110. CSI: Isle of Wight

And now, for a bit more fun, CSI IW Series 2, preceded by a leaf taken from the tele people:-

(Revised Repeat) CSI: IW Series 1
(A tense change from the original)

Executive Producer: Dennis Barnden

Director; Jessica White.

Episode 1/1: - Crushem Gets The Needle.
Will Crushem and his Isle of Wight CSI team were investigating a messy murder in a seaside apartment which contained a corpse, ample lighting and an in-credit electricity account.
They searched for clues by torchlight.
The victim was a young woman. Her clothing was in disarray and from the lapel of her dishevelled jacket Crushem recovered the pointed half of a needle which he dropped into a plastic bag.
Crushem's GFA (Glamorous Female Assistant) spotted a pink crumb on the four hundred square feet of bloodstained carpet: she recovered the crumb with tweezers and it, too, went into a plastic bag.
Crushem's GMA (Glamorous Male Assistant) watched her admiringly. He was in love with her, but wisely refrained from telling her so on the grounds that same-job relationships were a mistake. He knew, too, that telling her would quite certainly result in her being dead before the series ended.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Looks like pink shortbread," she replied.
"Crumbs!" he exclaimed.
"Well...one, anyway," said Crushem.

(Cue theme song - The Who's newly adapted: Blimey O'Reilly, Who Are You Foolin' Again?)

In her laboratory, Crushem's KFG (Kookie Forensic Genius) quickly reached a startling conclusion: this was not blood- soaked ordinary shortbread, this really was pink shortbread. It was only marketed a fortnight ago and was sold in just one shop.
To date a mere two people had bought it (we were told by the KFG's male colleague who was in love with her) and one of them had been sent to prison a week ago.
So the other was either the victim or the perpetrator...
What fun.
In the path lab Crushem's EDC&F (Eccentric Doctor Colleague and Friend) found no trace of shortbread in or on the vic.
What he did find was a strand of hay in the vic's shoe and the hay (according to the KFG) was particular to one farm in the West Wight.
So now we knew. The perp, not the vic, had bought the shortbread.
Furthermore, the KFG's besotted colleague told us, the perp was known to the shopkeeper who sold said shortbread. The perp was (surprise, surprise) a farmer in the West Wight.
The Team moved in.
They cornered the farmer in his hay barn in broad daylight. They were wearing body armour and helmets with lighted torches affixed to them. They had pistols at the ready.
"She shouldn't 'ave turned me and me shortbread down," he shouted, brandishing a shotgun in their direction. "Cost me a ...king fortune that shortbread did. An' then, when I ate the lot in front of 'er, she called me a greedy pig! Shouldn'ta said that, not when I was carryin' me brand new riphook...I mean, ain't that askin' for trouble?"
So saying he aimed his shotgun at the GMA, fired and (despite the fact that he unfailingly killed game on the run and birds on the wing with a single shot) missed.
There was a hail of return gunfire and he landed lifeless in the hay.
(CU bullets tearing through specially prepared carcass from local butcher's shop.)
Crushem reached him first and plucked the other half of the needle found in the vic's lapel from the sleeve of his tweed jacket.
"Looks like you just found a needle in a haystack, C," said the GFA.
"Half of one, anyway," said Crushem.

(A disclaimer regarding events, characters and any degree of realism was shown. Notice was given that any likeness to any living person should result in that person seeking immediate psychiatric help.)

(New Series)

CSI: IW Series 2

Executive Producer: Dennis Barnden

Director: Jessica White

Characters:
'C'......Will Crushem
Glamorous Female Assistant......Karensa Darling
Glamorous Male Assistant.....Chuck Aspanarin
Eccentric Doctor Colleague & Friend......Rhys K. B. Haver
EDC&Fs Assistant..... Ernest Youngman
Kookie Forensic Genius......Mada Zanatter
KFGs Colleague......Phil D. Fluter
Head Marquise Agent WICIS......Win Bienimenes
HMAs Deputy......Wendi Times-Wright
Corpse......O. Lee Moses
Shady Brother 1......Ed Down
Shady Brother 2......Bern Down

Episode 1/2 :- The Ultimate Sting.

In the early hours a drunk lurches along the esplanade of a small seaside resort.
(CU this proves to be a non-speaking male extra who will spend the next twenty years replaying a cherished video recording of the scene to any of his family who will still watch it.)
His attention is attracted by a lone figure on the beach.
He staggers onto the sand to investigate.
(Zoom to outline of naked male figure doing a perfect headstand but with the head entirely buried in the sand.)
The drunk reels back to the esplanade...
(fade out...)
Crime scene tapes are in place and Will Crushem's team is at work on the beach.
Though the area is floodlit they are working by torchlight.
The corpse has been draped with a sheet bearing the CSI logo to protect its modesty and forestall complaints from any dinosaur left over from the National Viewers' and Listeners' Association.
Crushem's Glamorous Female Assistant, Karensa, is collecting samples of water and sand in vials.
Crushem's Glamorous Male Assistant, Chuck, is holding a camera with which he has photographed the corpse from every conceivable angle and his glamorous colleague from likewise because he is covertly in love with her.
(She is wearing a suit by Karen Millen and shoes thought to have been purloined from Imelda Marcos but actually discarded by Imelda Staunton.)
Crushem walks to the water's edge: stares moodily out to sea: casually adjusts his double bridge metal aviator sunglasses by Marc Jacobs and says: "There's something too ritualistic about this setup. A vic frozen solid and apparently covered in bee stings. Placed here with his head in the sand. Somebody's trying to tell us something..."

(Cue theme song - The Who's newly adapted: Blimey O'Reilly Who Are You Foolin' Again)

