Now there's a darned good read.
DID IT ALL START IN AMERICA ?
In this country we used not to applaud between the movements of a symphony or a concerto. Who started doing that? Was it the Americans? We certainly didn't. We did not leap to our feet at the end of an act or a song or a recital to applaud the turn or the soloist or the orchestra, either. We sat in a sensible fashion and applauded just as heartily without drawing unnecessary attention to ourselves. I mean, why would we stand? To applaud each other? To make sure everybody knew we were there? To be sure we were ready for the national anthem?
Did it all start in America? Perhaps I unfairly malign Americans. Perhaps it wasn't them at all. They do have some cranky ideas though.
Who else would invite the three tenors to perform and then induce them to sing a selection of ancient movie numbers so that creaking musical has-beens in the audience could take a bow? Who else would conclude a concert by Andrea Bocelli with a totally incongruous diving and firework display, presumably on the grounds that he wouldn't see it? Who else?
Well, not us, I hope. Though we do become dafter every day. Latest craze is to sing the national anthem during play at international soccer matches. Why? The Queen is not a football supporter. The late, great, Tommy Cooper is said to have asked her if he could have her Cup Final ticket. Perhaps it's because Land Of Hope And Glory is not PC enough and too few people know the words to This Royal Throne Of Kings.
I dunno: and if you think you do I'll thank you not to tell me.
UNQUALIFIED PRAISE
Noel Coward once said: "I can take any amount of criticism, so long as it is unqualified praise."
Good old Noel, just about anything he didn't say was said by Oscar Wilde. For that matter, pretty much anything done by Oscar Wilde was done by good old Noel. Only he wasn't caught.
Where was I?
Oh, yes: unqualified praise. If you looked in earlier you may have seen another kind comment from John 'Anonymous' A. It now rests elsewhere. I transferred it on the grounds that the publication of one nice comment is fine but more, too soon on, will have you looking askance and me looking in mirrors. [Nowadays I avoid reflections - not quite sure who the old guy is.]
But thanks again, John.
And at the risk of sounding like a letters editor: this correspondence is now closed.
BECKS VICTORIOUS
I was pleased to see that Becks finished his Real Madrid stint on a high.
The cat Shadow was pleased, too, though I think he was marginally more pleased to see the four expensive boxes of cat food bought for him by my Leader on her last trip to Marks & Sparks.
I worry that he may become too grand for ordinary grub.
Anyway, good luck to Becks in America. He's still a winner so he should do well.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
76. A good week and a festive weekend
ISLE OF WIGHT FESTIVAL (8 - 10 JUNE 2007)
The older I get the faster these annual events come around. Granddaughter Jessie is at the IW Festival this year. She has gone with her father. They have thoroughly enjoyed the music and the atmosphere to date. The weather has been wonderful, too.
Yesterday (9th June) the Red Arrows did a marvellous display for them which was unlisted, lasted half an hour and included sketching out in the sky the shape of a bow and of a heart with an arrow through it. Jess will leave early tonight because she has to be back at school tomorrow. Sadly she will miss the top-of-the-bill Rolling Stones.
When told she said: "Who?"
Perhaps it won't be that much of a miss after all.
DIRTY DALI: A PRIVATE VIEW (Channel 4)
I was left wondering whether art critic Brian Sewell, reflecting back to his early twenties, did not get to know the outrageous genius Salvador Dali just a little too well. Whatever: it is unlikely that anyone else alive knew the man in quite the same way. Forthright as ever, Sewell pulled no punches. Dali was a sexual deviant, a poseur and an egomaniac. He was also, at his best, one of the greatest artists in the world and undoubtedly the most famous of the surrealists.
This was a fresh insight into the real world of a world famous personality. It is doubtful that Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dali i Domenech (1904 - 1989) will ever again be subjected to so sensitive a scrutiny.
But it was in the main a kindly study and I think he would have loved every minute of it.
Of course he would.
It was about him.
PAUL MERTON IN CHINA. (Five)
Had Paul Merton been left to ask tactful questions of his Chinese hosts, to comment sensibly on the replies he was given and to behave in an adult fashion throughout, this could have been every bit as good as the Victoria Wood series Victoria's Empire. But all too often he was prevailed upon (presumably by his producers) to act the silly ass Englishman.
Pity, because he is obviously a pleasant and astute observer with a lively curiosity.
He deserved better and so did we.
DIANA: THE WITNESSES IN THE TUNNEL (CHANNEL 4)
As common sense foretold, there was no conspiracy, no hard-on-the-heels posse of paparazzi, no secret service assassins. There was a swerve to avoid a slow moving car, a loss of control at speed and a collision with a pillar. It was an accident.
Now can we please leave this poor young woman and those who died with her to rest in peace?
ESTONIA v ENGLAND (BBC1)
"Nil - three to England," I said to the cat Shadow. "Good ol' Becks!"
"So now he'll play the equivalent of First Division football in America, eh?" he replied. "That will be like playing permanently against the likes of Estonia and they hadn't scored in their last seven matches. No, his international career was kicked out from under his feet when England were dumped from the World Cup. This comeback won't last too long if McClaren has anything to do with it."
"Got nobody to replace him though, have they?" I said.
"When did that matter? He pulled the manager out of a hole again this time and he'll be thanked in the same way he was thanked last time. First opportunity he'll be dropped. You see."
"I never reckoned you to be such a pessimist."
"Oh I'm not, mate, but I am a realist."
I hope he's wrong this time.
He seldom is, though.
YOU CAN CHOOSE YOUR FRIENDS (ITV1)
This strange piece of fluff, billed as a comedy drama, starred Julia McKenzie and Anton Rogers with Robert Daws, Claire Skinner, Rebecca Front and Gordon Kennedy in strong support.
My Leader and I sat through it together and when it was over she said: "Just as well it was a one-off. If it had been a pilot I'd not bother to watch the series."
Too right, Mrs. Lady, I thought: too darned right.
AND, LASTLY, AN E-MAIL THAT GAVE ME A SMILE
(Forwarded by our friend Jan Bennett)
Council tax re-evaluers want to charge us more if we live in a nice area.
That ought to mean discounts for those of us who live in rough areas.
We have a huge council house in our street. The extended family is run by a grumpy old woman with a pack of fierce dogs. Her car isn't taxed or insured, and doesn't even have a number plate, but the police still do nothing. Her bad tempered old man is famous for upsetting foreigners with racist comments. A shopkeeper blames him for ordering the murder of his son and his son's girlfriend, but nothing has been proved yet. All their kids have broken marriages except the youngest, who everyone thought was gay.Two grandsons are meant to be in the Army but are always seen out in nightclubs. The family's odd antics are always in the papers.
They are out of control. ..
Honestly - who'd live near Windsor Castle?
The older I get the faster these annual events come around. Granddaughter Jessie is at the IW Festival this year. She has gone with her father. They have thoroughly enjoyed the music and the atmosphere to date. The weather has been wonderful, too.
Yesterday (9th June) the Red Arrows did a marvellous display for them which was unlisted, lasted half an hour and included sketching out in the sky the shape of a bow and of a heart with an arrow through it. Jess will leave early tonight because she has to be back at school tomorrow. Sadly she will miss the top-of-the-bill Rolling Stones.
When told she said: "Who?"
Perhaps it won't be that much of a miss after all.
DIRTY DALI: A PRIVATE VIEW (Channel 4)
I was left wondering whether art critic Brian Sewell, reflecting back to his early twenties, did not get to know the outrageous genius Salvador Dali just a little too well. Whatever: it is unlikely that anyone else alive knew the man in quite the same way. Forthright as ever, Sewell pulled no punches. Dali was a sexual deviant, a poseur and an egomaniac. He was also, at his best, one of the greatest artists in the world and undoubtedly the most famous of the surrealists.
This was a fresh insight into the real world of a world famous personality. It is doubtful that Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dali i Domenech (1904 - 1989) will ever again be subjected to so sensitive a scrutiny.
But it was in the main a kindly study and I think he would have loved every minute of it.
Of course he would.
It was about him.
PAUL MERTON IN CHINA. (Five)
Had Paul Merton been left to ask tactful questions of his Chinese hosts, to comment sensibly on the replies he was given and to behave in an adult fashion throughout, this could have been every bit as good as the Victoria Wood series Victoria's Empire. But all too often he was prevailed upon (presumably by his producers) to act the silly ass Englishman.
Pity, because he is obviously a pleasant and astute observer with a lively curiosity.
He deserved better and so did we.
DIANA: THE WITNESSES IN THE TUNNEL (CHANNEL 4)
As common sense foretold, there was no conspiracy, no hard-on-the-heels posse of paparazzi, no secret service assassins. There was a swerve to avoid a slow moving car, a loss of control at speed and a collision with a pillar. It was an accident.
Now can we please leave this poor young woman and those who died with her to rest in peace?
ESTONIA v ENGLAND (BBC1)
"Nil - three to England," I said to the cat Shadow. "Good ol' Becks!"
"So now he'll play the equivalent of First Division football in America, eh?" he replied. "That will be like playing permanently against the likes of Estonia and they hadn't scored in their last seven matches. No, his international career was kicked out from under his feet when England were dumped from the World Cup. This comeback won't last too long if McClaren has anything to do with it."
"Got nobody to replace him though, have they?" I said.
"When did that matter? He pulled the manager out of a hole again this time and he'll be thanked in the same way he was thanked last time. First opportunity he'll be dropped. You see."
"I never reckoned you to be such a pessimist."
"Oh I'm not, mate, but I am a realist."
I hope he's wrong this time.
He seldom is, though.
YOU CAN CHOOSE YOUR FRIENDS (ITV1)
This strange piece of fluff, billed as a comedy drama, starred Julia McKenzie and Anton Rogers with Robert Daws, Claire Skinner, Rebecca Front and Gordon Kennedy in strong support.
My Leader and I sat through it together and when it was over she said: "Just as well it was a one-off. If it had been a pilot I'd not bother to watch the series."
Too right, Mrs. Lady, I thought: too darned right.
AND, LASTLY, AN E-MAIL THAT GAVE ME A SMILE
(Forwarded by our friend Jan Bennett)
Council tax re-evaluers want to charge us more if we live in a nice area.
That ought to mean discounts for those of us who live in rough areas.
We have a huge council house in our street. The extended family is run by a grumpy old woman with a pack of fierce dogs. Her car isn't taxed or insured, and doesn't even have a number plate, but the police still do nothing. Her bad tempered old man is famous for upsetting foreigners with racist comments. A shopkeeper blames him for ordering the murder of his son and his son's girlfriend, but nothing has been proved yet. All their kids have broken marriages except the youngest, who everyone thought was gay.Two grandsons are meant to be in the Army but are always seen out in nightclubs. The family's odd antics are always in the papers.
They are out of control. ..
Honestly - who'd live near Windsor Castle?
Sunday, June 03, 2007
75. Favourites, hoaxers and welcome encouragement
ENGLAND v BRAZIL (BBC1).
"What did you think, then?" I asked the cat Shadow. "1 - 1 with Brazil and our lot should have won."
He had spent the Friday night match curled up in my Leader's chair, she having taken convenient leave of absence to visit relatives on the mainland.
He stretched: "Why do friendlies nearly always end in a draw?" he asked. "Is it compulsory to gift the away team a goal with barely a minute to spare?"
"Didn't really matter did it?" I said. "Ol' Becks was back and he played a blinder."
He eyed me quizzically. "Steven Gerrard was named man of the match, wasn't he? And John Terry didn't have a bad game, either."
"Yes, well..." I started, but he was ahead of me as usual.
"All right, all right," he said. "Even if one Becks may not make a summer, one Becks did make this game."
Then, to restrain further comment, he added: "Pity they all fell asleep in the first half, though. In no time at all, so did I."
NCIS (Five)
This coincided with the football on BBC1 so thank technology for the old video recorder. I'll record on DVD when I can work out how or, failing that, when baby Boo becomes old enough to show me. Give it another couple of years.
Anyway, Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) and his crew were under pressure from the customary hard-headed female defence lawyer and from yet another unwell-wisher who can magically stalk their H.Q. without the slightest difficulty. (I know...)
Lovely, quirky Abby (Pauley Perrette) is again the victim of unwelcome attentions in Bloodbath and eventually sorts things out in her own unbelievable way.
At 21/24 of series three these favourites are going far too quickly.
DOCTOR WHO (BBC1)
The conclusion of The Family of Blood. A great romp with lethal scarecrows. This continues to be a completly different Dr. Who from its predecessors and truly deserves all the plaudits it has received. It is becoming hard to think of the Doctor as anyone other than David Tennant now and Freema Agyeman is perfect as his travelling companion. If this cracking standard is maintained, who knows? One day Doctor Who could rival The Mousetrap.
EVEN THE HOAX WAS MORONIC.
So now the Big Brother producers say that their sick idea about a woman donating her kidneys to a fellow house member of her choice was a hoax designed to draw awareness to the shortage of donors in Holland. Well, even the hoax was moronic and my original opinion of them has not altered. Twats!
YOU SHOULD NEVER SHUN ENCOURAGEMENT.
Way back last December I commented (apropos an anonymous comment by some apparent malcontent to the TrippingOnWords girls) that I would delete out of hand any anonymous comments sent to me. Well, I have drawn the line at deleting my old friend John A. for obvious reasons. (1) I know who he is and (2) his comments are encouraging and you should never shun encouragement. What's more, he tells me that he is unable to record a comment on my posts without signing in as anonymous. I assume that's maybe a Blog Ed manoeuvre to warn me from which direction the arrows are coming. If so, thanks Blog Ed whomsoever, whatsoever and wheresoever you may be. If not, no matter, thanks anyway.
My e-mails this week have included encouraging murmurs from daughter Jac and from nephew Phil. So what they're relatives...their pleasant words were much appreciated. Like I said, you should never shun encouragement.
"What did you think, then?" I asked the cat Shadow. "1 - 1 with Brazil and our lot should have won."
He had spent the Friday night match curled up in my Leader's chair, she having taken convenient leave of absence to visit relatives on the mainland.
He stretched: "Why do friendlies nearly always end in a draw?" he asked. "Is it compulsory to gift the away team a goal with barely a minute to spare?"
"Didn't really matter did it?" I said. "Ol' Becks was back and he played a blinder."
He eyed me quizzically. "Steven Gerrard was named man of the match, wasn't he? And John Terry didn't have a bad game, either."
"Yes, well..." I started, but he was ahead of me as usual.
"All right, all right," he said. "Even if one Becks may not make a summer, one Becks did make this game."
Then, to restrain further comment, he added: "Pity they all fell asleep in the first half, though. In no time at all, so did I."
NCIS (Five)
This coincided with the football on BBC1 so thank technology for the old video recorder. I'll record on DVD when I can work out how or, failing that, when baby Boo becomes old enough to show me. Give it another couple of years.
Anyway, Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) and his crew were under pressure from the customary hard-headed female defence lawyer and from yet another unwell-wisher who can magically stalk their H.Q. without the slightest difficulty. (I know...)