"I think somebody's trying to tell us something, Will," says Crushem's EDC&F (Eccentric Doctor Colleague and Friend) later.
"Any idea what, Doc?" asks Crushem.
"Something to do with the Ostrich Syndrome? Who knows."
The supine corpse is on a table in the path lab.
Nearby, the EDC&F's likeable young assistant, Ernie, has prepared it for autopsy.
He is holding a visiting card.
He says: "Either the vic hid this or the perp has a macabre sense of humour."
Doc takes the card and reads aloud: "O. Lee Moses."
He stares at Ernie."I hardly dare ask, but where...?"
"It wasn't in his mouth."
"Thank God for plastic gloves, eh Ern?" says Crushem.
"You think there may be fingerprints on the card, Will?" says Doc.
"That too, Doc," replies Crushem wryly. "Stick it in a bag and get it over to Forensic, Ern. Be interesting to see if whoever disliked the poor guy this badly left any prints behind - for want of a better way of putting it."
"I've never seen so many lumps on a cadaver, C," says the assistant. "What a helluva way to be despatched."
"Bee venom may have medicinal properties," says Doc. "But moderation in everything is the byword."
"Investigating the ultimate sting are we?" says a voice from the doorway.
A tall, slim, attractive woman in a tweed suit and Philip Treacy hat is standing there. Unsurprised (nobody is ever surprised when an uninvited outsider gains casual access to a CSI establishment) the men turn to face her.
Crushem eyes her carefully. "Hallo Win," he says, "what's Wickeds got to do with this?"
Win Bienimenes is HMA (Head Marquise Agent) of the Women's Institute Criminal Investigative Service (WICIS) popularly known as Wickeds, a law enforcement agency founded to deal with crimes involving persons and property associated with the National Federation of Women's Institutes or anything faintly connected with Jam and Jerusalem.
She strolls across, eyes the corpse, sighs: "Poor old O. Lee. One of ours. Good undercover operator. Everybody liked him."
"Except the person responsible for this, presumably," remarks Doc.
"Ah...and that will be somebody who knew he had an acute allergy to bee stings," says the HMA.
"Anaphylaxis!" exclaims Doc. "Of course! But to deliberately cause a death by anaphylactic reaction to insect stings is positively Machiavellian. Who would do something like that?
"Somebody devilish enough to then freeze the body for display?" suggests Ernie.
"Exactly, Ernest. Get that card over to Forensic right away," mutters Doc peevishly.
"We must go, too," says Crushem. "I think you and I had better have a chat in my office, Win."
They leave, passing through the Administration Department on their way to Crushem's office. Chuck and Karensa are busy at their respective desks.
Chuck gazes after them.
"Who is that woman who looks like Meryl Streep?" he whispers.
Karensa shrugs: "Glenn Close?"
(Flash stock shots from films featuring both named actresses)
What larks.
Crushem and the HMA are seated in the former's sparsely furnished and seldom used office. "Now, Win, you obviously know more than I do, tell me what we've got here," Crushem says.
"What we've got is the murder of WI Agent O. Lee Moses," she replies.
"Yes, but any idea who by or why?"
She eyes him speculatively: "Shouldn't that be by whom? Anyway, he has just negotiated a bulk purchase of jam for us. All quite mundane so far as I know"
"Bulk purchase? But surely WI members make their own jam?"
"Traditionally yes, but since the government decided we should strictly adhere to EU regulations it has become almost impossible to present home-made produce for public sale without risking prohibitive penalties under Health and Safety."
"So you're doing away with members' own jams and switching to mass-produced stuff?"
"On a trial basis we're going to supply to the Institutes, yes. Me, I'd be quite happy if WI Enterprises only sold things like President's Brooches..." she indicates the neat silver brooch in her lapel..."and local Women's Institutes continued to do just what they have always done. But the Powers That Be are concerned at the vulnerability of local enterprises now and are looking for ways to nullify the risk."
"Looking for ways to be very unpopular I would have thought. Is this jam to be ready bottled?"
"Yes, everything except the labels. Each institute would add its own labels."
Crushem shakes his head in bewilderment.
"So how has all this brought about your man's death? And how come this man is in the WI anyway?"
"The Powers That Be again.They recommended I recruit him for overseas dealings on the WI's behalf. He was perfect. He'd travelled extensively, had national and international contacts and spoke a dozen languages including Kurdish and Arabic. He was an instant success with the girls, particularly with my deputy Wendi Times-Wright. They quickly became something of an item. "
The intercom buzzes and the voice of Crushem's Kookie Forensic Genius can be heard calling a hallo.
He says: "What have you got, Mada?"
"All is not well, Crushem," she replies. "Doc found a smidgin of raspberry jam under the deceased's finger nails and sent it over for testing. He thinks poison."
"I'll be right with you."
"I shall have to go and tell Wendi all this," says the HMA sadly."You'll keep me in touch,Will?"
"Of course," nods Crushem.