Lovely, quirky Abby (Pauley Perrette) is again the victim of unwelcome attentions in Bloodbath and eventually sorts things out in her own unbelievable way.
At 21/24 of series three these favourites are going far too quickly.
DOCTOR WHO (BBC1)
The conclusion of The Family of Blood. A great romp with lethal scarecrows. This continues to be a completly different Dr. Who from its predecessors and truly deserves all the plaudits it has received. It is becoming hard to think of the Doctor as anyone other than David Tennant now and Freema Agyeman is perfect as his travelling companion. If this cracking standard is maintained, who knows? One day Doctor Who could rival The Mousetrap.
EVEN THE HOAX WAS MORONIC.
So now the Big Brother producers say that their sick idea about a woman donating her kidneys to a fellow house member of her choice was a hoax designed to draw awareness to the shortage of donors in Holland. Well, even the hoax was moronic and my original opinion of them has not altered. Twats!
YOU SHOULD NEVER SHUN ENCOURAGEMENT.
Way back last December I commented (apropos an anonymous comment by some apparent malcontent to the TrippingOnWords girls) that I would delete out of hand any anonymous comments sent to me. Well, I have drawn the line at deleting my old friend John A. for obvious reasons. (1) I know who he is and (2) his comments are encouraging and you should never shun encouragement. What's more, he tells me that he is unable to record a comment on my posts without signing in as anonymous. I assume that's maybe a Blog Ed manoeuvre to warn me from which direction the arrows are coming. If so, thanks Blog Ed whomsoever, whatsoever and wheresoever you may be. If not, no matter, thanks anyway.
My e-mails this week have included encouraging murmurs from daughter Jac and from nephew Phil. So what they're relatives...their pleasant words were much appreciated. Like I said, you should never shun encouragement.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
74. A bit more of the usual
VIEWING FOR TOTAL MORONS.
At first I thought it was a very bad taste April Fool's joke. Then I realized it is May and what I was hearing was no joke. Seems that the latest example of appalling reality television will be screened in Holland where a fatally ill Dutch woman in a Big Brother house is to decide which of her house companions should be given her kidneys when she dies.
Anybody who has read my blog will know just how much I detest reality television.
To my mind all the cheapjack producers and staff concerned with this particular version should be put down and their kidneys given to those in immediate need. At least they might then have done something worthwhile in their misbegotten lives.
I would like to think that even the voyeuristic goggle eyes of the average Big Brother watcher will shun it.
Somehow I doubt that, though.
But only total morons will watch it.
BANK HOLIDAY TELE.
Wouldn't be English without first mentioning the bank holiday weather. It was a soaking wet day here on Sunday but Baby Boo, now two years old, came here with his parents and brightened up our entire weekend. Takes half an hour to clear up after he's gone and we don't begrudge a minute of it.
Now to the tele.
Doctor Who (BBC1 - Saturday) was the first of a two part story finishing next Saturday. At the start of this adventure the Doctor has mysteriously become John Smith, a master at a public school in 1913. Body-snatching aliens, similar to those in the 1956 classic film Invasion of the Body Snatchers, have appeared on strange beams of light. They are searching for 'A time lord.' I have no idea how it will unravel but I shall be there next week to find out.
Lusitania: Murder on the Atlantic (BBC1 - Sunday) starred three of our most dependable actors: John Hannah, Kenneth Cranham and Michael Feast. Nothing has ever been proven, of course, but it seems mightily strange that one torpedo from a First World War U-boat sank such a vast ship as the Lusitania in under twenty minutes if that ship was not carrying anything other than innocent passengers and cargo. The Establishment whitewashed itself spotlessly clean of course. It seems Churchill took his customary clinical stance and wrote off the incident as probably of value to the allied cause. Well, greatest ever Englishman or not, he was just another bloody politician after all. This was an excellent programme.
Kingdom (ITV1 - Sunday) Last of this first series starring Stephen Fry. It will be back. Have to be. Cast and Sunday night casual viewability too good to lose.
Springwatch (BBC2 - Monday onward) Yep, it's ol' Bill Oddy and his co-presenter Kate Humble gently twittering on as fledgelings devour each other and long, long, long minutes are spent waiting for another non-appearance of those deuced unco-operative Badgers. The move is still on to get rid of Simon King, too. This time they've banished him to the Hebrides. It'll run for at least three weeks.
Celebrity Master Chef (BBC1 - Monday onward) It's back. Say no more.
New Tricks (BBC1 - Monday) The last of the series. Just as well, it was beginning the slippery slide towards soap. The writers really do need to find some fresh old cases before the well chosen cast returns.
AND FOOTBALL...
"Becks is back!" I shouted to the cat Shadow. "He's been chosen for the Brazil friendly!"
"When's that then?" he asked.
"Friday night I think."
"Well don't get too excited ," he said. "One Becks may not make a summer."
At first I thought it was a very bad taste April Fool's joke. Then I realized it is May and what I was hearing was no joke. Seems that the latest example of appalling reality television will be screened in Holland where a fatally ill Dutch woman in a Big Brother house is to decide which of her house companions should be given her kidneys when she dies.
Anybody who has read my blog will know just how much I detest reality television.
To my mind all the cheapjack producers and staff concerned with this particular version should be put down and their kidneys given to those in immediate need. At least they might then have done something worthwhile in their misbegotten lives.
I would like to think that even the voyeuristic goggle eyes of the average Big Brother watcher will shun it.
Somehow I doubt that, though.
But only total morons will watch it.
BANK HOLIDAY TELE.
Wouldn't be English without first mentioning the bank holiday weather. It was a soaking wet day here on Sunday but Baby Boo, now two years old, came here with his parents and brightened up our entire weekend. Takes half an hour to clear up after he's gone and we don't begrudge a minute of it.
Now to the tele.
Doctor Who (BBC1 - Saturday) was the first of a two part story finishing next Saturday. At the start of this adventure the Doctor has mysteriously become John Smith, a master at a public school in 1913. Body-snatching aliens, similar to those in the 1956 classic film Invasion of the Body Snatchers, have appeared on strange beams of light. They are searching for 'A time lord.' I have no idea how it will unravel but I shall be there next week to find out.
Lusitania: Murder on the Atlantic (BBC1 - Sunday) starred three of our most dependable actors: John Hannah, Kenneth Cranham and Michael Feast. Nothing has ever been proven, of course, but it seems mightily strange that one torpedo from a First World War U-boat sank such a vast ship as the Lusitania in under twenty minutes if that ship was not carrying anything other than innocent passengers and cargo. The Establishment whitewashed itself spotlessly clean of course. It seems Churchill took his customary clinical stance and wrote off the incident as probably of value to the allied cause. Well, greatest ever Englishman or not, he was just another bloody politician after all. This was an excellent programme.
Kingdom (ITV1 - Sunday) Last of this first series starring Stephen Fry. It will be back. Have to be. Cast and Sunday night casual viewability too good to lose.
Springwatch (BBC2 - Monday onward) Yep, it's ol' Bill Oddy and his co-presenter Kate Humble gently twittering on as fledgelings devour each other and long, long, long minutes are spent waiting for another non-appearance of those deuced unco-operative Badgers. The move is still on to get rid of Simon King, too. This time they've banished him to the Hebrides. It'll run for at least three weeks.
Celebrity Master Chef (BBC1 - Monday onward) It's back. Say no more.
New Tricks (BBC1 - Monday) The last of the series. Just as well, it was beginning the slippery slide towards soap. The writers really do need to find some fresh old cases before the well chosen cast returns.
AND FOOTBALL...
"Becks is back!" I shouted to the cat Shadow. "He's been chosen for the Brazil friendly!"
"When's that then?" he asked.
"Friday night I think."
"Well don't get too excited ," he said. "One Becks may not make a summer."
Sunday, May 20, 2007
73. The P.M., the Tele Week, Eggheads and a Cat Burglar
I SUPPOSE SOMEBODY WILL BE HAPPY.
So it's official then. The jaw-dropping Chancellor will become Prime Minister. Well there's a surprise.
Seems nobody could get enough Brownie points to stand against Brown. To me that says less about his competence to do the job than it does about the number of his colleagues filling their boots at the thought of being listed as his enemies. I suppose somebody will be happy, though, even if it is only him.
I suppose he will win the next election, too. He should. Currently the Blair clone Cameron and his cohorts have decided to announce their disfavour of the grammar school system. It seems that in my lifetime the Socialists have become the Tories and the Tories have become the Socialists. I cannot believe either have executed such a total about face without a liberal measure of vote seeking cynicism. They have not an iota of integrity between them.
However, I seem to remember making a birthday resolution last year that I would never again tax your patience or my blood pressure with politics, politicians or their civil service bosses. As it is there are more than enough Westminster weasels spouting claptrap every day.
ON YOUR BEEB LAST WEEK.
Dalziel and Pascoe finished in even more confusion than it started. Richard E Grant's ability as a hypnotist failed him when it was most needed. Warren Clarke and Colin Buchanan floundered through the quagmire like two actors looking for their parts. Everybody else just sank. Oh well, you can't win 'em all.
Victoria's Empire came to an end with Victoria Wood discovering that big-mouthed radio presenters in New Zealand are no different from those throughout the rest of the world: she then visited Tasmania to learn how colonialism wiped out all the original native inhabitants. By the time she reached Zambia it was clear that a modern English traveller abroad should have learned how to apologize in almost every language known to man. A good series, though.
Holby Blue I missed in favour of Return of the Tribe (an excellent series on Five). I didn't bother to video Holby, either: but true to my word I picked up a Mail On Sunday to find that the excellent Jaci Stephen had given it just a few dismissive lines. I was a bit smug on Sunday.
EGGHEADS (BBC 2)
If I was an Egghead I would decline a contract for the next series unless some changes were made to the current format.. It is clear that every pub quiz prizefighter and every up-to-the-neck-in-debt undergraduate in the country has finally hit upon the magic formula: "If we choose to go first, take on C.J. at Geography, Kevin at Food and Drink, Chris at Entertainment. Daphne at Sport and Judith at almost anything, we stand a good chance of knocking out at least two of them. All we have to do then is applaud noisily every correct answer given by one of our team, applaud even more noisily any incorrect answer by one of their team and play up to the presenter who, from the outset, will be on our side."
No, if I was an Egghead I would stipulate that before I signed for another series the only subject in all the head-to-heads would be General Knowledge. Choice of going first or second would be decided by the spin of a coin. And Dermot, the opposition cheer leader, would have to go. That would even things up a bit.
But, lucky Dermot, I'm not an Egghead and it won't ever happen.
Shame.
THE F.A.CUP FINAL. (BBC1)
There was a scuffling and pattering on the stairs to the top floor and I got up slowly from my chair in the computer room on the first (American second) floor. Well, I thought, if it's a burglar he might be tough and you don't want to go too fast towards trouble.
When I reached the doorway the burglar was coming back down the stairs. It was the large white and tabby cat from elsewhere in the neighbourhood. In my Leader's absence he had been up to her top floor workroom to visit the cat Shadow. My Leader calls him Manners because Shadow regularly leaves some food in the cat dish for him. We don't know his real name or where he comes from. He has been about for a long time but still regards me with extreme caution due to my forbidding stare and habit of addressing him as Wotter-youdoin'ere?
I said: "Wotter-youdoin'ere?"
He took off down the stairs to the ground (American first) floor, out through the catflap and across the back courtyard as though I had put out a contract on him.
Moments later the cat Shadow came down.
He eyed me suspiciously. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened. He just left."
"You sure?"
"Positive. Now, it's the Cup Final on the box. Want to watch it?"
"Bloody hell no, not while it's sunny outside. I'm off for a stroll."
And he went.
He came back in time to see the winning goal, to remark that the Pensioners probably deserved to win this time and to say that he thought by fifteen minutes into the game the new Wembley pitch resembled a cat's used litter tray.
I've no idea where he went to see what the pitch was like fifteen minutes into the game.
Perhaps to Manners's place?
So it's official then. The jaw-dropping Chancellor will become Prime Minister. Well there's a surprise.
Seems nobody could get enough Brownie points to stand against Brown. To me that says less about his competence to do the job than it does about the number of his colleagues filling their boots at the thought of being listed as his enemies. I suppose somebody will be happy, though, even if it is only him.
I suppose he will win the next election, too. He should. Currently the Blair clone Cameron and his cohorts have decided to announce their disfavour of the grammar school system. It seems that in my lifetime the Socialists have become the Tories and the Tories have become the Socialists. I cannot believe either have executed such a total about face without a liberal measure of vote seeking cynicism. They have not an iota of integrity between them.
However, I seem to remember making a birthday resolution last year that I would never again tax your patience or my blood pressure with politics, politicians or their civil service bosses. As it is there are more than enough Westminster weasels spouting claptrap every day.
ON YOUR BEEB LAST WEEK.
Dalziel and Pascoe finished in even more confusion than it started. Richard E Grant's ability as a hypnotist failed him when it was most needed. Warren Clarke and Colin Buchanan floundered through the quagmire like two actors looking for their parts. Everybody else just sank. Oh well, you can't win 'em all.
Victoria's Empire came to an end with Victoria Wood discovering that big-mouthed radio presenters in New Zealand are no different from those throughout the rest of the world: she then visited Tasmania to learn how colonialism wiped out all the original native inhabitants. By the time she reached Zambia it was clear that a modern English traveller abroad should have learned how to apologize in almost every language known to man. A good series, though.
Holby Blue I missed in favour of Return of the Tribe (an excellent series on Five). I didn't bother to video Holby, either: but true to my word I picked up a Mail On Sunday to find that the excellent Jaci Stephen had given it just a few dismissive lines. I was a bit smug on Sunday.
EGGHEADS (BBC 2)
If I was an Egghead I would decline a contract for the next series unless some changes were made to the current format.. It is clear that every pub quiz prizefighter and every up-to-the-neck-in-debt undergraduate in the country has finally hit upon the magic formula: "If we choose to go first, take on C.J. at Geography, Kevin at Food and Drink, Chris at Entertainment. Daphne at Sport and Judith at almost anything, we stand a good chance of knocking out at least two of them. All we have to do then is applaud noisily every correct answer given by one of our team, applaud even more noisily any incorrect answer by one of their team and play up to the presenter who, from the outset, will be on our side."
No, if I was an Egghead I would stipulate that before I signed for another series the only subject in all the head-to-heads would be General Knowledge. Choice of going first or second would be decided by the spin of a coin. And Dermot, the opposition cheer leader, would have to go. That would even things up a bit.
But, lucky Dermot, I'm not an Egghead and it won't ever happen.
Shame.
THE F.A.CUP FINAL. (BBC1)
There was a scuffling and pattering on the stairs to the top floor and I got up slowly from my chair in the computer room on the first (American second) floor. Well, I thought, if it's a burglar he might be tough and you don't want to go too fast towards trouble.
When I reached the doorway the burglar was coming back down the stairs. It was the large white and tabby cat from elsewhere in the neighbourhood. In my Leader's absence he had been up to her top floor workroom to visit the cat Shadow. My Leader calls him Manners because Shadow regularly leaves some food in the cat dish for him. We don't know his real name or where he comes from. He has been about for a long time but still regards me with extreme caution due to my forbidding stare and habit of addressing him as Wotter-youdoin'ere?
I said: "Wotter-youdoin'ere?"
He took off down the stairs to the ground (American first) floor, out through the catflap and across the back courtyard as though I had put out a contract on him.
Moments later the cat Shadow came down.
He eyed me suspiciously. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened. He just left."
"You sure?"
"Positive. Now, it's the Cup Final on the box. Want to watch it?"
"Bloody hell no, not while it's sunny outside. I'm off for a stroll."
And he went.
He came back in time to see the winning goal, to remark that the Pensioners probably deserved to win this time and to say that he thought by fifteen minutes into the game the new Wembley pitch resembled a cat's used litter tray.
I've no idea where he went to see what the pitch was like fifteen minutes into the game.
Perhaps to Manners's place?
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
72. Victoria Wood's Empire and My Detective Blues
VICTORIA's EMPIRE. (BBC1)
So far Victoria Wood's three part series Victoria's Empire has been a winner. In her unique manner she has discovered a great deal about what put the Great into Great Britain. I believe her original opinion was that you cannot go through life apologizing everywhere for the sins of your ancestors. It soon became clear, however, particularly in her examination of British involvement in the slave trade, that the truth does not always sit comfortably.
There were times when she was visibly upset at the dire legacy left by our empire building forefathers.
I hold to the view that there is much in history to be regretted but I cannot change it. Dwelling on the injuries of the past is a pointless exercise and pandering to those who would have us all wearing hair shirts is a nonsense.
Anyway, there's more than enough violence and injustice going on in the world right now. Better start composing our apologies for that. Nobody else will.
DALZIEL & PASCOE (BBC1)
The first of a two part story concluding next Sunday. Warren Clarke is back as Dalziel and Colin Buchanan is (as he has been since 1996) the long-suffering Pascoe. Here they are joined by Richard E. Grant who, no matter how silly the plot may appear to be, will guarantee everyone else acts their socks off to keep up with him.
HOLBY BLUE. (BBC1)
In my wife's The Mail on Sunday - I describe it that way for fear of being mistaken as the purchaser - that much admired and experienced critic Jaci Stephen gave The Last Detective a right roasting. 'Even Roger Daltrey from The Who...didn't manage to alleviate the boredom,' she opined.
Gosh. I didn't think it was that bad: guess I'm just easily pleased.
I wonder what she thought of the Beeb's new series Holby Blue?
Perhaps I shall have to suffer next Sunday's Mail to find out.
I thought it was everything she thought 'Dangerous' Davies was.
I thought it was stereotypic tripe which not even Tim Pigott-Smith could save.
I thought: NYPD Blue it ain't!
So far Victoria Wood's three part series Victoria's Empire has been a winner. In her unique manner she has discovered a great deal about what put the Great into Great Britain. I believe her original opinion was that you cannot go through life apologizing everywhere for the sins of your ancestors. It soon became clear, however, particularly in her examination of British involvement in the slave trade, that the truth does not always sit comfortably.
There were times when she was visibly upset at the dire legacy left by our empire building forefathers.
I hold to the view that there is much in history to be regretted but I cannot change it. Dwelling on the injuries of the past is a pointless exercise and pandering to those who would have us all wearing hair shirts is a nonsense.
Anyway, there's more than enough violence and injustice going on in the world right now. Better start composing our apologies for that. Nobody else will.
DALZIEL & PASCOE (BBC1)
The first of a two part story concluding next Sunday. Warren Clarke is back as Dalziel and Colin Buchanan is (as he has been since 1996) the long-suffering Pascoe. Here they are joined by Richard E. Grant who, no matter how silly the plot may appear to be, will guarantee everyone else acts their socks off to keep up with him.
HOLBY BLUE. (BBC1)
In my wife's The Mail on Sunday - I describe it that way for fear of being mistaken as the purchaser - that much admired and experienced critic Jaci Stephen gave The Last Detective a right roasting. 'Even Roger Daltrey from The Who...didn't manage to alleviate the boredom,' she opined.
Gosh. I didn't think it was that bad: guess I'm just easily pleased.
I wonder what she thought of the Beeb's new series Holby Blue?
Perhaps I shall have to suffer next Sunday's Mail to find out.
I thought it was everything she thought 'Dangerous' Davies was.
I thought it was stereotypic tripe which not even Tim Pigott-Smith could save.
I thought: NYPD Blue it ain't!
Saturday, May 05, 2007
71. Yesterdays, Yasmin A-B, 'Dangerous' and a dozy cat
YOU CAN'T HELP WONDERING.
The recent discovery of a pile of old snapshots has set me off again
One of the troubles with knocking on a bit is that you find yourself recalling people with whom you lost touch many years ago. It happens suddenly and indiscriminately and is a thoroughly pointless exercise because those you remember will either have kicked the bucket or, if they are still alive, would probably pass you in the street without a second glance.
Buoyed on by the millions to one chance recorded in my last post, however, I was tempted to publish a list of oft-recalled names from the past and take a chance that one or more of them would see it or hear about it from somebody who did.
But you can't go back.
As I said, those who are still alive would probably not recognize me. If they did they might not wish to know me. I seem to remember being the sort of young man I would find hard to tolerate now.
You can't help wondering, though, can you?
ANOTHER BROADSIDE FROM A CLASSY COLUMNIST.
Yasmin Alibhai-Brown was in full flow again in The Independent last Monday. In an article entitled A digital bedlam of narcissism and bullying she wrote of her fears that the internet is fast becoming a menace to our culture. People can have terrible power, she maintained: "Today they blast away in their blogs to threaten, libel, bully, intimidate and turn freedom itself into a hostage."
Oh dear.
Perhaps it is because I am not a professional soothsayer that I find it hard to attach importance to the outpourings of incensed Bloggerdom. I simply ignore anything that savours of bloggerdegook or gratuitous effing and blinding or blatant intimidation.
My own prejudices (pro - my Leader, my family, anything decent on the tele and J.K.Rowling; anti - all politicians national and local together with their advisers, anything smelling of reality television and anybody who feels they have a right to rule me) are quite enough to keep me grinning or growling to the grave. That some acid head in America, daft digger in Australia or barmpot in Barnsley might fancy bringing down World Order neither interests nor alarms me. I suppose a few sadsacks will read and believe them, but their supporters will surely be fewer than those who listened to and believed Adolf Hitler or, for that matter, Margaret Thatcher. You cannot legislate against them with any success and you'll lose an awful lot of sleep if you let them worry you.
Ever since I saw her face up to what I took to be a BNP infiltrated audience on Question Time a couple or so years ago I have had considerable respect for Yasmin A-B. She's a classy columnist and a doughty little scrapper and I shall continue to support her absolute right to deliver the hefty broadside; even when I think she's talking tosh.
THE LAST DETECTIVE (ITV1)
'Dangerous' Davies (Peter Davison) is back in a new series. Only the characters bear any relationship to Leslie Thomas's stories now, but writer Matthew Thomas and director Nick Laughland kept to the spirit of the original works and the result was very satisfying.
It bodes well for a series that, as well as attracting back regulars like Sean Hughes, Emma Amos and Charles De'ath, it can welcome the likes of Roger Daltrey, Anthony Valentine and John Shrapnel as guests.
I hope ol' Leslie T. enjoyed it.
I certainly did.
SO MUCH FOR SNOOKER AND SOCCER.
It has been World Snooker from The Crucible at Sheffield on BBC2 again over the past fortnight. I find it makes a decent stand-in while I'm waiting for something I really want to see on the box and an excellent replacement for all the usual daytime rubbish.
The cat Shadow believes it is a game invented to lull a cat to sleep, preferably on my lap or in my Leader's chair. So he has had a very restful couple of weeks. He didn't even look up when Milan knocked Manchester United out of the Champions League and when I relayed the result to him he just grunted.
So much for snooker and soccer.
The recent discovery of a pile of old snapshots has set me off again
One of the troubles with knocking on a bit is that you find yourself recalling people with whom you lost touch many years ago. It happens suddenly and indiscriminately and is a thoroughly pointless exercise because those you remember will either have kicked the bucket or, if they are still alive, would probably pass you in the street without a second glance.
Buoyed on by the millions to one chance recorded in my last post, however, I was tempted to publish a list of oft-recalled names from the past and take a chance that one or more of them would see it or hear about it from somebody who did.
But you can't go back.
As I said, those who are still alive would probably not recognize me. If they did they might not wish to know me. I seem to remember being the sort of young man I would find hard to tolerate now.
You can't help wondering, though, can you?
ANOTHER BROADSIDE FROM A CLASSY COLUMNIST.
Yasmin Alibhai-Brown was in full flow again in The Independent last Monday. In an article entitled A digital bedlam of narcissism and bullying she wrote of her fears that the internet is fast becoming a menace to our culture. People can have terrible power, she maintained: "Today they blast away in their blogs to threaten, libel, bully, intimidate and turn freedom itself into a hostage."
Oh dear.
Perhaps it is because I am not a professional soothsayer that I find it hard to attach importance to the outpourings of incensed Bloggerdom. I simply ignore anything that savours of bloggerdegook or gratuitous effing and blinding or blatant intimidation.
My own prejudices (pro - my Leader, my family, anything decent on the tele and J.K.Rowling; anti - all politicians national and local together with their advisers, anything smelling of reality television and anybody who feels they have a right to rule me) are quite enough to keep me grinning or growling to the grave. That some acid head in America, daft digger in Australia or barmpot in Barnsley might fancy bringing down World Order neither interests nor alarms me. I suppose a few sadsacks will read and believe them, but their supporters will surely be fewer than those who listened to and believed Adolf Hitler or, for that matter, Margaret Thatcher. You cannot legislate against them with any success and you'll lose an awful lot of sleep if you let them worry you.
Ever since I saw her face up to what I took to be a BNP infiltrated audience on Question Time a couple or so years ago I have had considerable respect for Yasmin A-B. She's a classy columnist and a doughty little scrapper and I shall continue to support her absolute right to deliver the hefty broadside; even when I think she's talking tosh.
THE LAST DETECTIVE (ITV1)
'Dangerous' Davies (Peter Davison) is back in a new series. Only the characters bear any relationship to Leslie Thomas's stories now, but writer Matthew Thomas and director Nick Laughland kept to the spirit of the original works and the result was very satisfying.
It bodes well for a series that, as well as attracting back regulars like Sean Hughes, Emma Amos and Charles De'ath, it can welcome the likes of Roger Daltrey, Anthony Valentine and John Shrapnel as guests.
I hope ol' Leslie T. enjoyed it.
I certainly did.
SO MUCH FOR SNOOKER AND SOCCER.
It has been World Snooker from The Crucible at Sheffield on BBC2 again over the past fortnight. I find it makes a decent stand-in while I'm waiting for something I really want to see on the box and an excellent replacement for all the usual daytime rubbish.
The cat Shadow believes it is a game invented to lull a cat to sleep, preferably on my lap or in my Leader's chair. So he has had a very restful couple of weeks. He didn't even look up when Milan knocked Manchester United out of the Champions League and when I relayed the result to him he just grunted.
So much for snooker and soccer.
Monday, April 23, 2007
70. Let's hear it for technology!
ON A PERSONAL NOTE.
At the outset I regarded this blog lark as a bit of Lone Ranger thing. Took it for granted that you just knocked out a few lines, clicked publish and committed the lot to the ether to go unnoticed by one half of the blogging world and ignored by the other. So I was no little surprised to hear last week from a friend with whom we lost touch all of twenty years ago. Helmut is Austrian and lives in Vienna. Seems he caught sight of me on the blog - surely a startling sight for somebody not prepared for it - and, once he had recovered his equilibrium, took the opportunity to e-mail. It was nice to hear from him after such a long time and it looks like I may even have another reader now. Including my Leader that will make around half a dozen that I know of. Hooray!
MORE THOUGHTS FROM A TOO CLEVER CAT.
"You're too clever by half," I said to the cat Shadow when he magically appeared as I was filling his food dish.
"It's a cat's senses thing," he replied airily.
"And was the Man. United - Roma result a cat's senses thing, too?" I asked. "You said you hoped United would get a load of goals in that Champions League return and they didn't disappoint. 7 - 1? Blimey!"
"Oh, according to the word up on the roof it was predictable," he said. "Let slip the dogs of war, didn't they."
"Now you're showing off," I said. "So I guess the win against Watford had to be a foregone conclusion, too."
He shrugged and I blinked foolishly. I can never keep up with his infuriating ability to convey a wordless reprimand for a pointless remark.
I put his food dish down.
"Here you are," I said ungraciously. "Looks like the Red Devils are well on their way in all the competitions, anyway."
He waited in front of his dish, as he always does, until I had stroked his back and murmured the customary: "There you go then."
"They didn't beat Portsmouth, though, did they," he said. "Out of their last four games at Fratton Park, Pompey have won three. Old Harry Redknapp can make a team out of anything. Well, he has to, he can't afford the boot-kicking Scot's sort of signings."
I left him contentedly filling his face with expensive catfood.
It took will-power but I resisted kicking his too clever backside.
NOW THE TECHNOLOGY BIT.
Son Neil has sent us a film of a mouse and a bird simultaneously attacking a food container in their Cornish garden. He has named this little masterpiece Tit Mouse! and the following link may enable you to watch it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fPciedliT5s
Let's hear it for technology!
At the outset I regarded this blog lark as a bit of Lone Ranger thing. Took it for granted that you just knocked out a few lines, clicked publish and committed the lot to the ether to go unnoticed by one half of the blogging world and ignored by the other. So I was no little surprised to hear last week from a friend with whom we lost touch all of twenty years ago. Helmut is Austrian and lives in Vienna. Seems he caught sight of me on the blog - surely a startling sight for somebody not prepared for it - and, once he had recovered his equilibrium, took the opportunity to e-mail. It was nice to hear from him after such a long time and it looks like I may even have another reader now. Including my Leader that will make around half a dozen that I know of. Hooray!
MORE THOUGHTS FROM A TOO CLEVER CAT.
"You're too clever by half," I said to the cat Shadow when he magically appeared as I was filling his food dish.
"It's a cat's senses thing," he replied airily.
"And was the Man. United - Roma result a cat's senses thing, too?" I asked. "You said you hoped United would get a load of goals in that Champions League return and they didn't disappoint. 7 - 1? Blimey!"
"Oh, according to the word up on the roof it was predictable," he said. "Let slip the dogs of war, didn't they."
"Now you're showing off," I said. "So I guess the win against Watford had to be a foregone conclusion, too."
He shrugged and I blinked foolishly. I can never keep up with his infuriating ability to convey a wordless reprimand for a pointless remark.
I put his food dish down.
"Here you are," I said ungraciously. "Looks like the Red Devils are well on their way in all the competitions, anyway."