Episode 2/2

"Have we any notion what poison?" Crushem asks Mada in the Forensic Laboratory,
"Definitely one of the deadliest," she says.
"So we're talking Ricin...Tetrodotoxin...Compound 1080 or suchlike..."
"Any of them, yes: or Botulinum or Thallium," she adds.
"And that pair would leave the victim either wrinkle free and dead or bald and dead," says her male colleague. "I expect most of the ladies would prefer the wrinkle free Botulinum."
Crushem eyes him narrowly and he quickly returns to work.
"We have an interesting analysis on the body ice, though" says Mada quickly. "It is made with spring water from a spring on Vectice Company land and used solely by them."
"I know of them," says Crushem."Factory up by Beacon Alley."
"The Vectice Company!" he shouts as he re-enters the Administration Department. "Details if you please."
"Run by the Down brothers, Ed and Bern," proffers Chuck. "Ice Cubes for the Discerning Cocktail Drinker."
"They have a house on the plot alongside the factory," adds Karensa."And an apiary."
Crushem's cellphone rings with the opening bars of Who Are You by Pete Townshend.
Win Bienimenes is on the line: "Bit of a problem. I passed on the news about O.Lee to Wendi Times-Wright. She showed little reaction until I mentioned the calling card. Then she swore and went to her office. I thought she just wanted to be on her own. But she and her car have gone missing now; and she's armed, Will."
"Well first we have a priority to deal with here," advises Crushem. "Have you any knowledge of the Vectice Company?"
"Shady couple of brothers somewhere out Beacon Alley way."
"That's them. We're just off to pay them a visit. I'll be in touch."
Crushem flips shut the phone, grabs a loaded FN Five-seveN Tactical pistol from an unlocked drawer, shouts: "Let's be off, people!" and marches out through the unlocked main door.
(Show shots of Wightlink Ferry, Vectis Buses, Round the Island Yacht Race, The Who performing at Isle of Wight Festival and Power Boats at full speed: none of it will advance the plot but it's better than another old-fashioned fade-out.)
The team enters Vectice factory cautiously, dodges from area to area shouting "Clear!" and is finally brought to a halt by a tall swarthy man holding a pistol to the head of an attractive young woman.
"I think this is stalemate," he shouts. "Put down your weapons and we'll negotiate."
"We don't put down our weapons," Crushem says clearly, "I'm Will Crushem of CSI. I can negotiate. Which of the Down brothers are you?"
"Stuff the niceties," snarls the man. "Put down your weapons or she dies!"
Without appearing to aim, Crushem shoots him between the eyes.
The young woman gives a muffled cry and collapses.
Ahead and above them there is an office fronted by a wooden balcony and reached by a flight of stairs to one side.
In an instant a second man appears. He is holding a Uzi submachine gun with intent to use.
There is a single shot from behind the team: the man gets off a reflex burst into the roof and his inanimate body smashes through a solid wooden rail that has stood the assorted weight of leaning figures for over thirty years.
The team is momentarily paralysed.
Through the door behind them appears the slender figure of Win Bienimenes. She is holstering a Browning Hi-Power Mark III and looking grimly satisfied.
"Two down one to go," she says enigmatically. "I used the master keys and opened O. Lee's desk. Looks like he was a Women's Institute National Intelligence agent who identified this terrorist cell on the Island and reported it to his bosses at NFWI Headquarters in London.
A think tank at the NFWI's Denman College then devised a plan to smoke 'em out, starting with arranging for him to be recruited by me."
Crushem is clearly surprised: "Without letting you in on it, Win?"
"You know Intelligence people, old friend; trust nobody, needs-to-know basis and all that. And, quite apart from the possibility that I - or somebody else in WICIS - could be a traitor, obviously the less people who knew of their master plan the better."
"The jam plan!" exclaims Karensa.
"Bright one you have there," says Win to Crushem. "I could do with her in my lot."
"Bit of a gamble though?" hazards Crushem, "I mean, how was your man supposed to persuade a terrorist group to seriously contemplate, let alone undertake, the mass poisoning of Britain's finest females?"
"I've no idea, but he did it. I imagine he posed as an al-Qa'ida terrorist with an implaccable hatred for Middle England. 'All those toffee-nosed bitches. The whole lot ought to be poisoned.' Y'know, the sort of thing that appeals to extremists. Then he simply arranged for them to get the contract to transport the jam in their refrigerated lorries and left obtaining the poison and the introduction of it to them and their misbegotten friends. Something like that, anyway."
Crushem's cellphone rings.
His conversation with the caller is brief.
"That was Mada," he says. "Jam under your man's fingernails contained Compound 1080. Originally an animal poison. Odourless, tasteless, water soluble, without antidote. Quick but painful death."
"What about the calling card?" queries Win. "Anything on that?"
"Only a part print on one edge, but they were able to match it."
"Praise be for criminal records."
"Or in this case, praise be for staff records."
"How careless of you to leave a print, Wendi," says Win casually to the attractive young woman who, unnoticed, has regained her feet and picked up the Uzi.
"Standing that poor young man upside down with his head in the sand was a senseless, spiteful act. So was the contemptuous gesture with the calling card. What was it all supposed to signify exactly?"
"You've all got your heads in the sand!" the young woman sneers."That arrogant little poser was typical of the lot of you!"
"He spoke so highly of you, too," Win taunts gently.
"He wasn't speaking when we stripped him and threw him on the beehive," retorts Wendi. "Poor young man indeed. You should have heard him scream. I couldn't help laughing."
"You're sick, girl," says Win. "Now put the weapon down on the floor and let's have an end to it."
"I don't answer to you anymore, you old crow!" Wendi shrieks wildly and levels the submachine gun.
Karensa and Chuck, firing in unison, shoot her dead.
Crushem walks carefully to the body, kicks the Uzi away, says: "What a waste. What a shame."
"Yes," agrees Win. "Poor little Wendi. So ambitious. Never happy as just my deputy."
"You knew instantly that she was the mole," says Karensa. "How?"
"Other than me she was the only one who knew about Lee's allergy to bee stings."
"Helpful that she gave herself away with that fingerprint though," says Chuck. "Confirmed it for you."
"There wasn't any print," says Crushem. "I invented it. Seemed like a good idea at the time."
"And you didn't say which staff member it was, either, you sly old dog. Did you think it might be me?" asks an amused Win.
Crushem puts on his sunglasses.
"No way, Win. I leave that sort of thinking to your National Intelligence people," he says gruffly.
Karensa and Chuck depart the scene in an unmarked CSI van.
"You were pretty quick back there," he observes. "Almost as quick as me."
"Marginally quicker I'd say," retorts Karensa. "All the talking had me fed up and I thought you might pull back from despatching a pretty girl."
"What?" he says, "Pull back? Me? After she'd shouted you old crow at Meryl Streep?"
"Glenn Close."
"Whoever."

(Show apologies to Messrs. Anthony E. Zuiker and Jerry Bruckheimer, Mesdames Meryl Streep and Glenn Close, The Who and everybody even remotely connected with the CSI franchise.)

109. Another helping of an elderly chap's occasional blog

RULING OUT RADICALS.
Somewhen way back, somebody - probably Giles Turnbull - sensibly advised that a blog should be added to regularly and frequently or reader interest would wane.
Ah well...
It was the 11th of July when I last published a post and 14th June when I proffered the one before that. As Anonymous John remarked: "It was a long time coming..."
Perhaps I should feel more urgency about things, but I try not to kid myself that my views are of earth shattering importance. A month free of my meanderings will not have global repercussions. For that matter, I do not think the opinions of most people, no matter how honestly held, are of particular consequence, either. If they think anybody gives a toss they are sadly mistaken.
A couple of days ago I was forwarded a strange email. Mostly they are simple lavatory humour. Proof, as Alan Bennett has remarked, that the writing is on the wall. But this one allegedly stemmed from a woman in New Brunswick who had originally sent it to her local newspaper. Why they printed it - if they did print it - Christ knows. It was jampacked with anti Islamic vituperation and jingoistic, allegedly Christian, propaganda. I was invited to forward it to unsuspecting friends and was warned that if I deleted it I should 'please not complain when more atrocities were committed by radical Muslims.'
I deleted it.
Seems to me most of the trouble in this world is caused by religious fanatics and politicians of every persuasion.
I cannot be bothered with them: or the blinkered morons who support them.

BOOK SCENE.
A couple of months ago I mentioned I was reading The Tiger In The Well, a Sally Lockhart story by Philip Pullman: I had started Untold Stories by Alan Bennett and was plodding with The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn by Colin Dexter. I have finished the Philip Pullman, which was enjoyable even if the mystery villain was immediately obvious to anybody who had read The Ruby In the Smoke; I am still reading the Alan Bennett and plodding with the Colin Dexter.
In the meantime I have read Murder Between Dark and Dark by Max Long, a page turner set in Hawaii and first published in 1939; read it in just under three days. Never manage to get that involved in Dexter's stories, or Ian Rankin's for that matter. My fault I'm sure. Have always found the television adaptations of their stuff totally absorbing, but their books, like Dickens at school, slow going.
Incidentally, I was born about half a mile from Dickens's birthplace in Portsmouth, Hants. His is still standing and has been turned into a museum. Mine was demolished and absorbed into redevelopment. Serves me right. I always hated A Tale of Two Cities, it was my least favourite set book at school. Couldn't stand that soppy sod Sydney Carton.
Now my Leader has set me to reading Spilling The Beans by Clarissa Dickson Wright. There will be much I find irritating I'm sure, but I'm now at page 30 and already hooked.
Ho hum...