He waited in front of his dish, as he always does, until I had stroked his back and murmured the customary: "There you go then."
"They didn't beat Portsmouth, though, did they," he said. "Out of their last four games at Fratton Park, Pompey have won three. Old Harry Redknapp can make a team out of anything. Well, he has to, he can't afford the boot-kicking Scot's sort of signings."
I left him contentedly filling his face with expensive catfood.
It took will-power but I resisted kicking his too clever backside.
NOW THE TECHNOLOGY BIT.
Son Neil has sent us a film of a mouse and a bird simultaneously attacking a food container in their Cornish garden. He has named this little masterpiece Tit Mouse! and the following link may enable you to watch it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fPciedliT5s
Let's hear it for technology!
Sunday, April 15, 2007
69. New stuff on the box - good and bad!
GEORGE GENTLY (BBC1, Easter Day 2007)
After Foyle's War and Life On Mars we have George Gently, an early sixties crime buster played by the former randy Judge John Deed, Martin Shaw. This was a one-off, which is probably just another word for pilot. It certainly looked good to become a series.
Martin Shaw always impresses. He has televisual looks and enough acting ability to be comfortable in any company. His gruff "Fabian of the Yard" character in this decent detective drama was incorruptible and believable. It is not always easy to convince as both but he did. He was splendidly supported by Phil ("Shake me up, Judy") Davis as Joe Webster, the sort of villain everybody has read about in the Sunday papers and prays will not move into their manor. He was also given the ambitious, well-connected, smart-arse of a juvenile lead Bacchus (Lee Ingleby) as his assistant.
This was a promising first adaptation of a book by Alan Hunter and a quite neat attempt to find a replacement for the late lamented John Thaw's late lamented Endeavour Morse. I just hope that it will not be used (as it rather tended to be with Philip Glenister's DCI Gene Hunt in Life On Mars) as a back door means of absolving the politically incorrect. Any device used to perpetuate values since discarded as valueless has to be viewed with suspicion.
IGNORING BIGOTRY.
I was brought up in the thirties. As a boy, the only black people I ever saw were in films. They threw spears at Tarzan (Johnny Weissmuller) or carried parcels on their heads for actors like Leslie Banks (Sanders of the River. 1935) and Sir C. Aubrey Smith (Tarzan The Ape Man. 1932) The only P.C. in our upbringing was a fat old copper on a bike: nobody liked him. East was east and west was west (Kipling, I believe, but no matter). Our schooling allowed for no awkward questions and was strong on the principle that everything coloured pink on the globe was ruled by us.
We have ruled nobody for almost as long as I have been alive, of course, but there are still many people who would like to believe that we do; that we are still a nation to be reckoned with. Pro rata we have as many bigots in this country as there are in America and that says something.
Nowadays I try to avoid all the jingoistic crap, the blatant sex discrimination and the puerile political (let alone religious) beliefs still popular with many of my fellow countrymen.
That having been said, I find, to my shame, that I offer no word of reproval when an old friend and contemporary tells me that he has stopped supporting his local football team because if he wanted to watch Kenya play he'd go to bloody Africa.
I may even have laughed.
It is as well that Yasmin Alibhai-Brown of The Independent does not read stuff like this. I would not want to add to her despair at the state of the national psyche. But there you are, concerned lady, an awful lot of old buckets will have to be kicked before this country becomes a haven for any but the likes of Al Murray's Pub Landlord or, more insidiously, those like me who sadly can condone bigotry by ignoring it.
RUDDY HELL! IT'S HARRY & PAUL. (BBC1, Friday 13th April)
Bloody hell! It's absolute crap.
After Foyle's War and Life On Mars we have George Gently, an early sixties crime buster played by the former randy Judge John Deed, Martin Shaw. This was a one-off, which is probably just another word for pilot. It certainly looked good to become a series.
Martin Shaw always impresses. He has televisual looks and enough acting ability to be comfortable in any company. His gruff "Fabian of the Yard" character in this decent detective drama was incorruptible and believable. It is not always easy to convince as both but he did. He was splendidly supported by Phil ("Shake me up, Judy") Davis as Joe Webster, the sort of villain everybody has read about in the Sunday papers and prays will not move into their manor. He was also given the ambitious, well-connected, smart-arse of a juvenile lead Bacchus (Lee Ingleby) as his assistant.
This was a promising first adaptation of a book by Alan Hunter and a quite neat attempt to find a replacement for the late lamented John Thaw's late lamented Endeavour Morse. I just hope that it will not be used (as it rather tended to be with Philip Glenister's DCI Gene Hunt in Life On Mars) as a back door means of absolving the politically incorrect. Any device used to perpetuate values since discarded as valueless has to be viewed with suspicion.
IGNORING BIGOTRY.
I was brought up in the thirties. As a boy, the only black people I ever saw were in films. They threw spears at Tarzan (Johnny Weissmuller) or carried parcels on their heads for actors like Leslie Banks (Sanders of the River. 1935) and Sir C. Aubrey Smith (Tarzan The Ape Man. 1932) The only P.C. in our upbringing was a fat old copper on a bike: nobody liked him. East was east and west was west (Kipling, I believe, but no matter). Our schooling allowed for no awkward questions and was strong on the principle that everything coloured pink on the globe was ruled by us.
We have ruled nobody for almost as long as I have been alive, of course, but there are still many people who would like to believe that we do; that we are still a nation to be reckoned with. Pro rata we have as many bigots in this country as there are in America and that says something.
Nowadays I try to avoid all the jingoistic crap, the blatant sex discrimination and the puerile political (let alone religious) beliefs still popular with many of my fellow countrymen.
That having been said, I find, to my shame, that I offer no word of reproval when an old friend and contemporary tells me that he has stopped supporting his local football team because if he wanted to watch Kenya play he'd go to bloody Africa.
I may even have laughed.
It is as well that Yasmin Alibhai-Brown of The Independent does not read stuff like this. I would not want to add to her despair at the state of the national psyche. But there you are, concerned lady, an awful lot of old buckets will have to be kicked before this country becomes a haven for any but the likes of Al Murray's Pub Landlord or, more insidiously, those like me who sadly can condone bigotry by ignoring it.
RUDDY HELL! IT'S HARRY & PAUL. (BBC1, Friday 13th April)
Bloody hell! It's absolute crap.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
68. One aged failure and two old favourites.
THROUGH THE KEYHOLE. (BBC 2)
Yes, David Frost is back again with the show where, according to the Radio Times: "Celebrity panellists put their heads together to identify the homes of the rich and famous."
Trouble is, the 'celebrity panellists' mostly only meet the modern reality game show definition of celebrity (unknown but confident) and the 'rich and famous' are far more the former than the latter.
The programme has now been extended to three quarters of an hour, which allows time for the lovely Stefanie Powers to look over the house of a (probably 'resting') showbiz person in America - a process carried out giving every clue imaginable as to the resident's identity short of actually using their long forgotten name.
As for the British homes, I have been pushing the cleaner around in my Leader's absence because if some of their owners are famous, so am I! Our unstately home could be on the next series. I wouldn't lay any odds, though.
Sadly the format of this old chestnut remains, like its presenter, boring and repetitive. It should be scrapped and he should retire to his stately pile. Has that ever been seen on Through the Keyhole?
No?
Well, if it ever is, don't bother me.
I'll be out making the tea.
EGGHEADS. (BBC2)
I like the Eggheads. Oh, the show is pretty much the sort of thing that I would usually avoid, but I happen to like the Eggheads themselves and sometimes wonder if I am the only twit in the country who does not obtain a spark of malicious pleasure when, very occasionally, they are beaten.
Strange though it may seem, one of the reasons I find myself siding with them is that they are very much the underdogs in this cunningly manipulated posh pub quiz. Everything is weighted in the challengers' favour. Choice of opponent, whether to go first or second with the questions, knowledge - through viewing past programmes - of the particular Egghead's weak subject and, last and very much least, the programme host, Dermot Murnaghan (a refugee news reader) whose totally one-sided presentation leaves no doubt that he just can't wait to see the clever buggers beaten by somebody...anybody!
In fairness, I do not think Mr. Murnaghan alone is responsible for this "let's beat the smug know-alls" attitude. I feel that those manipulative little sods behind the scenes may have something to do with it, too. Perhaps I am being paranoid, but have they advised challengers whether it will be better to go first or second? Have they suggested loud, open discussions on the Eggheads' perceived strengths and weaknesses? Have they encouraged the challenging team's wild applause and noisy support not only when one of them gets an answer right but when an Egghead gets one wrong?
(We-e-ell, it's good television, innit?)
Meanwhile the unflappable Kevin Ashman answers, briefly and correctly, almost every question put to him. Dear, deceptive Daphne Fowler twinkles as she dispatches yet another rash victim. Ol' Chris Hughes wraps up the simplest answer in a welter of (invariably correct) verbiage. Judith Keppel clearly struggles as the Murnaghan-baited fish-out-of-water and CJ de Mooi, whatever hairstyle, is himself: a laughable, knowledgeable, dismissive, vulnerable, occasionally sulky but mostly likeable young man with an impressive IQ. (He and I would be unlikely to get along but I'm an old man who has to look up IQ in the dictionary.)
I shall continue to watch Eggheads, continue to support the home team and continue to hurl abuse at the leprechaun of a referee.
Don't tell me I should get out more.
I know.
NCIS (Five)
I make no excuse for mentioning NCIS again. It continues to stand way above the majority of the opposition if only for the talent of its scriptwriters. Tonight's episode started with a weekend emergency which brought our team hurrying to Leroy Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) and his by now typecast haircut. There followed some deft throwaway lines culminating in an exchange between Abby (Pauley Perette) and Agent Gibbs which starts with Abby marching in, military style, removing her helmet and giving a left-handed salute:
Gibbs: Wrong hand, Abbs.
(Abby salutes again, right handed)
Abby: Permission to speak freely, sir?
Gibbs: You always do, Abbs.
Abby: I know, but I've always wanted to say that.
And finishes with:
Abby: Thank you, sir!
Gibbs: Don't call me sir.
Abby: Thank you, ma'm. (Exits)
(Gibbs grins)
We grinned, too. This clever, funny, thoughtful show stays high on our don't miss list
Yes, David Frost is back again with the show where, according to the Radio Times: "Celebrity panellists put their heads together to identify the homes of the rich and famous."
Trouble is, the 'celebrity panellists' mostly only meet the modern reality game show definition of celebrity (unknown but confident) and the 'rich and famous' are far more the former than the latter.
The programme has now been extended to three quarters of an hour, which allows time for the lovely Stefanie Powers to look over the house of a (probably 'resting') showbiz person in America - a process carried out giving every clue imaginable as to the resident's identity short of actually using their long forgotten name.
As for the British homes, I have been pushing the cleaner around in my Leader's absence because if some of their owners are famous, so am I! Our unstately home could be on the next series. I wouldn't lay any odds, though.
Sadly the format of this old chestnut remains, like its presenter, boring and repetitive. It should be scrapped and he should retire to his stately pile. Has that ever been seen on Through the Keyhole?
No?
Well, if it ever is, don't bother me.
I'll be out making the tea.
EGGHEADS. (BBC2)
I like the Eggheads. Oh, the show is pretty much the sort of thing that I would usually avoid, but I happen to like the Eggheads themselves and sometimes wonder if I am the only twit in the country who does not obtain a spark of malicious pleasure when, very occasionally, they are beaten.
Strange though it may seem, one of the reasons I find myself siding with them is that they are very much the underdogs in this cunningly manipulated posh pub quiz. Everything is weighted in the challengers' favour. Choice of opponent, whether to go first or second with the questions, knowledge - through viewing past programmes - of the particular Egghead's weak subject and, last and very much least, the programme host, Dermot Murnaghan (a refugee news reader) whose totally one-sided presentation leaves no doubt that he just can't wait to see the clever buggers beaten by somebody...anybody!
In fairness, I do not think Mr. Murnaghan alone is responsible for this "let's beat the smug know-alls" attitude. I feel that those manipulative little sods behind the scenes may have something to do with it, too. Perhaps I am being paranoid, but have they advised challengers whether it will be better to go first or second? Have they suggested loud, open discussions on the Eggheads' perceived strengths and weaknesses? Have they encouraged the challenging team's wild applause and noisy support not only when one of them gets an answer right but when an Egghead gets one wrong?
(We-e-ell, it's good television, innit?)
Meanwhile the unflappable Kevin Ashman answers, briefly and correctly, almost every question put to him. Dear, deceptive Daphne Fowler twinkles as she dispatches yet another rash victim. Ol' Chris Hughes wraps up the simplest answer in a welter of (invariably correct) verbiage. Judith Keppel clearly struggles as the Murnaghan-baited fish-out-of-water and CJ de Mooi, whatever hairstyle, is himself: a laughable, knowledgeable, dismissive, vulnerable, occasionally sulky but mostly likeable young man with an impressive IQ. (He and I would be unlikely to get along but I'm an old man who has to look up IQ in the dictionary.)
I shall continue to watch Eggheads, continue to support the home team and continue to hurl abuse at the leprechaun of a referee.
Don't tell me I should get out more.
I know.
NCIS (Five)
I make no excuse for mentioning NCIS again. It continues to stand way above the majority of the opposition if only for the talent of its scriptwriters. Tonight's episode started with a weekend emergency which brought our team hurrying to Leroy Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) and his by now typecast haircut. There followed some deft throwaway lines culminating in an exchange between Abby (Pauley Perette) and Agent Gibbs which starts with Abby marching in, military style, removing her helmet and giving a left-handed salute:
Gibbs: Wrong hand, Abbs.
(Abby salutes again, right handed)
Abby: Permission to speak freely, sir?
Gibbs: You always do, Abbs.
Abby: I know, but I've always wanted to say that.
And finishes with:
Abby: Thank you, sir!
Gibbs: Don't call me sir.
Abby: Thank you, ma'm. (Exits)
(Gibbs grins)
We grinned, too. This clever, funny, thoughtful show stays high on our don't miss list
Friday, April 06, 2007
67. I still remember...
AND THEY'RE STILL AT WAR.
"You were right," I told the cat Shadow."Football is only an
excuse for more and more war."
He looked surprisingly less than triumphant.
He said: "Saw that business in Rome, did you? No decent cat
would behave like that. We try to look all tough and territorial
but only a psychopathic cat fights for nothing."
I sighed.
"The Italian police certainly didn't seem to need much of
an excuse," I said. "You get the feeling that they were just
waiting to baton-charge a crowd of unarmed foreign
football fans. That they've been waiting for it all year."
"They probably have," he said. "It's an us and them thing
with most police forces. Besides, nobody is going to arrest
the police for assault, are they, no matter how violent. So
they use the excuse to let off steam and practise all the
crowd control thuggery they've been taught during the year."
"Anyway, Manchester United lost," I said as an afterthought.
"Oh, I'm not crowing," he reflected gently. "I may not be
fond of the boot-kicking Scot and his Red Devils but I don't
wish violence on them or their supporters. No, with any luck
Wayne Rooney and Cristiano Ronaldo will score a load of
goals when Roma goes to Old Trafford next Tuesday."
I eyed him in total perplexity:
"Thought you weren't interested in soccer anymore?"
"Oh, I'm not," he said. "I shan't watch it."
"You'll be out beating the bounds then," I said.
He sensed the disbelief in my voice and headed for
the cat flap.
I went the other way.
I still remember the last time he did that...
IT'S A BIT QUIET.
My Leader is in Oxford so it's a bit quiet around here.
Don't ask, just guess that it has everything to do
with looking after cats and you won't be far wrong.
Anyway, she will be back at the weekend.
I shall drive down to meet her off the 4 p.m
boat, BT and Wightlink permitting.
The French have a train which travels at over three
hundred miles an hour. ("Mind your coffee, Henri!")
We have an Oh Mister Porter set-up that goes into line
maintenance melt down every bank holiday.
So Maureen will be back at the helm on Saturday evening, BT
and our generally dependable ferry service permitting.
Why am I telling you this?
I don't know.
Like I said, it's a bit quiet around here.
T.H.WHITE AGAIN.
I have just finished reading the second book in
T.H.White's Arthurian saga The Once And Future King.
The Witch in the Wood is an equally compelling but
altogether different book from The Sword in the Stone.
Much of The Witch in the Wood is taken up with the
origin and effects of war.
Mr. White's philosophy was sound and humane.
His book should be compulsory reading once a year
for Tony Blair.
And once a year it should be read to George Bush
"You were right," I told the cat Shadow."Football is only an
excuse for more and more war."
He looked surprisingly less than triumphant.
He said: "Saw that business in Rome, did you? No decent cat
would behave like that. We try to look all tough and territorial
but only a psychopathic cat fights for nothing."
I sighed.
"The Italian police certainly didn't seem to need much of
an excuse," I said. "You get the feeling that they were just
waiting to baton-charge a crowd of unarmed foreign
football fans. That they've been waiting for it all year."
"They probably have," he said. "It's an us and them thing
with most police forces. Besides, nobody is going to arrest
the police for assault, are they, no matter how violent. So
they use the excuse to let off steam and practise all the
crowd control thuggery they've been taught during the year."
"Anyway, Manchester United lost," I said as an afterthought.
"Oh, I'm not crowing," he reflected gently. "I may not be
fond of the boot-kicking Scot and his Red Devils but I don't
wish violence on them or their supporters. No, with any luck
Wayne Rooney and Cristiano Ronaldo will score a load of
goals when Roma goes to Old Trafford next Tuesday."
I eyed him in total perplexity:
"Thought you weren't interested in soccer anymore?"
"Oh, I'm not," he said. "I shan't watch it."
"You'll be out beating the bounds then," I said.
He sensed the disbelief in my voice and headed for
the cat flap.
I went the other way.
I still remember the last time he did that...
IT'S A BIT QUIET.
My Leader is in Oxford so it's a bit quiet around here.
Don't ask, just guess that it has everything to do
with looking after cats and you won't be far wrong.
Anyway, she will be back at the weekend.
I shall drive down to meet her off the 4 p.m
boat, BT and Wightlink permitting.
The French have a train which travels at over three
hundred miles an hour. ("Mind your coffee, Henri!")
We have an Oh Mister Porter set-up that goes into line
maintenance melt down every bank holiday.
So Maureen will be back at the helm on Saturday evening, BT
and our generally dependable ferry service permitting.
Why am I telling you this?
I don't know.
Like I said, it's a bit quiet around here.
T.H.WHITE AGAIN.
I have just finished reading the second book in
T.H.White's Arthurian saga The Once And Future King.
The Witch in the Wood is an equally compelling but
altogether different book from The Sword in the Stone.
Much of The Witch in the Wood is taken up with the
origin and effects of war.
Mr. White's philosophy was sound and humane.
His book should be compulsory reading once a year
for Tony Blair.
And once a year it should be read to George Bush
Thursday, April 05, 2007
66. It's war everywhere
WHAT FOOTBALL?
"England won," I said to the cat Shadow.
"Won what?" he asked.
"The football," I said.
"What football?"
"The international. Beat Andorra."
"Oh, I was away while all those overpaid prima donnas pranced
about," he grumbled. "Seemed by far the best thing a sensible
cat could do."
"Well, England won 3 - 0," I persisted.
"Not until the second half, though," he said.
I eyed him speculatively.
"Oh, we hear it all up there on the rooftops," he continued.
"News travels fast, especially bad news."
"And a 3 - 0 win is bad news?"
"Given the team they were playing and the time it took...very
bad news."
I gave him my Professor Snape look of hearty detestation.
"Do sod off," I said.
He marched to the cat flap.
Half way out he broke wind.
Just has to have the last word.
ANOTHER GIFT FROM THE CHANCER CHANCELLOR.
A government which contains the tiresome trio Blair, Brown
and Reid is a government with three Scottish connections
too many. Latest of these unworthies to arouse my ire yet
again is the jaw-dropping Chancellor who last week finished
a budget speech by smugly announcing a drop in income
tax, then slapped an extra £5 on the Road Fund Tax for my
little car and required me to pay the extra when I presented
at the post office the following day.
If proof was needed that the only thing worse than a
politician is a child molester, there it is.
What's more, when dear Tony finally gets his backside out of
it, this pillar of probity will probably become Prime Minister.
Bloody hell!
WHY ARE WE THERE AT ALL?
The news that fifteen British sailors and marines had been
captured in disputed waters of the Persian Gulf and were
being held captive in Iran came as the sort of shock that
brings about the reaction: "Right! That's us at war then!"
Now that they have been released, however, is it not
reasonable to ask why we are there at all?
All this 'ferreting out terrorists' bullshit cuts no ice when
it is clear that we are probably only there to safeguard
the price of petrol in America.
And If you think about it, how would we react if a bunch
of Iranian gunboats turned up in The English Channel and
searched passing ships?
Would we accept their claims that they were on the
French side of the water?
Huh!
"England won," I said to the cat Shadow.
"Won what?" he asked.
"The football," I said.
"What football?"
"The international. Beat Andorra."
"Oh, I was away while all those overpaid prima donnas pranced
about," he grumbled. "Seemed by far the best thing a sensible
cat could do."
"Well, England won 3 - 0," I persisted.
"Not until the second half, though," he said.
I eyed him speculatively.
"Oh, we hear it all up there on the rooftops," he continued.
"News travels fast, especially bad news."
"And a 3 - 0 win is bad news?"
"Given the team they were playing and the time it took...very
bad news."
I gave him my Professor Snape look of hearty detestation.
"Do sod off," I said.
He marched to the cat flap.
Half way out he broke wind.
Just has to have the last word.
ANOTHER GIFT FROM THE CHANCER CHANCELLOR.
A government which contains the tiresome trio Blair, Brown
and Reid is a government with three Scottish connections
too many. Latest of these unworthies to arouse my ire yet
again is the jaw-dropping Chancellor who last week finished
a budget speech by smugly announcing a drop in income
tax, then slapped an extra £5 on the Road Fund Tax for my
little car and required me to pay the extra when I presented
at the post office the following day.
If proof was needed that the only thing worse than a
politician is a child molester, there it is.
What's more, when dear Tony finally gets his backside out of
it, this pillar of probity will probably become Prime Minister.
Bloody hell!
WHY ARE WE THERE AT ALL?
The news that fifteen British sailors and marines had been
captured in disputed waters of the Persian Gulf and were
being held captive in Iran came as the sort of shock that
brings about the reaction: "Right! That's us at war then!"
Now that they have been released, however, is it not
reasonable to ask why we are there at all?
All this 'ferreting out terrorists' bullshit cuts no ice when
it is clear that we are probably only there to safeguard
the price of petrol in America.
And If you think about it, how would we react if a bunch
of Iranian gunboats turned up in The English Channel and
searched passing ships?
Would we accept their claims that they were on the
French side of the water?
Huh!
Sunday, March 25, 2007
65. A grumpy pensioner, two decent girls and a departing gangster
A MAN'S COLD.
Don't come too near!
Not even now!
I have had the father and mother of all colds.
It was a man's cold so it was a near death job.
It was definitely not a woman's cold which is just a get on with it job.
My Leader suggested I use paper handkerchiefs. They could,
I was informed, be shredded and flushed down the loo to eventually
reach the sewers where they would no doubt become a major
ingredient in the first ever cold cure for rats.
But I do not like paper handkerchiefs. They are never big enough,
Not even the mansize super-strength supersoft big-as-Texas ones.
They are too thin to be used singly, they become even more
offensively soggy than their cotton counterparts and they are
a sore nose certainty.
All right. So the cotton handkerchief will carry germs which
may be passed on.
But heck!
I did warn you!
Don't come too near!
STILL TRIPPING ON WORDS.
If you have heeded my occasional advice to follow their exploits
you will know that those two lovely young TrippingOnWords
women, Claire and Lara, are in Kenya where they are out
running at odd hours, teaching English to some clearly delightful
children and dispensing free footwear as a (more popular when
trendily new) sideline.
This pair are proof that America has more to offer than friendly
fire fatalities and the distinction of joining two world wars too
late then claiming to have won them. (Who wrote their history
books? Lewis Carroll?)
No, this pair are part of what is good in any country.
They are caring and no little determined to do something
worthwhile. They'll not always be popular with those they
seek to help or, for that matter, with some of their own
countrymen, but they will keep trying I'm sure.
And if, instead of being just an English pensioner, I had been
clever and ruthless enough to become a millionaire, I would
be sending them as many pairs of brand new trainers as
their Kenyan children could possibly use - and then some.
So come on, one of you footwear millionaires, do yourself
and Tumaini Children's Centre a favour. Send them a few
hundred trendy pairs of trainers, gratis.
Just e-mail Claire and Lara@trippingonwords.com
and offer your help.
You'll probably be able to knock the gift off your tax bill
and the publicity value when news of your generosity
reaches the rest of the world will be incalculable.
Why not give it a go?
A FINAL GOODBYE TO TONY? (THE SOPRANOS - CHANNEL 4)
It looks as though we are saying a final goodbye to the gloriously
overweight, overbearing, over-the-top Tony Soprano, played by
James Gandolfini.
He has a macabre charisma. A deceptive menace.
He has a family to die of rather than for, is surrounded
by a mob of arguably the worst hair styles, wigs and
hairpieces in the history of organized crime and has a
surprisingly human tendancy to collapse under stress.
He also has a psychiatrist with the best pair of legs in
the entire trick-cycling world.
He and his mad Mafia mates will be missed.
It is obvious they are going, though.
The Sopranos has been dispatched to an 'adult' time of
night, five past eleven, which is a clear indication
that the silly sods who call themselves schedulers -
or some such fancy description - have decided that
the public is no longer interested in the programme.
Soon it will be past midnight and then one in the
morning before you can view it.
You may programme your recorder to catch it but
the said schedulers will then make last minute
changes to the advertised times.
They did all those things when discarding NYPD Blue
(plus screening it on a seldom viewed Channel) so
they have already set a precedent.
I despair, I really do
Don't come too near!
Not even now!
I have had the father and mother of all colds.
It was a man's cold so it was a near death job.
It was definitely not a woman's cold which is just a get on with it job.
My Leader suggested I use paper handkerchiefs. They could,
I was informed, be shredded and flushed down the loo to eventually
reach the sewers where they would no doubt become a major
ingredient in the first ever cold cure for rats.
But I do not like paper handkerchiefs. They are never big enough,
Not even the mansize super-strength supersoft big-as-Texas ones.
They are too thin to be used singly, they become even more
offensively soggy than their cotton counterparts and they are
a sore nose certainty.
All right. So the cotton handkerchief will carry germs which
may be passed on.
But heck!
I did warn you!
Don't come too near!
STILL TRIPPING ON WORDS.
If you have heeded my occasional advice to follow their exploits
you will know that those two lovely young TrippingOnWords
women, Claire and Lara, are in Kenya where they are out
running at odd hours, teaching English to some clearly delightful
children and dispensing free footwear as a (more popular when
trendily new) sideline.
This pair are proof that America has more to offer than friendly
fire fatalities and the distinction of joining two world wars too
late then claiming to have won them. (Who wrote their history
books? Lewis Carroll?)
No, this pair are part of what is good in any country.
They are caring and no little determined to do something
worthwhile. They'll not always be popular with those they
seek to help or, for that matter, with some of their own
countrymen, but they will keep trying I'm sure.
And if, instead of being just an English pensioner, I had been
clever and ruthless enough to become a millionaire, I would
be sending them as many pairs of brand new trainers as
their Kenyan children could possibly use - and then some.
So come on, one of you footwear millionaires, do yourself
and Tumaini Children's Centre a favour. Send them a few
hundred trendy pairs of trainers, gratis.
Just e-mail Claire and Lara@trippingonwords.com
and offer your help.
You'll probably be able to knock the gift off your tax bill
and the publicity value when news of your generosity
reaches the rest of the world will be incalculable.
Why not give it a go?
A FINAL GOODBYE TO TONY? (THE SOPRANOS - CHANNEL 4)
It looks as though we are saying a final goodbye to the gloriously
overweight, overbearing, over-the-top Tony Soprano, played by
James Gandolfini.
He has a macabre charisma. A deceptive menace.
He has a family to die of rather than for, is surrounded
by a mob of arguably the worst hair styles, wigs and
hairpieces in the history of organized crime and has a
surprisingly human tendancy to collapse under stress.
He also has a psychiatrist with the best pair of legs in
the entire trick-cycling world.
He and his mad Mafia mates will be missed.
It is obvious they are going, though.
The Sopranos has been dispatched to an 'adult' time of
night, five past eleven, which is a clear indication
that the silly sods who call themselves schedulers -
or some such fancy description - have decided that
the public is no longer interested in the programme.
Soon it will be past midnight and then one in the
morning before you can view it.
You may programme your recorder to catch it but
the said schedulers will then make last minute
changes to the advertised times.
They did all those things when discarding NYPD Blue
(plus screening it on a seldom viewed Channel) so
they have already set a precedent.
I despair, I really do
Saturday, March 03, 2007
64. Shadow's Soccer,Lewis's Oxford, Izzard's Kitchen and NCIS's Abby
FURTHER RUMINATIONS OF THE CAT SHADOW.
"Plenty of soccer on the box last week then," I said to the cat Shadow.
He remained curled up in the chair which he has discovered almost
hides him from the baby Ellis.
He ignored me.
"First it was Arsene Wenger's team," I persisted. "Good game that was."
"FA Cup, wasn't it?" he said suddenly.
I thought: gotcha!
"Think it was, yes," I murmured innocently.
"Yeah," he said, "The boot-kicking Scot's Manchester United played
in the evening. They drew with Steve Coppell's Reading."
I wondered again at his ability to dismiss the names of the football
club managers he does not like and instantly recall those he does.
"Sir Alex seemed quite cordial when they shook hands at the end of
the game," I ventured.