FILM SCENE.
Recently watched the film Miss Potter starring Renée Zellweger as children's author and spirited conservationist Beatrix Potter. Ewan McGregor was Norman Warne, the publisher who fell in love with her, and Emily Watson played his delightful sister, Millie.
An excellent supporting cast included Barbara Flynn and Bill Paterson as Beatrix's mother and father.
However, the icing on the cake for me came right at the end when, with the credits rolling, Katie Melua sang the theme song When You Taught Me How To Dance.
You can pick it up on YouTube.
It's magic. Give it a go.

TELE SCENE.
A couple of episodes of Foyle's War were repeated: Anthony Horowitz's splendid reminder of wartime England, with its thoroughly believable cast, is still worth watching
CSI: Miami is back and also still worth watching, if only for the self parody of its uniquely mannered hero. The package now includes ever more ludicrous story lines and what appears to be some hilarious piss taking by the rest of the cast.
Bonekickers continues: the actors do their best but this, too, is complete tosh.

OBSCENE.
In the only one I have seen of Gok's Fashion Fix (C4), the fashion designer Gok put a bunch of girls on a catwalk wearing clothes obtained from a £200 budget.
They were in competition with a lineup of models in designer wear.
The designer wear was valued at several thousand dollars/pounds.
This in a world where entire countries are facing starvation.
Somehow I find that obscene.

AN OCCASIONAL DEPRESSION.
Around this time last year in my post Don't Rely on a Personhood of Bloggers I quoted the second part of some lines from John Elliot's book MOGUL, The Making Of A Myth (Barrie and Jenkins 1970) which in full went as follows:
"Actors, on the whole, are happy or unhappy extroverts. They work in public and in groups, travelling around together and calling each other by their Christian names. Their experience of life is tactile and they are constantly rubbing shoulders with and projecting their personalities at their fellow men. All this makes them, in general, lively and nice to deal with. Writers, on the other hand, 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."
Though it irks me to admit it, Mr. Elliot's dour reflection on the misery of the muse frequently leans on an open door here.
I sometimes think I would like to have been an actor: but know I could never have made it.
I have a dread of being regarded as a show off, suffer excruciating stage fright and am mortified by rejection.
As compensation, I get great pleasure out of watching professional actors skllfully practise their craft and I enjoy putting together a few words about them when they have particularly impressed me. I feel I need not worry that they may read it. The good ones will be too busy learning their lines. Heck! This is an elderly chap's occasional blog, not a column in a national daily.
Anyway, for what it is worth, as a scribbler I suffer depression occasionally and fools not at all. The depression usually comes at the outset of winter or when the fortnight which constitutes summer has gone. It is remedied by bright colours and plenty of light. The remedy for fools is deletion.
And if you are the sort of smart arse who says it takes one to know one...
Click!

AND LASTLY, A GENTLE SMILE.
Grandson Ellis (3) arrived with his mother who carried him from the car. She had a dental appointment and his grandmother would be taking him to meet her when it was over.
It was a hot day and he happily played, barefoot, until it was time to leave.
Came the time and Maureen said: "We must go, pet, let's put your shoes on."
No shoes.
"I can't see your shoes anywhere," she said eventually. "Did you have them on when you came?"
He smiled contentedly. "No," he said, "I came in my toes."

108. Losing the tele addiction

NO LONGER GLUED TO THE BOX.

I become more aware by the week that the description "tele addict" does not apply to me.
To be a total square eyes one has to be addicted to the lot: the reality rubbish, the relentless soaps, the cheaply produced property programmes, the antiques-that-we-used-to-call-junk junk, the cookery crap and, I suppose, the plethora of police repeats, much of it gunhappy gungho stuff from America.
Put it down to age, but I sometimes find myself very bored with it all.
Trouble is, it's a bit late for anything else.

Bonekickers (BBC1)
It will be said over and over but I might as well say it anyway. This hilarious tosh badly needed Tony Robinson and his professor mate from Time Team; you know, the one with the Aussie hat who says: "That en't a pebble, Tone, tha's a arrer 'ead."
Thomas Sutcliffe of The Independent reported that he watched it with his teenage sons and they had "a whale of a time hooting at the silliness of the dialogue and the wild improbabilities of the plotting." He went on to question whether they would have quite as much fun the second time around.
My Leader watched it in desultory fashion while reading her book.
I think she'll stick to Time Team in future.
Me too.

More Soccer Chat With The Cat.
"Good football competition, the Euro 2008," said the cat Shadow. "Right team won, too."
I replied in the affirmative and added: "I think it was just as well we weren't in it."
"Yeah, from our point of view the qualifying rules for players in international teams need to be changed,"he opined.
"Really? How?"
"Place of birth shouldn't come into it. The country where a player earns his living should be the only country entitled to call on him for international duty."
"You're off your head," I said.
"Why? Aren't you always saying that businesses expect total loyalty nowadays? That workers are expected to put firm before family?"
"England's not the firm they work for," I said. "They're employed by football clubs, not the country."
"But the clubs are English,"he maintained doggedly.
"Mostly owned by foreigners," I reminded him. "Who don't all make a fortune out of it."
"That's their concern. Thing is, England's the country in whose Premier League they all want a share. "
"So England should just be able to call on their services? Players like Cristino Renaldo and Fernando Torres?"
"Why not? They're both earning a very good living over here."
"Y'know," I said,"you could be the cause of World War Three."

Question Time.(BBC1)
My Leader never watches this programme.
It's not that she dislikes David Dimbleby. On the contrary, after we had seen him travel the country in the BBC television series How We Built Britain she decided that he was really quite a fun person.
But she intensely dislikes political talk shows.
On political talk shows, she avers, nobody listens to anybody: they just talk at each other.
She's right, y'know.
Question Time panels are mostly composed of politicians. They come complete with personal agendas that take no account of any opinion but their own.
In parliament, when they bother to attend (e.g. when their expenses are under review), they are childish and vociferous. Think of a nonstop audition for Lord of the Flies.
On television they now present a solid front.
The women have been trained at the Margaret Thatcher Patronising Voice school and the men have been taught the "If I may just be allowed to finish, Jeremy..."technique designed to allay any attempt to curtail their nonstop flow of bullshit.
Why anybody would want to watch them, listen to them or, most of all, vote for them, is entirely beyond my comprehension.
But I do listen to the panellists who are not politicians.
There has to be at least one oasis of sense in every desert of parliamentary cant.

Wimbledon 2008 (Tennis)
The fleeting shadow, Shadow, appeared again.
"It's poetry time," he announced. "We've been busy up there on the roof."
I eyed him without enthusiasm: "Go on then."