He grunted and gave me his stop being such a creep look.
"Following week United did well against Lille in the Champions'
League, too," I said boldly. "Chalk up another good week for the
boot-kicking Scot."
"Nothing to beat the punch up at the end of the Carling Cup Final,
though, when the unsmiling Frenchman's Gunners and the
Portuguese-in-the-posh-overcoat's Pensioners had their set-to,"
he said jubilantly. "Great start to a sporting week that was. Didn't
I tell you footballers were just a bunch of overpaid, warring buggers?"
"United will win the Reading replay, too," I continued doggedly, "and
the league. Just you see."
"No I won't bloody see," he retorted. "I've had enough mayhem for
this season. In future I'll be beating the bounds or sound asleep."
Don't know why I bother.
LEWIS. (ITV1)
Good old Lewis (Kevin Whately) was given the task of looking after
a best-selling author (Owen Teale) in this second of a three part
series based on the character created by Colin Dexter (who still
does the occasional Hitchcock-style background guest appearance).
I don't think I am spoiling anything by revealing that Lewis lost
his man in spectacular style.
It reminded me of the Morse episode "Twighlight of the Gods"
with John Gielgud, Robert Hardy and Sheila Gish as a singer
who was shot in the quad (not the most desirable spot to be shot).
The writer of this Lewis episode was Alan Plater.
Kevin Whately gave his usual sound performance. Laurence Fox
was the clever Det. Sgt. Hathaway, Clare Holman was back as
Dr. Laura Hobson. Rebecca Front has replaced James Grout as
the Chief Superintendant.
It ran for two hours and was easy viewing.
Lewis is Morseless Morse. And if good old Lewis should ever
decide to move on he could well be replaced by clever Hathaway.
Which will be much like watching good old Morse again.
KITCHEN. (Five)
Drama on Five and a welcome change from the customary diet
of American forensic experts, detectives, documentary dross
and second rate films.
Set in a swank Glasgow restaurant (eh?) this two part play
(a modern presentation so it contained not one really nice
character) was proof yet again that, while actors may not make
good stand-ups, stand-ups often make good actors.
A leading role in Kitchen was played by cross-dressing
stand-up comedian Eddie Izzard and, as a once famous but now
sadly drunken top chef, he was good.
Simon Ashdown's story of sex-obsessed, drug-snorting liars and
thieves was not for the faint-hearted.
Danny, a gifted young cook, was the central character. The main
story concerned whether he could complete his year on probation
for theft given the ill-will of his crooked probation officer, the
attentions of the probation officer's wife and the advances of the
viciously queer sous chef in the kitchen where he worked.
James Young as Danny and the rest of an excellent cast
(Stuart Bowman, Frank Gallagher, Charlene McKenna, Natalie
Robb et al.) made this a kitchen well worth the watching.
NCIS. (Five)
Back to the American forensic experts and detectives again.
But this one remains a cracking example of what television
should be. Entertainment.
Frame-Up had the dislikeable Anthony DiNozzo (Michael
Weatherley) being framed for murdering a couple of
female legs.
Well, not quite, but that's close enough.
The star of this episode was the delightful Abby Scluto
(Pauley Peretta), the team's forensic genius and a prize
cookie understandably cherished by team boss Jethro
Gibbs (Mark Harmon).
I'll not give anything away.
Suffice it to say we enjoyed every gloriously daft, funny,
unbelievable moment.
It even had a twist at the end.
"Plenty of soccer on the box last week then," I said to the cat Shadow.
He remained curled up in the chair which he has discovered almost
hides him from the baby Ellis.
He ignored me.
"First it was Arsene Wenger's team," I persisted. "Good game that was."
"FA Cup, wasn't it?" he said suddenly.
I thought: gotcha!
"Think it was, yes," I murmured innocently.
"Yeah," he said, "The boot-kicking Scot's Manchester United played
in the evening. They drew with Steve Coppell's Reading."
I wondered again at his ability to dismiss the names of the football
club managers he does not like and instantly recall those he does.
"Sir Alex seemed quite cordial when they shook hands at the end of
the game," I ventured.
He grunted and gave me his stop being such a creep look.
"Following week United did well against Lille in the Champions'
League, too," I said boldly. "Chalk up another good week for the
boot-kicking Scot."
"Nothing to beat the punch up at the end of the Carling Cup Final,
though, when the unsmiling Frenchman's Gunners and the
Portuguese-in-the-posh-overcoat's Pensioners had their set-to,"
he said jubilantly. "Great start to a sporting week that was. Didn't
I tell you footballers were just a bunch of overpaid, warring buggers?"
"United will win the Reading replay, too," I continued doggedly, "and
the league. Just you see."
"No I won't bloody see," he retorted. "I've had enough mayhem for
this season. In future I'll be beating the bounds or sound asleep."
Don't know why I bother.
LEWIS. (ITV1)
Good old Lewis (Kevin Whately) was given the task of looking after
a best-selling author (Owen Teale) in this second of a three part
series based on the character created by Colin Dexter (who still
does the occasional Hitchcock-style background guest appearance).
I don't think I am spoiling anything by revealing that Lewis lost
his man in spectacular style.
It reminded me of the Morse episode "Twighlight of the Gods"
with John Gielgud, Robert Hardy and Sheila Gish as a singer
who was shot in the quad (not the most desirable spot to be shot).
The writer of this Lewis episode was Alan Plater.
Kevin Whately gave his usual sound performance. Laurence Fox
was the clever Det. Sgt. Hathaway, Clare Holman was back as
Dr. Laura Hobson. Rebecca Front has replaced James Grout as
the Chief Superintendant.
It ran for two hours and was easy viewing.
Lewis is Morseless Morse. And if good old Lewis should ever
decide to move on he could well be replaced by clever Hathaway.
Which will be much like watching good old Morse again.
KITCHEN. (Five)
Drama on Five and a welcome change from the customary diet
of American forensic experts, detectives, documentary dross
and second rate films.
Set in a swank Glasgow restaurant (eh?) this two part play
(a modern presentation so it contained not one really nice
character) was proof yet again that, while actors may not make
good stand-ups, stand-ups often make good actors.
A leading role in Kitchen was played by cross-dressing
stand-up comedian Eddie Izzard and, as a once famous but now
sadly drunken top chef, he was good.
Simon Ashdown's story of sex-obsessed, drug-snorting liars and
thieves was not for the faint-hearted.
Danny, a gifted young cook, was the central character. The main
story concerned whether he could complete his year on probation
for theft given the ill-will of his crooked probation officer, the
attentions of the probation officer's wife and the advances of the
viciously queer sous chef in the kitchen where he worked.
James Young as Danny and the rest of an excellent cast
(Stuart Bowman, Frank Gallagher, Charlene McKenna, Natalie
Robb et al.) made this a kitchen well worth the watching.
NCIS. (Five)
Back to the American forensic experts and detectives again.
But this one remains a cracking example of what television
should be. Entertainment.
Frame-Up had the dislikeable Anthony DiNozzo (Michael
Weatherley) being framed for murdering a couple of
female legs.
Well, not quite, but that's close enough.
The star of this episode was the delightful Abby Scluto
(Pauley Peretta), the team's forensic genius and a prize
cookie understandably cherished by team boss Jethro
Gibbs (Mark Harmon).
I'll not give anything away.
Suffice it to say we enjoyed every gloriously daft, funny,
unbelievable moment.
It even had a twist at the end.
Monday, February 19, 2007
63. Foyle, Sypowicz, Arthur, Bucket, Potter & Those ***king Politicians
FOYLE'S WAR. (ITV 1)
He was back again at the weekend. The excellent Michael Kitchen playing DCS Christopher Foyle. He was accompanied as usual by posh driver Sam Stewart, played by Honeysuckle Weeks (I do so love that name), his "lorst-a-leg-in- action-and-a-wife-when-'e-got-'ome" sergeant, the unfortunate Paul Milner (Anthony Howell) and a reliable cast of wartime appearance actors which included Liz Fraser to remind us that there can be life after Carry On. He was also assisted by his acting trilby, the blue one, just to show that he meant business.
This time poor old Milner was prime suspect in the eyes of everybody...well, everybody but Foyle, Sam, the entire Hastings police station and us... when his absentee wife returned and promptly got done in. Any mockery on my part is gentle.
The acting, the sets, the authentic 39 - 45 feel of it all takes me right back to those magical b/w days of Green For Danger ( Alistair Sim), Went The Day Well? (Leslie Banks) and Cottage To Let (Leslie Banks, Alistair Sim, John Mills and a little boy named George Cole).
Foyle's War rates extremely well, especially alongside the latter two which were simply propaganda films.
A new series soon, please, ITV.
NYPD Blue. Series 12 (More4)
I guess that's it then. Sgt. Sypowicz was seconded to Detectives as predicted in my post before last. It didn't take an egghead to work it out. He was then made boss of the department and succeeded in pissing off the Chief right away by doing that most unacceptable of all things - being right. That figured, too.
He was making a start on the paperwork at the end.
My thanks for some splendid viewing go to Dennis Franz and Co.
Come back soon.
CURRENT READING.
I am reading The Once And Future King the complete edition of T.H. White's Arthurian fantasy (HarperCollins) and am currently close to the end of Book 1, The Sword In The Stone. Terence Hanbury White is required reading.
Born in 1906 and educated at Cheltenham and Cambridge he had written poems, books on sports and some detective stories before finding fame with this first King Arthur tale in 1939. The second book, The Witch In The Wood was published in 1940, the same year that the final volume, The Candle In The Wind was written. Ill-Made Knight and The Book Of Merlyn were produced in 1941.
These are wonderfully imaginative, meticulously researched, beautifully written books by a master of his craft. They will keep me company, along with Keeping Up Appearances, Hyacinth Bucket's unashamedly pretentious Book Of Etiquette for the Socially Less Fortunate (BBC Books) until I re-read Harry Potter And (as I usually refer to him) The Half Cut Prince. That will be just before July 21 this year when Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows brings the series to an end.
I hear that J.K. Rowling has already finished it.
Well, whether she has or she has not:
"Keep writing, J.K., keep writing!"
THOSE GREEDY ***KING POLITICIANS AGAIN.
I hear today that those greedy ***king politicians in London have put up their "grab the motorist's money and sod'im" payment to £8 and extended the boundary further west. I think they call it "congestion tax."
It is actually highway robbery. How much further west do they intend to go?
Reading?
Bristol?
And how long before all the other little local money grabbers follow suit?
Maybe one day millions of we motorists will do what should have done years ago and say: "Get stuffed! We're not paying!"
Well the Tossers in Power would have a job labelling all of us as terrorists, and they surely have neither enough remote MoD airfields nor enough hard-faced American 'friends' to secretly shuffle that many people off to Guantamano Bay.
Have they?
He was back again at the weekend. The excellent Michael Kitchen playing DCS Christopher Foyle. He was accompanied as usual by posh driver Sam Stewart, played by Honeysuckle Weeks (I do so love that name), his "lorst-a-leg-in- action-and-a-wife-when-'e-got-'ome" sergeant, the unfortunate Paul Milner (Anthony Howell) and a reliable cast of wartime appearance actors which included Liz Fraser to remind us that there can be life after Carry On. He was also assisted by his acting trilby, the blue one, just to show that he meant business.
This time poor old Milner was prime suspect in the eyes of everybody...well, everybody but Foyle, Sam, the entire Hastings police station and us... when his absentee wife returned and promptly got done in. Any mockery on my part is gentle.
The acting, the sets, the authentic 39 - 45 feel of it all takes me right back to those magical b/w days of Green For Danger ( Alistair Sim), Went The Day Well? (Leslie Banks) and Cottage To Let (Leslie Banks, Alistair Sim, John Mills and a little boy named George Cole).
Foyle's War rates extremely well, especially alongside the latter two which were simply propaganda films.
A new series soon, please, ITV.
NYPD Blue. Series 12 (More4)
I guess that's it then. Sgt. Sypowicz was seconded to Detectives as predicted in my post before last. It didn't take an egghead to work it out. He was then made boss of the department and succeeded in pissing off the Chief right away by doing that most unacceptable of all things - being right. That figured, too.
He was making a start on the paperwork at the end.
My thanks for some splendid viewing go to Dennis Franz and Co.
Come back soon.
CURRENT READING.
I am reading The Once And Future King the complete edition of T.H. White's Arthurian fantasy (HarperCollins) and am currently close to the end of Book 1, The Sword In The Stone. Terence Hanbury White is required reading.
Born in 1906 and educated at Cheltenham and Cambridge he had written poems, books on sports and some detective stories before finding fame with this first King Arthur tale in 1939. The second book, The Witch In The Wood was published in 1940, the same year that the final volume, The Candle In The Wind was written. Ill-Made Knight and The Book Of Merlyn were produced in 1941.
These are wonderfully imaginative, meticulously researched, beautifully written books by a master of his craft. They will keep me company, along with Keeping Up Appearances, Hyacinth Bucket's unashamedly pretentious Book Of Etiquette for the Socially Less Fortunate (BBC Books) until I re-read Harry Potter And (as I usually refer to him) The Half Cut Prince. That will be just before July 21 this year when Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows brings the series to an end.
I hear that J.K. Rowling has already finished it.
Well, whether she has or she has not:
"Keep writing, J.K., keep writing!"
THOSE GREEDY ***KING POLITICIANS AGAIN.
I hear today that those greedy ***king politicians in London have put up their "grab the motorist's money and sod'im" payment to £8 and extended the boundary further west. I think they call it "congestion tax."
It is actually highway robbery. How much further west do they intend to go?
Reading?
Bristol?
And how long before all the other little local money grabbers follow suit?
Maybe one day millions of we motorists will do what should have done years ago and say: "Get stuffed! We're not paying!"
Well the Tossers in Power would have a job labelling all of us as terrorists, and they surely have neither enough remote MoD airfields nor enough hard-faced American 'friends' to secretly shuffle that many people off to Guantamano Bay.
Have they?
Saturday, February 10, 2007
62. Browsing the Box
FIVE DAYS (BBC1)
We enjoyed this thriller by Gwyneth Hughes as much as we
thought we would and our expectations were quite high.
Jack Shepherd's Wycliffe and Michael Kitchen's Foyle apart,
DSI Iain Barclay (Hugh Bonneville) was more restrained than
has been any boss of a television police department since
the monstrous DS Charlie Barlow, played by Stratford Johns,
shouted his way into our living rooms back in the dim and
distant days of Z Cars.
Currently we are suffering the manic DS Peter Boyd
(Trevor Eve) in Waking the Dead (BBC1) and the
bellowing DCS Michael Walker (David Hayman) in
Trial and Retribution (ITV1).
DSI (whatever that may stand for) Barclay was a change
for the better.
Met too many of the likes of Boyd and Walker in my army
days.
They were pricks, too.
YOU DON'T KNOW YOU'RE BORN.
Despite an obvious rip-off from the earlier (BBC) genealogy
series, Who Do You Think You Are? (Moira Stuart, Ian Hislop
etc.) this short ITV1 series turned out to be a steal with a
neat twist.
It invited celebrity participants to find out about their
ancestors and, as they did so, to try their hands at some of
the jobs done by them.
This week it was the charismatic Ken Stott.
He found a Scottish past in baking and tailoring and, on his
Italian side, one in both fish selling and the priesthood.
His attempts as baker, tailor and fisherman were good
natured and (as could be expected) immensely watchable.
At times, despite his best efforts, his depth of feeling was
palpable.
Everywhere he went he was clearly liked and respected.
No surprise there.
My Leader likes him: my daughters like him: even our
bloody cat likes him.
And he still manages to keep his private life private.
I'd like him if only for that.
We enjoyed this thriller by Gwyneth Hughes as much as we
thought we would and our expectations were quite high.
Jack Shepherd's Wycliffe and Michael Kitchen's Foyle apart,
DSI Iain Barclay (Hugh Bonneville) was more restrained than
has been any boss of a television police department since
the monstrous DS Charlie Barlow, played by Stratford Johns,
shouted his way into our living rooms back in the dim and
distant days of Z Cars.
Currently we are suffering the manic DS Peter Boyd
(Trevor Eve) in Waking the Dead (BBC1) and the
bellowing DCS Michael Walker (David Hayman) in
Trial and Retribution (ITV1).
DSI (whatever that may stand for) Barclay was a change
for the better.
Met too many of the likes of Boyd and Walker in my army
days.
They were pricks, too.
YOU DON'T KNOW YOU'RE BORN.
Despite an obvious rip-off from the earlier (BBC) genealogy
series, Who Do You Think You Are? (Moira Stuart, Ian Hislop
etc.) this short ITV1 series turned out to be a steal with a
neat twist.
It invited celebrity participants to find out about their
ancestors and, as they did so, to try their hands at some of
the jobs done by them.
This week it was the charismatic Ken Stott.
He found a Scottish past in baking and tailoring and, on his
Italian side, one in both fish selling and the priesthood.
His attempts as baker, tailor and fisherman were good
natured and (as could be expected) immensely watchable.
At times, despite his best efforts, his depth of feeling was
palpable.
Everywhere he went he was clearly liked and respected.
No surprise there.
My Leader likes him: my daughters like him: even our
bloody cat likes him.
And he still manages to keep his private life private.
I'd like him if only for that.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
61. A nostalgic trip from Sherwood to New York
A SPLENDID FILM.
I watched Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves again at the weekend.
Director Kevin Reynolds. Year of release, 1991.
Doesn't seem possible..
Everyone except me is sixteen years older now.
It was, still is, a splendid film..
What a cast.
Kevin Costner and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio could not have had better fellow actors.
Dear ol' Brian Blessed shouted his way to an early demise. Only way to go, Brian.
Alan Rickman (even better than Basil Rathbone) again called off Christmas before smilingly making a dear departed of his incompetent fellow villain, Guy of Gisbourne, played by Michael Wincott.
Will Scarlett (Christian Slater) was the good - bad - good half-brother of Robin of Locksley.
Robin's friend, Azeem, was the redoubtable Morgan Freeman, upstaged by nobody.
Michael McShane made a massively impressive Friar Tuck and Nick Brimble a hugely likeable Little John.
There was Walter Sparrow, blindly blundering, Harold Innocent, sanctimoniously sneaking and a marvellously mad Mortianna in the barely recognizable form of Geraldine McEwan.
Then, finally, when Friar Tuck performed the Robin/Marian wedding ceremony at the end:
"If any man knows of any...(reason why these two should not be married)... let him speak now," he was answered by the only Scottish Richard The Lionheart in Christendom: "I have shomething to shay." And King Richard (Sean Connery) entered Stage R. on horseback.
I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed it the first time around.
NYPD BLUE (More4).
A while back some bright programme planners (huh!) decided that NYPD Blue was no longer suitable entertainment for current audiences.
Obviously cheap reality television and crap game shows were in.
So this once vaunted cop show was shoved further and further into the dark hours until you needed to be a night watchman or an insomniac to keep abreast of it.
Now it languishes on More4.
It has reached 17/20 Series 12.
Andy Sipowicz (Dennis Franz) has been made a uniformed Sergeant and is clearly not too happy.
Greg Medavoy (Gordon Clapp) has found a romantic interest and is seriously considering leaving the force.
Reckon Sipowicz back to Detective before the series ends?
Ah-h-h-h-h! Why should we care? Obviously the so-called programmers/schedulers - whatever - don't.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
60. Thoughts on an Ellisless day
BABY BOO AND ME.
The baby Ellis (20 months) will not be in to see me today.
My Leader has gone to his house to be there if the delivery van arrives from a local DIY shop ("We will deliver from 8 am onwards"). Time was when trades people delivered at times requested but now they tell you what they will or won't do. We've become far too apathetic in this country.
Anyway, his mother (our Roz) is off doing her lollipop lady job and, as decreed by Sod's Law, will probably not be around when the van arrives.
Hence the change in the usual arrangement.
The usual arrangement is for Roz to arrive here each schoolday morning bringing daughter Jess (who is a pupil at the school across the road from us) and the baby Ellis who stays with us until his mother returns from work.
He has his own routine.
First he greets his grandmother who is always downstairs to meet them all.
The 'hallo' drops in the middle and rises again, the 'there' becomes 'air.'
"A-a-a-o-o-Oa-a-aiR."
He then climbs the stairs, unaided, comes to me, sitting in bed, and says : "A-a-o-O, Boo."
A month or so ago I was Daish (presumably his attempt at Dennis) and my Leader was, still is, Gosh (not a clue where that came from).
Now I am Boo.
How that happened is not exactly clear, either.
But I feel very flattered because Boo is Roz's pet name for him so I feel he associates it with someone who is loved.
My invariable reply is: "'Allo, baby Boo."
He then holds his arms wide and reaches up to give me a quick cuddle.
Next he turns to my bedside cabinet, picks up the recumbent phone and settles it on its stand.
If I have not donned my glasses he lifts them off the cabinet and ceremoniously hands them to me.
A Boo without spectacles is not a satisfactory Boo.
And then he turns and points up to where the biscuit tin resides on top of my chest of drawers.
You see, a Boo without spectacles might lose the location of the biscuit tin.
He dances on tippytoes as the biscuit tin comes down and applies maximum concentration to the choosing of the right biscuit.
Biscuit chosen he heads for the door, takes the ten stairs to the ground floor on his backside, and until his breakfast arrives settles in my armchair to watch Bob The Builder, Barney, Poo Bear, Balamory or that Octopus thingy on video.
His conversation about it all is constant and mostly unintelligible.
I think the cat Shadow understands him.
When baby Ellis croons: "Ah-h-h, ca-a-at..." it is time to curl up in a tighter ball or head for the catflap
Of course I sometimes sigh a heartfelt sigh of relief when the little bloke goes home.
But when he has gone a certain emptiness comes over the place.
It does not really wake up again until the next cry of:
"A-a-a-a-o-o-oha-a-a-aiR!"
I SHALL BE WATCHING...
BBC1 are showing the new drama Five Days over three nights this week and two nights next.
So far it has been a splendid example of what televiewing should be about.
The story is gripping.
The acting is superb.
The direction is faultless.
It is a thoroughly professional presentation.
I may tape anything which could arguably compete but I shall certainly be watching Five Days.
I SHALL NOT BE WATCHING...
The world famous Australian cook John Torode (who?) famous, presumably, for his braised kangaroo and the greengrocer Gregg Wallace (who?) elevated to nutrition expert for a week, are back on BBC2 with their reality 'let's scoff their food and insult them' tele cook show.
I may watch something I've taped but I shall certainly not be watching MasterChef Goes Large.
The baby Ellis (20 months) will not be in to see me today.
My Leader has gone to his house to be there if the delivery van arrives from a local DIY shop ("We will deliver from 8 am onwards"). Time was when trades people delivered at times requested but now they tell you what they will or won't do. We've become far too apathetic in this country.
Anyway, his mother (our Roz) is off doing her lollipop lady job and, as decreed by Sod's Law, will probably not be around when the van arrives.
Hence the change in the usual arrangement.
The usual arrangement is for Roz to arrive here each schoolday morning bringing daughter Jess (who is a pupil at the school across the road from us) and the baby Ellis who stays with us until his mother returns from work.
He has his own routine.
First he greets his grandmother who is always downstairs to meet them all.
The 'hallo' drops in the middle and rises again, the 'there' becomes 'air.'
"A-a-a-o-o-Oa-a-aiR."
He then climbs the stairs, unaided, comes to me, sitting in bed, and says : "A-a-o-O, Boo."
A month or so ago I was Daish (presumably his attempt at Dennis) and my Leader was, still is, Gosh (not a clue where that came from).
Now I am Boo.
How that happened is not exactly clear, either.
But I feel very flattered because Boo is Roz's pet name for him so I feel he associates it with someone who is loved.
My invariable reply is: "'Allo, baby Boo."
He then holds his arms wide and reaches up to give me a quick cuddle.
Next he turns to my bedside cabinet, picks up the recumbent phone and settles it on its stand.
If I have not donned my glasses he lifts them off the cabinet and ceremoniously hands them to me.
A Boo without spectacles is not a satisfactory Boo.
And then he turns and points up to where the biscuit tin resides on top of my chest of drawers.
You see, a Boo without spectacles might lose the location of the biscuit tin.
He dances on tippytoes as the biscuit tin comes down and applies maximum concentration to the choosing of the right biscuit.
Biscuit chosen he heads for the door, takes the ten stairs to the ground floor on his backside, and until his breakfast arrives settles in my armchair to watch Bob The Builder, Barney, Poo Bear, Balamory or that Octopus thingy on video.
His conversation about it all is constant and mostly unintelligible.
I think the cat Shadow understands him.
When baby Ellis croons: "Ah-h-h, ca-a-at..." it is time to curl up in a tighter ball or head for the catflap
Of course I sometimes sigh a heartfelt sigh of relief when the little bloke goes home.
But when he has gone a certain emptiness comes over the place.
It does not really wake up again until the next cry of:
"A-a-a-a-o-o-oha-a-a-aiR!"
I SHALL BE WATCHING...
BBC1 are showing the new drama Five Days over three nights this week and two nights next.
So far it has been a splendid example of what televiewing should be about.
The story is gripping.
The acting is superb.
The direction is faultless.
It is a thoroughly professional presentation.
I may tape anything which could arguably compete but I shall certainly be watching Five Days.
I SHALL NOT BE WATCHING...
The world famous Australian cook John Torode (who?) famous, presumably, for his braised kangaroo and the greengrocer Gregg Wallace (who?) elevated to nutrition expert for a week, are back on BBC2 with their reality 'let's scoff their food and insult them' tele cook show.
I may watch something I've taped but I shall certainly not be watching MasterChef Goes Large.
Monday, January 22, 2007
59. Ruminations of the cat Shadow
MORE FOOTBALL COMMENT.
I went downstairs to the cat Shadow.
He was curled up on his big beanbag and appeared to be asleep.
He opened one eye.
"Where you been?" he demanded.
"Blog," I replied, trying not to sound too defensive.
He snorted.
"Y'know," I said, "you're the only cat I've ever come across who can snort."
"You missed the football," he said. "It was the team managed by that bloke who kicks boots at people when they lose. They lost. You'll be sorry you missed that."
He seldom gives Alex Ferguson a name, never mind Sir Alex. He is convinced that there walks one knight of the realm who would kick a football boot at a convenient cat if Manchester United lost.
"Up against Arsenal, weren't they?" I inquired.
"The unsmiling Frenchman. Him with Thierry Henri in his team: and still he can't smile."
"That's Arsene Wenger," I said. "He probably smiles inside."
"He must have done at the end of that game," the cat Shadow chortled. "In extra time ol' Henri rose head and shoulders above the very best in the Premiership to head the winner."
"I would have liked to see that," I admitted.
"Oh, just watch the footie programmes for a couple of weeks," he said. "It'll be repeated often enough."
"Didn't Arsenal beat them away, too?"
"Yep. It was the double. Talk about snow in Scotland. There was sure ice at the Emirates Stadium when those managers did the hypocritical handshake at the end. They didn't even look at each other."
"It's good to see the magnanimity of two sporting leaders," I said. "Lifts your heart."
"Don't it just," he said.
THEN THE WHOLE SPORTS THING.
I had barely got comfortable when he landed on my lap with all the arrogance of a cat who has owned you for long enough to know who's boss.
"Truth to tell," he ventured, "I don't have much time for sport. I think its benefits are greatly overrated."
"Go on, maestro," I said.
"Well, take the English. Not bad at games where they can be jolly good losers and tell themselves that it isn't the winning but the taking part that counts. Rubbish at sports where the only point in competing is to win and make money."
"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?" I said. "We started things like football and cricket. You can't expect to win all the time just because you invented something. Other countries will desperately want to beat us because we invented the game."
"Other countries will desperately want to beat us because they hate our guts." he said. "Look at the Scots with football. Look at the Welsh and French with rugger. Look at the Aussies with cricket. Don't even think about the Irish. And look at the whole of Europe with the Eurovision song contest."
That's neither sport nor entertainment," I objected.
"Whatever," he said. "If a sensible cat had been running things this country would have opted out of all sports. Sports are just wars waged on playing fields. We won the wars years ago. Why fight them again now?
"England should have refused to appear on a cricket pitch after Douglas Jardine and Harold Larwood polished off the Australians. They should have packed in football before the Hungarians came along. As for rugger, if they had done the right thing and expelled that boy who picked up the ball at Rugby School thousands of broken bones and cauliflower ears would have been avoided. Anyway, if you can't beat 'em don't play 'em. Sod sportsmanship, it doesn't exist."
"Snooker?" I suggested, cautiously.
"Club game made big by tele," he said. "The more money it attracts the less friendly it will become. You see."
I sighed.
I started to tell him that he was not in favour of sport because he was such a bad loser.
But he had already gone back to sleep.
I went downstairs to the cat Shadow.
He was curled up on his big beanbag and appeared to be asleep.
He opened one eye.
"Where you been?" he demanded.
"Blog," I replied, trying not to sound too defensive.
He snorted.
"Y'know," I said, "you're the only cat I've ever come across who can snort."
"You missed the football," he said. "It was the team managed by that bloke who kicks boots at people when they lose. They lost. You'll be sorry you missed that."
He seldom gives Alex Ferguson a name, never mind Sir Alex. He is convinced that there walks one knight of the realm who would kick a football boot at a convenient cat if Manchester United lost.
"Up against Arsenal, weren't they?" I inquired.
"The unsmiling Frenchman. Him with Thierry Henri in his team: and still he can't smile."
"That's Arsene Wenger," I said. "He probably smiles inside."
"He must have done at the end of that game," the cat Shadow chortled. "In extra time ol' Henri rose head and shoulders above the very best in the Premiership to head the winner."
"I would have liked to see that," I admitted.