He adopted a poetic pose.
"Poem one: Another Year's Wimbledon."

Wimbledon's been here again,
No sliding roof
To beat the rain;
Just strawberries and cream,
At prices insane,
And Rafael Nadal,
A man from Spain.
(I mention Spain to scotch your belief
that he's an Apache Indian Chief.)
Who, on Sunday last -
Without looking for help -
Expunged the past
And took Federer's scalp;
Setting the seal
On the Swiss man's fate
When rain - and the
Cavalry - came too late.

He looked at me: I grunted my best off-putting grunt.
"Poem two: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"

No more two-for-the-price-of-one
Says responsible Gordon Brown.
When you're only halfway destitute
You might as well be right down.

If you give your get one free items
To a struggling old person or friend,
They will harbour them ad infinitum,
Just to throw them away in the end.

So no more three-for-the-price-of-two
It's really not saving, it's costing you.
And your excessive gasses, so destructive I fear,
Are flatulently killing the world's atmosphere.

What, no more tea parties
On the Queen's pristine lawns?
No huge civic dinners
For huge civic prawns?

And no more cheap restaurants
In the great Commons House
To feed overweight MP's
On goujons of grouse?

Oh, I treat with the utmost suspicion
Anything that ol' Gordon may say
Trust not a goddamned politician.
Every one of them has feet of clay.

He had a quick wash, then said: "What d' ya think?"
"I think you are becoming a very cynical cat," I replied. "I think you have probably cost me any chance of being invited to tea at Buckingham Palace, let alone the much coveted knighthood."
"You don't want a bloody knighthood," he said. "They're all film and showbiz people and brown-nosed civil servants. Anyway, you wouldn't kneel. If you did you'd have to be lifted back onto your feet."
He's right, y'know.

Doctor Who (BBC1)
The last episode of this series was pure Russell T. Davies. His Dalek story to end all Dalek stories contained action, a convoluted plot, and every opportunity for the actors to show their worth. The climax was fascinating, the finale was intriguing, and the denouement, particularly Bernard Cribbins's scene with David Tennant, was surprisingly moving.
I do hope Mr. Davies will stay with it: he has given it a Time Lord's new life.

New Tricks (BBC 1)
That nice son of the late Patrick Troughton, David, was the detestable villain in this follow on from the last series.
James Fox figured large in the wildly improbable, mainly court scenes plot and the whole kit and caboodle was, as usual, rescued by Ms Amanda Redman and Messrs Armstrong, Bolam and Waterman.
I think the story is to be continued; but perhaps not.
Either way, I don't really care.

107. A Warning Note from an Urban Terrorist

BOOKS.

FINISHED: two short stories by Philip Pullman. Once Upon A Time In The North and Lara's Oxford. Neat aperitifs for more Dark Materials.
ALSO FINISHED: Just A Saying by Catherine Cookson (Her final, personal anthology). A beautiful collection of poems by a fine writer.
READING: The Tiger In The Well by Philip Pullman. Sally Lockhart again. Love it.
ALSO READING: Untold Stories by Alan Bennett. Another masterclass in writing.
AND PLODDING WITH: The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn by Colin Dexter. DCI Endeavour Morse. Real ale, crosswords and dreamy spires; three things guaranteed to lull me to sleep.

TELEVISION.

WATCHING: Heroes. Five minute scenes for adult toddlers. I'm not sure who's dead, who's alive, who's a goody, who's a baddy, who can fly or who can't die. I don't care. I just sit back and let Hiro, Claire and the whole load of looney tosh wash right over me.
WATCHING: Dr. Who. For the past couple of weeks the Doctor has been dodging flesh eating shadows. You have to be able to act to be convincing in anything that daft.
WATCHING: Alexei Sayle's Liverpool. And agreeing with most of what he says. Is it me?
ALSO WATCHING: Have I Got News For You. To see Jeremy Clarkson corpse at the quick wit of Paul Merton on the Friday 6th June show was an absolute joy.
NOT WATCHING: Reality rubbish. I care not whether a musical Lord finds his Nancy, I am convinced that amateur talent (particularly when judged by the patently giftless) belongs anywhere but in my home and I simply cannot be arsed with masochists who put themselves up to be fired by a little millionaire who needs a shave.
NOT WATCHING: Programmes where members of the public invite home a bunch of strangers for a meal, experience the hospitality of each of them in return and, secretly marking each other for cooking ability and social graces, compete the while for a cash prize.
The people concerned seldom like each other.
The accompanying commentary is invariably snide.
So why do they do it?
To experience Andy Warhol's fifteen minutes of fame?
What a price!
ALSO NOT WATCHING: Eggheads. When I know answers they don't it's time to call it a day.
I have remarked in the past that the format is too obviously geared against them now that every pub quiz team in the country knows their individual subject weaknesses.
I am constantly irked by opposition cheerleader Dermot's blatant desire to see them come a cropper, let alone his malicious pleasure when they do.
So when they were casually beaten recently by a team whose every question my wife and I answered (or guessed) correctly, I said: "That's it!"
Hell, I even knew the answer to the question that defeated them; but Daphne and C.J. and Marcel Cerdan?
Do come on.

SOCCER LIVE ON TELEVISION.

We are up to our necks in coverage of Euro 2008. England failed to qualify so the cat Shadow and I are easily distracted. But even we have noticed that a vast number of the players on display are employed by English Premiership clubs.
There are mutterings about home grown talent and its compulsory inclusion at top team level. Don't the words stable door and horse gone spring to mind?

THE 42 DAY THING.

There has been a right furore over the jaw-dropping Scot's determination to introduce a 42 day holding without charge law for suspected terrorists.
Support in parliament has been fragile.
As a sop to the doubters there is a rider that anyone held for the extended period who is then released without charge will be entitled to compensation of £3,000 a day.
I herewith give notice that I am a terrorist suspect.
Unless I am apprehended and held for questioning I may organize an army of flatulent old farts to lethally break wind in selected supermarkets at peak times without prior warning.
I shall be happy to accept questioning for 42 days but must decline aeroplane trips with tough-looking Americans.
My Leader would object.
Anyway, my passport is out of date.
Oh, I should prefer my compensation in cash, please.
I make it £126, 000 for the full 42 days
Whatever, I trust it will be tax free.
As a tax paying pensioner it will be good to get something back from the grasping bastards.

106. A Few Words From a Small Town Hero

THE COUGH.