"Oh, just watch the footie programmes for a couple of weeks," he said. "It'll be repeated often enough."
"Didn't Arsenal beat them away, too?"
"Yep. It was the double. Talk about snow in Scotland. There was sure ice at the Emirates Stadium when those managers did the hypocritical handshake at the end. They didn't even look at each other."
"It's good to see the magnanimity of two sporting leaders," I said. "Lifts your heart."
"Don't it just," he said.
THEN THE WHOLE SPORTS THING.
I had barely got comfortable when he landed on my lap with all the arrogance of a cat who has owned you for long enough to know who's boss.
"Truth to tell," he ventured, "I don't have much time for sport. I think its benefits are greatly overrated."
"Go on, maestro," I said.
"Well, take the English. Not bad at games where they can be jolly good losers and tell themselves that it isn't the winning but the taking part that counts. Rubbish at sports where the only point in competing is to win and make money."
"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?" I said. "We started things like football and cricket. You can't expect to win all the time just because you invented something. Other countries will desperately want to beat us because we invented the game."
"Other countries will desperately want to beat us because they hate our guts." he said. "Look at the Scots with football. Look at the Welsh and French with rugger. Look at the Aussies with cricket. Don't even think about the Irish. And look at the whole of Europe with the Eurovision song contest."
That's neither sport nor entertainment," I objected.
"Whatever," he said. "If a sensible cat had been running things this country would have opted out of all sports. Sports are just wars waged on playing fields. We won the wars years ago. Why fight them again now?
"England should have refused to appear on a cricket pitch after Douglas Jardine and Harold Larwood polished off the Australians. They should have packed in football before the Hungarians came along. As for rugger, if they had done the right thing and expelled that boy who picked up the ball at Rugby School thousands of broken bones and cauliflower ears would have been avoided. Anyway, if you can't beat 'em don't play 'em. Sod sportsmanship, it doesn't exist."
"Snooker?" I suggested, cautiously.
"Club game made big by tele," he said. "The more money it attracts the less friendly it will become. You see."
I sighed.
I started to tell him that he was not in favour of sport because he was such a bad loser.
But he had already gone back to sleep.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
58. Bloggerdom is a very big place indeed
THOSE CUSSED BLOGS OF NOTE.
I have allowed myself to be influenced by the BlogEd's cussed
Blogs Of Note again.
Fatal mistake.
I am still enjoying TrippingOnWords at least once a week and have been brought down to earth by the realization that Bloggerdom is a very big place indeed.
Not all of it is given over to advertisements, technical photographs and bloggerdegook.
Yesterday I sat enthralled at the Adventures of the Urban Cowgirl.
This lovely Londoner moved to New Zealand last year.
Her description of being swung above a gorge on some sort of rope and wire device is priceless.
Scared to tears, but fuck it, she'd paid for it.
Her search for a job took me back fifty years.
The BlogEds didn't stop there.
They put me on to gilest.org where the freelance writer Giles Turnbull had me laughing aloud at his experience with an old couple's narrow boat and head shaking with admiration at his determination to mend a washing machine.
Neither of these bloggers is just a keyboard tapper.
Both will have a go at something active.
Think I might take a stroll down town later on.
MORE MIDSOMER MURDERS.
Yep, they're back to their killing ways again. A new three part series of Midsomer Murders started last night on ITV1.
A walk up a long driveway still has dear old John Nettles sounding as though he has run a mile.
Dead bodies can appear in pairs.
Patrick Troughton's son, David, and the West's boy, Samuel, were (as they are in just about everything nowadays) welcome guests.
I wrestled with falling asleep because after ten I can do that,
My Leader shouted me awake a couple of times.
I enjoyed every waking moment..
They can keep their all too serious reality television.
At the same time I recorded NCIS followed by Law And Order; Criminal Intent.
Probably it will be more of Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) and Det Robert Goran (Vincent D'Onofrio) trying to convince me that murderers who have been set free by plea bargaining can gain access to any secure establishment in America and open fire on the hapless denizens.
I shall scoff at the notion.
I shall check on Mark Harmon's haircut.
I shall remark that there must be a competition going on between Vincent D'Onofrio and David Caruso for the title America's Most Mannered Actor.
And I shall enjoy the entire silliness of it all.
I have allowed myself to be influenced by the BlogEd's cussed
Blogs Of Note again.
Fatal mistake.
I am still enjoying TrippingOnWords at least once a week and have been brought down to earth by the realization that Bloggerdom is a very big place indeed.
Not all of it is given over to advertisements, technical photographs and bloggerdegook.
Yesterday I sat enthralled at the Adventures of the Urban Cowgirl.
This lovely Londoner moved to New Zealand last year.
Her description of being swung above a gorge on some sort of rope and wire device is priceless.
Scared to tears, but fuck it, she'd paid for it.
Her search for a job took me back fifty years.
The BlogEds didn't stop there.
They put me on to gilest.org where the freelance writer Giles Turnbull had me laughing aloud at his experience with an old couple's narrow boat and head shaking with admiration at his determination to mend a washing machine.
Neither of these bloggers is just a keyboard tapper.
Both will have a go at something active.
Think I might take a stroll down town later on.
MORE MIDSOMER MURDERS.
Yep, they're back to their killing ways again. A new three part series of Midsomer Murders started last night on ITV1.
A walk up a long driveway still has dear old John Nettles sounding as though he has run a mile.
Dead bodies can appear in pairs.
Patrick Troughton's son, David, and the West's boy, Samuel, were (as they are in just about everything nowadays) welcome guests.
I wrestled with falling asleep because after ten I can do that,
My Leader shouted me awake a couple of times.
I enjoyed every waking moment..
They can keep their all too serious reality television.
At the same time I recorded NCIS followed by Law And Order; Criminal Intent.
Probably it will be more of Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) and Det Robert Goran (Vincent D'Onofrio) trying to convince me that murderers who have been set free by plea bargaining can gain access to any secure establishment in America and open fire on the hapless denizens.
I shall scoff at the notion.
I shall check on Mark Harmon's haircut.
I shall remark that there must be a competition going on between Vincent D'Onofrio and David Caruso for the title America's Most Mannered Actor.
And I shall enjoy the entire silliness of it all.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
57. A Connecticut Yankee in King Kos's Court
BUT FIRST THE SCOTS.
Taggart was back on the box last night. A new one-off (ITV1).
This is a Scottish thriller for Scots.
White Heather Club it ain't.
What it is, in case you are anti thriller or living in another dimension, is Detective Chief Inspector Matt Burke (Alex Norton) and his unglamorous crew taking on an assortment of hardcase Scottish villains.
There are no sympathetic characters (except perhaps the gay Detective Constable Stuart Fraser played by Colin McCredie) and the grim, generally ugly, locations chosen by the makers of the show are well matched by the grim, generally ugly, appearance of most of the cast.
It seethes with violence and resentment.
It has incomprehensible plots with stark endings.
It is snarled out in a broad Scottish brogue.
It defies you to be critical and if you are: stuff you!
You're probably a Sassenach anyway.
I love it.
BLOG WARS.
This was a sort of Connecticut Yankee in King Kos's court documentary in the Storyville series on BBC4 and told of the remarkable influence wielded by bloggers like Kos in the Connecticut Democratic Senatorial primary race of the 2006 mid-term elections. (Whatever all that may mean.)
I have about as much faith in politicians as I do in clergymen or estate agents or tabloid journalists.
So I did find it rather sad, and no little disturbing, that one young woman sat cross-legged (the lotus position?) mouthing a relentless diatribe about anybody who dared to criticise the glorious leader of her faultless country. There was something of the automaton about it.
The politician the bloggers were bent on deposing was clearly a smug tosser.
The one they had chosen to replace him was clearly a wealthy tosser.
I wondered what everybody over there was on.
It could almost have been written by Mark Twain.
I was reminded again that we are divided by a common language.
I remembered the unwittingly funny comment by the 1963 - 69 U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson that he never arrived in another country without thinking that the people there would like to be Americans.
What a smug, dog-ear-pulling President that one was!
I am an admirer of many things American.
But much of what they have exported they should have kept to themselves.
THAT CELEBRITY BIG BROTHER THING.
Was this an American import?
After all the free publicity gained from accusations of bullying I gather that the recently mediocre viewing figures for this dire crap shot up by a couple of million last night.
No, I wasn't one of them.
Channel 4 will be overjoyed of course.
They will probably be planning yet another series.
There's no justice.
Taggart was back on the box last night. A new one-off (ITV1).
This is a Scottish thriller for Scots.
White Heather Club it ain't.
What it is, in case you are anti thriller or living in another dimension, is Detective Chief Inspector Matt Burke (Alex Norton) and his unglamorous crew taking on an assortment of hardcase Scottish villains.
There are no sympathetic characters (except perhaps the gay Detective Constable Stuart Fraser played by Colin McCredie) and the grim, generally ugly, locations chosen by the makers of the show are well matched by the grim, generally ugly, appearance of most of the cast.
It seethes with violence and resentment.
It has incomprehensible plots with stark endings.
It is snarled out in a broad Scottish brogue.
It defies you to be critical and if you are: stuff you!
You're probably a Sassenach anyway.
I love it.
BLOG WARS.
This was a sort of Connecticut Yankee in King Kos's court documentary in the Storyville series on BBC4 and told of the remarkable influence wielded by bloggers like Kos in the Connecticut Democratic Senatorial primary race of the 2006 mid-term elections. (Whatever all that may mean.)
I have about as much faith in politicians as I do in clergymen or estate agents or tabloid journalists.
So I did find it rather sad, and no little disturbing, that one young woman sat cross-legged (the lotus position?) mouthing a relentless diatribe about anybody who dared to criticise the glorious leader of her faultless country. There was something of the automaton about it.
The politician the bloggers were bent on deposing was clearly a smug tosser.
The one they had chosen to replace him was clearly a wealthy tosser.
I wondered what everybody over there was on.
It could almost have been written by Mark Twain.
I was reminded again that we are divided by a common language.
I remembered the unwittingly funny comment by the 1963 - 69 U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson that he never arrived in another country without thinking that the people there would like to be Americans.
What a smug, dog-ear-pulling President that one was!
I am an admirer of many things American.
But much of what they have exported they should have kept to themselves.
THAT CELEBRITY BIG BROTHER THING.
Was this an American import?
After all the free publicity gained from accusations of bullying I gather that the recently mediocre viewing figures for this dire crap shot up by a couple of million last night.
No, I wasn't one of them.
Channel 4 will be overjoyed of course.
They will probably be planning yet another series.
There's no justice.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
56. Up, Up and Away!
BACK AGAIN WITH HIGH HOPES.
Late this afternoon I found myself back in touch with the world without resorting to magic.
I think both Merlin and Albus Dumbledore would have been impressed by the tortuous route I had been taking to break out of the Outlook Express/Blogger prison in which I found myself.
But at last I appear to be free.
So as Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, once said: " Publish and be damned!"
My thanks as ever go to my long-suffering son and, this time, to the Broadband Band at Tesco's broadbandsupport, too.
I am back again - with high hopes!
BULLIES ARE STILL SCUM.
The news in the last couple of days has included an item about a Bollywood star in the Big Brother house who, it is alleged, has been mercilessly bullied by fellow occupants.
Viewers have complained of racial discrimination and ceaseless mockery.
As I have remarked before, I do not watch any of this unreal reality crap.
So why a girl from any film world would choose to join such a show is beyond me.
Are they paid that much to have some voyeuristic little prick who calls himself a television producer train a camera on them day and night?
And so far as the guilty housemates are concerned, bullies really are scum.
Surely it is time now to drop this excuse for entertainment altogether.
Pay a few more actors.
Make a few more films and plays.
Bring back variety.
Gawdalmighty! Go mad if you have to!
Teach Jade Goody to juggle!
Late this afternoon I found myself back in touch with the world without resorting to magic.
I think both Merlin and Albus Dumbledore would have been impressed by the tortuous route I had been taking to break out of the Outlook Express/Blogger prison in which I found myself.
But at last I appear to be free.
So as Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, once said: " Publish and be damned!"
My thanks as ever go to my long-suffering son and, this time, to the Broadband Band at Tesco's broadbandsupport, too.
I am back again - with high hopes!
BULLIES ARE STILL SCUM.
The news in the last couple of days has included an item about a Bollywood star in the Big Brother house who, it is alleged, has been mercilessly bullied by fellow occupants.
Viewers have complained of racial discrimination and ceaseless mockery.
As I have remarked before, I do not watch any of this unreal reality crap.
So why a girl from any film world would choose to join such a show is beyond me.
Are they paid that much to have some voyeuristic little prick who calls himself a television producer train a camera on them day and night?
And so far as the guilty housemates are concerned, bullies really are scum.
Surely it is time now to drop this excuse for entertainment altogether.
Pay a few more actors.
Make a few more films and plays.
Bring back variety.
Gawdalmighty! Go mad if you have to!
Teach Jade Goody to juggle!
Monday, January 15, 2007
55. At last 2007!
MADE IT!
I did complete a post.
Took me the entire afternoon last Monday.
Came to the Publish bit and everything went haywire.
The computer had been intermittently playing silly baskets since the beginning of the year and it chose that moment to lose the lot.
Nothing went right after that.
Until today.
Today Neil, the Cornish guru, studied the problem via Skype.
I pointed our camera at the screen while he dispensed instructions and did some educated guesswork.
Worked surprisingly well.
He has Emailed me a possible solution.
Within minutes of our parting company my broadband problem service rang.
I must admit that after a couple of days I had begun to think that the biggest problems were (1) to contact them and (2) to understand them when you did.
This time it was a readily understandable chap with a degree in patience and tact.
It took ages, mind, and left me feeling somewhat ashamed of my intolerance with all the previous waiting.
I suppose they're dealing with lengthy problems and difficult customers every day.
It's just that when you have been told you will be in a queue, or given a time to expect a call...Ah well.
In the end, though, problem sorted.
So I'm up and running in 2007.
Unless this whole thing goes pear shaped on me as soon as I try to publish.
I did complete a post.
Took me the entire afternoon last Monday.
Came to the Publish bit and everything went haywire.
The computer had been intermittently playing silly baskets since the beginning of the year and it chose that moment to lose the lot.
Nothing went right after that.
Until today.
Today Neil, the Cornish guru, studied the problem via Skype.
I pointed our camera at the screen while he dispensed instructions and did some educated guesswork.
Worked surprisingly well.
He has Emailed me a possible solution.
Within minutes of our parting company my broadband problem service rang.
I must admit that after a couple of days I had begun to think that the biggest problems were (1) to contact them and (2) to understand them when you did.
This time it was a readily understandable chap with a degree in patience and tact.
It took ages, mind, and left me feeling somewhat ashamed of my intolerance with all the previous waiting.
I suppose they're dealing with lengthy problems and difficult customers every day.
It's just that when you have been told you will be in a queue, or given a time to expect a call...Ah well.
In the end, though, problem sorted.
So I'm up and running in 2007.
Unless this whole thing goes pear shaped on me as soon as I try to publish.
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