I am bravely fighting my way through a man's cough.
This is not your female go-to-work-coughing-into-paper-tissues-and-get-on-with-it-until-the-boss-sends-you-home-for-fear-that-he-may-catch-it sort of cough.
This is your near-pneumonia=possibly-double-pneumonia-probably-with-complications=ought-to-stay-in-bed-(but y'dies-in-bed-y'know)-shan't-go-to-work-for-fear-of-giving-it-to-the-boss sort of cough.
Yeah, this is definitely a man's cough. And I am bravely fighting my way through it.
Somebody really should tell H.M. Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly lady who knows nothing of my heroism and will certainly never hear of it from me) so that she may honour me in her next Honours List.
I will accept a posthumous award if needs be.
What's that?
You heard what?
No, it couldn't have been her.
It'll be The Duke who said: "Silly bugger!"

EUROVISION SONG CONTEST. (BBC1)
What song?
What contest?
This year it was Creep to the Kremlin Night.
There was no song.
There was no contest.
There was the same old tuneless garbage conducted in an atmosphere not unlike that experienced by H. G. Wells's Mr. Polly when first he encountered his frantically-eager-to-please cousins in The History of Mr. Polly.
The BBC should ditch it.
Give old Wogan a holiday instead.
Sure, the poor man gets few enough of those.
And don't ever again cancel Dr Who for such tripe.

MATCH OF THE DAY LIVE 28th May, 2008. (BBC1)
England 2 - USA 0
A sparse crowd watched an unremarkable friendly played at leisurely pace.
John Terry scored the much needed - not least for him - opening goal and Steven Gerrard got the other.
Gerrard was named 'man of the match' and the Greek referee, blowing his whistle until he was blue in the face, caused one of the commentators to remark "Beware of Greeks bearing whistles."
Indeed.

THE INSPECTOR LYNLEY MYSTERIES. (BBC1)
Well, they're back. Tommy, the sad aristocratic Detective Inspector (Nathaniel Parker) and Havers, the smart working class Detective Sergeant (Sharon Small).
This was the first of two episodes: after which, it is reported, there will be no more.
Sorry to have to say it, but I think that is the right decision.
Every modern tv cops cliche has now been thrown at us in this, including the high-flying female boss who detests our hero for his privileged background rather than for his glaringly inept performance in the job.
At the conclusion of the last episode they should marry Lynley to Havers, retire them and send them to live blissfully in the stately pile.
It would be a relief to them and one helluva relief to us.

KISS OF DEATH (BBC1)
This twaddle - using the title of a 1947 film noir movie which, from the outset, it was never going to equal - was an all too obvious attempt to produce a British CSI.
It failed.

FILTH: THE MARY WHITEHOUSE STORY. (BBC2)
I like Julie Walters very much and look forward to seeing her in the remaining Harry Potter films.
But I didn't watch this.
Could never be bothered with Mrs.Whitehouse when she was alive.
She bullied.
I have always detested bullies.

EVERY BLOGGER NEEDS A READER.

Anonymous John has been in touch with me regarding the Sadness...Madness...Gladness post. He concluded with the words: However, I am confused - quite often these days actually - but I am sure that I have seen the part about the funeral on its own, or have I really blown it?
Just in case there is more than one kind reader like John out there, someone else who has noticed that the piece about young Nicola's funeral was originally published on its own, I did post the funeral piece separately at first but had dreadful trouble trying to post the rest afterwards and concluded that it might have something to do with trying to use two headings on the same day.
In retrospect, it probably wasn't that at all, but I simply panicked.
I deleted both posts, re-arranged them to form one extended item, and published again.
Presto! The new post was accepted. Doubtless I had simply messed up the presentation procedure somewhere along the line.
Trouble is, every time the Blog Eds come up with a new improved system of doing things I suffer morbid confusion and find myself crying plaintively: "It ain't broke! Why mend it?"
Mark you, I am aware that if everybody had that attitude we'd probably still be sending messages by stagecoach.
So keep ringing the changes, Blog Eds.
I'll keep taking the tablets.

FOOTNOTE.
"D'you think those Blog Eds actually see your stuff then?" asked the second cousin of a distant relative whose name eludes me.
"They've got plenty to see in America alone," I said. "At the last count they had Kimbalina, skipping off Google, whose contribution came complete with cute little pictures; they had incredibly smart lady scientists banging on about big bangs and things...and I don't mean Sex and the City; they had spaced out Galatica people; they had people who travel all over the world to photograph a face, a dress, or (especially) a meal; they had an expert in regional booze who supplied fabulous, quirky pictures to back up his Italian wine travels; they had brilliantly drawn comic book characters from brilliantly drawn - and sometimes sadly short-lived - craftsmen; they had more travel pictures taking in more exotic views of baubles, bangles, beads and thumping great mountains; they had graphs and expertise in real estate; a young girl film buff presented horror films with startlngly appropriate matching pictures; and then, to round it all off, they had yet more pictures of the world as seen through American eyes, i.e. anywhere between New York, Boston and Philadelphia on one side and Los Angeles and San Francisco on the other.
"So do I think they see my stuff?
"Bloody hell no."

105. Some Sadness, Some Gladness and Some Madness.

NICOLA.

On Tuesday 6th May. 2008 we attended the funeral of Nicola (Royston-Parry) Graham, daughter of my wife's niece, Barbara.
Nicola had spina bifida and was not expected to live beyond eighteen years. That she made it to thirty three was a tribute to the care she received from medical professionals, the love of her immediate family, the support from friends and sympathetic organizations and her own immense courage.
The funeral service was lovely. Conducted by a young woman, Amy Brading, there was not a religious moment in it. Nicky's favourite music (e.g. Eva Cassidy singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow) was played and I cannot remember being more moved or impressed by a service, ever.
Way to go, kid, way to go.

NICE ONE POMPEY!

Yes! Portsmouth has something to celebrate at last.
Harry Redknapp's Pompey football team won the FA Cup last Saturday in a fascinating, if somewhat scrappy, 1 - 0 tussle with Cardiff City.
My Leader and I are Portmuthians so the win gave us particular pleasure. I was only eight years old when last they won it and that was five years before she was born.
"Can we expect a little more from you now that Pompey has won the Cup?" inquired the cat Shadow.
"There's been a lot on." I said defensively.
"You haven't put finger to keyboard for three weeks," he said. "That's not so much a lot on as downright bloody laziness."
"Don't you be mealy-mouthed now, mate," I said. "You speak your mind."
Well I wouldn't have bothered but the little perisher slept right through the match.
Actually, Maureen didn't watch it, either. She had important needlework to do.
Pays to get your priorities right.

BACK TO THE BOX.

Dexter. (ITV1)
Saw the last couple of episodes of this well acted nonsense and am still not sure whether it better deserves commendation or castigation. In truth, I find it an amoral conception which leads to occasionally uncomfortable viewing. It will be a questionable choice next time around.
My son, a gentle chap, thoroughly enjoys it.
Guess it's an age thing.
Dr.Who. (BBC1)
This time the doctor was in Agatha Christie country.
Fenella Woolgar was Agatha, poised to make the dramatic disappearance that probably sold more books in a fortnight than her publisher's mediocre publicity would in a decade.
Felicity Kendal was there, sadly without Pam Ferris, so the crime solving fell to the Doctor and Donna.
Donna's contribution was littered with helpful Christie book titles and plot ideas for Agatha to ponder upon when she got to Harrogate.
I think the vicar was a bee (a lot of them are) and for the life of me I cannot remember the whys and wherefores of it all.
But then I seldom ever did with Mrs.Christie's stuff, so that was nothing new.
CSI: NY. (Five)
Are they ever going to catch that bloody taxicab killer?
Class of 62 - from 15 to 60. (BBC2)
This followed the lives of Marion Gaunt and her friends after they left Sandford Secondary Modern School. Leeds.
What a doughty bunch. My Leader and I sat fascinated as each told of her hopes, her disappointments, her search for fulfillment, her successes and her failures.
Don't usually watch what I regard as voyeuristic programmes.
Don't even watch the soaps.
But this was different.
This was the real world inhabited by real northern women and it was worth every minute of the watching.
So good luck to you all, Class of 62.

And now, for a bit of fun, the ultimate CSI spin-off -

CSI: IW
Executive Producer: Dennis Barnden
Director; Jessica White.

Series 1. Episode 1/1: - Crushem Gets The Needle.

Will Crushem and his Isle of Wight CSI team are investigating a messy murder in a seaside apartment which contains a corpse, ample lighting and an in-credit electricity account.
They are searching for clues by torchlight.
The victim is a young woman. Her clothing is in disarray and from the lapel of her dishevelled jacket Crushem recovers the pointed half of a needle which he drops into a plastic bag.
Crushem's GFA (Glamorous Female Assistant) spots a pink crumb on the four hundred square feet of bloodstained carpet: she recovers the crumb with tweezers and it, too, goes into a plastic bag.
Crushem's GMA (Glamorous Male Assistant) watches her admiringly. He is in love with her, but wisely refrains from telling her so on the grounds that same-job relationships are a mistake. Besides, if he tells her she will certainly be dead before the series ends.
"What is it?" he asks.
"Looks like pink shortbread," she replies.
"Crumbs!" he exclaims.
"Well...one, anyway," says Crushem.
(Cue theme song - The Who's newly adapted: Blimey O'Reilly, Who Are You Foolin' Again?)
In her laboratory, Crushem's KFG (Kookie Forensic Genius) quickly reaches a startling conclusion: this is not blood soaked ordinary shortbread, this really is pink shortbread. It was only marketed a fortnight ago and is sold in just one shop. To date a mere two people have bought it (we are told by the KFG's male colleague who is in love with her) and one of them was sent to prison last week. So the other is either the victim or the perpetrator...
What fun.
In the path lab Crushem's EDC&F (Eccentric Doctor Colleague and Friend) finds no trace of shortbread in or on the vic. What he does find is a strand of hay in the vic's shoe and the hay (according to the KFG) is particular to one farm in the West Wight.
So now we know. The perp, not the vic, bought the shortbread.
Furthermore, the KFG's besotted colleague tells us, the perp is known to the shopkeeper who sold said shortbread.
The perp is (surprise, surprise) a farmer in the West Wight.
The Team moves in.
They corner the farmer in his hay barn in broad daylight. They are wearing body armour and helmets with lighted torches affixed to them, They have pistols at the ready.
"She shouldn't 'ave turned me and me shortbread down," he shouts, brandishing a shotgun in their direction. "Cost me a ...king fortune that shortbread did. An' then, when I ate the lot in front of 'er, she called me a greedy pig! Shouldn'ta said that, not when I was carryin' me brand new riphook...I mean, ain't that askin' for trouble?" So saying he aims his shotgun at the GMA, fires and (despite the fact that he unfailingly kills game on the run and bird on the wing with a single shot) misses.
There is a hail of return gunfire and he lands lifeless in the hay.
(C.U. bullets tearing through specially prepared carcass from local butcher's shop.)
Crushem reaches him first and plucks the other half of the needle found in the vic's lapel from the sleeve of his tweed jacket.
"Looks like you just found a needle in a haystack, C," says the GFA.
"Half of one, anyway," says Crushem.

(Show disclaimer regarding events, characters and any degree of realism. Give notice that any likeness to any living person should result in that person seeking immediate psychiatric help.)

104. A Fitting Goodbye

ANTHONY MINGHELLA CBE. (1954 - 2008)

I have little to add to the many news reports covering the memorial service held here on the Isle of Wight last Saturday.
St. Thomas's Church, Newport, was packed and, on a beautiful sunny day, over a hundred stood outside to listen to the relayed service, show their respect for this gentle, talented man and silently express their sympathy with his family.
As may have been expected, some fine actors with whom he had worked and/or become friends - among them Jude Law, Alfred Molina and Alan Rickman - made the journey from the mainland to pay tribute to him.
In all it was a fitting public goodbye to a much admired Islander.

BACK TO THE BOX.

Foyle's War. (ITV1)
When they sound the last All-Clear (went the song) how happy my darling we'll be...
Well, on the 20th April Michael Kitchen took his wonderfully underplayed performance, his scene-stealing DCS Foyle hat and his lonely final departure from Hastings police station.
It was a moving exit in the execution of which he quietly upstaged the off-screen end of war celebrations.
Those of us who have enjoyed Anthony Horowitz's wartime gems are far from happy. We are concerned that there may be no more of them.
But Sherlock Holmes, whose writer did not want to bring him back, survived the Reichenbach falls .
So surely Christopher Foyle, whose writer does want to bring him back, can survive the last All-Clear?
Rumour has it he will.
I do hope rumour is right.

Taggart. (ITV1)
When DCI Matt Burke (Alex Norton) meets up again with old flame Kathy Moffat (Phyllis Logan) and offers to help her, it is obvious that he is heading for trouble. (Ol' Phyllis usually is trouble nowadays.)
It is apparent, too, that his problems will be magnified by the presence of Chief Superintendant Laura Henson (Deidre Davies), a high-flyer intent on reducing costs by purging the force of senior officers she considers to be past their sell-by date. They include him.
Needless to say his team saves his neck, right prevails, the villains (including the pushy high-flyer) fail and he is left remarking ruefully to DS Reid (Blythe Duff): "No fool like an old fool, eh Jackie?"
No team like the Taggart team, either.
Mur-rder-r.

Heroes. (BBC2)
They're back here in a new eleven parter.
It's a delightfully daft concept.
It dodges from scene to scene and character to character like a special for the under fives.
It keeps me in a state of mesmerized bewilderment.
I shall continually ask myself why I am watching it.
And I shall watch it all.

Dr. Who. (BBC1)
The Doctor kicks along at a lively pace.
We have had peacefully inclined aliens, the Ood, who appear to have sneezed spaghetti from their noses.
Now we have warlike aliens, the Sontarans, who my old friend Anonymous John would probably describe as:
"Big-headed little mooshes."
We also have Martha Jones (Freema Agyeman) back and, somewhat to the Doctor's discomfiture, instantly friendly with his new sidekick, Donna.
They'll cause him more trouble than any alien.
Serves him right.
Yep, I shall watch it all.

103. A Fast Farewell to Foyle

FOYLE'S WAR. (ITV1)

They were all back last Sunday.
There was DCS Christopher Foyle (Michael Kitchen) wearing his seriously good acting trilby; there was DS Paul Milner (Anthony Howell) wearing his seriously good acting limp; and there was every old bloke's fantasy driver, Samantha (Sam) Stewart (the wonderfully named Honeysuckle Weeks) wearing a khaki uniform better than any ATS girl ever did in my day.
I was going to write that the new series seemed to have started under a bit of a pall. That the war was apparently coming to an end and what were they going to call it then? Foyle's Peace?
But my Leader remarked on an article in the ultimate digital tv and radio guide wherein Anthony Horowitz, the creator of Foyle, interviewed by Radio Times correspondent Benji Wilson, expressed no small irritation with former ITV supremo Simon Shaps.
It seems that Mr. Shaps, presumably suffering from a rush of blood to the head, had axed Foyle's War before he left ITV for pastures new.
Oh dear, what a disappointment.
No surprise, though.
Television, like any other business, is packed with giftless gits dodging from lofty managerial height to loftier managerial height leaving a trail of bad decisions and daft mistakes behind them. It's the blueprint for modern management.
So, unless the new boss shows enough sense to recommission it, or to invite Mr.Horowitz to write a sequel, Foyle's War will come to an end tomorrow, Sunday 20th April, 2008.
Flags should be flown at half mast.
And to rub salt into the wound, Benji Wilson mooted the Foyle's Peace title ahead of me.
Oh, all right, so it didn't take a Stephen Hawking to come up with it.

NCIS. (Five)

Last night we reached episode twenty of series four and a rum old business it was.
Somehow, over the past few weeks, Agent Tim McGee (Sean Murray) has become a sort of NCIS Jessica Fletcher churning out best selling thrillers. His leading characters bear an unmistakeable likeness to his workmates, even down to the names: L. J. Tibbs? Come on...
It is clear that we are reaching the end of a 24 episode run of this hugely likeable slice of hokum. Jethro Gibbs's acting haircut is beginning to act up again, the plots are becoming progressively less believable and only our familiarity with the characters keeps us fondly glued to it.
Heck, anyone who can resist daffy Abby (Pauley Perrette) has to have something wrong with them.

102. A Sheriff, A Tribute, A Hallo and A Few Goodbyes.

OL' TITCHY IS SHERIFF.

Alan Titchmarsh has just been made High Sheriff of the Isle of Wight, a title bestowed by H.M. Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly lady apparently prone to the charms of a TV gardener from Yorkshire).
Opinions on the appointment vary.
There are those who will always echo the views of Her Majesty. They are the sort who would support any choice she made. She could choose Osama bin Laden and they would agree wholeheartedly.
Then there are those who think he is just a tiresome mini celebrity who happens to have a holiday home here and the post should have gone to a caulkhead (somebody island born).
Whenever I've seen him on the box, Terry Wogan's homely description "bonny" fits him perfectly. I do not know whether, away from the screen, he is a charmer or a tosser and I could not give a f-f-fig one way or the other.
In my working days, though, I was once required to fill in a questionnaire from the Department of Health seeking, among other things, an answer to the question: Are you aware of any racial problems in your area?
My reply was as follows: There are no racial problems on the Island. Anybody not born here is a foreigner.
So ol' Titchy will have to understand that to Islanders he will always be a foreigner, whatever his reputation or standing.
If he has already absorbed that much and - more importantly - learnt to accept it with good grace, he will find this a pleasant enough berth, in or out of office. If he has not and has no intention of so doing, he will find that television fame impresses nobody worth impressing.
What? Oh, my wife and I are celebrating our fortieth year here.
We are still foreigners.

RICHARD WIDMARK (1914 - 2008)

This is a small tribute to the splendid actor Richard Widmark who died on 24th March at the age of 93.
I first saw him in the 1947 film Kiss of Death and came out of the cinema thinking: (1) that new chap was one helluva good psychopath:(2) wonder if his manic laugh will typecast him? And (3) what a pity he didn't bump off Victor Mature.
Mr. Widmark remained a charismatic and dependable star throughout his entire career. Other actors visibly looked to their laurels when he was about.
If I had been an actor I would have relished working with him.
How better to perfect your craft than to work with the best?

BACK TO THE BOX.

Hughie Green: Most Sincerely. (BBC4)
This was another in the Curse of Comedy series and featured a believable performance by Trevor Eve in the lead role.
I always thought that Hughie Green was an unctuous phoney - and I mean that most sincerely, folks - so it came as no surprise to learn he was also an unpleasant womanizer and a self-important bully.
Mark Benton played the sanctimonious - and equally detestable - presenter of Stars On Sunday, Jess (The Bishop) Yates who, after his death in 1993, fell victim to Green's malicious revelation (via a News of the World journalist at his 1997 funeral) that he was the real father of Yates's beloved daughter, Paula.
Three years later Paula Yates, too, was dead.
Only in the most derisive sense were there any comedians in this story.
How it crept into this particular series is a mystery.
Doctor Who (BBC1)
Yep, the Doctor (David Tennant) is back for another thirteen weeks. This time he has Donna Noble (Catherine Tate) as his purely platonic helpmate and a host of threatening aliens old and new to contend with, all courtesy of Russell T. Davies.
I shan't miss a single episode if I can help it.
Hotel Babylon. (BBC1)
This hotel potboiler came to its gloriously farcical conclusion.
It was unadulterated tripe.
There will be another series next year.
And of course we shall watch it.
Torchwood. (BBC2)
The second series of this one ended, too.
I expect it will be back.
But it will be back without a couple of our favourite characters.
And of course we shall watch it.
Frankie Howerd: Rather You than Me. (BBC4)
In a fortnight of farewells, this was the last in the short Curse of Comedy series and one that really did belong to it..
Frankie Howerd (born Howard) was played by David Walliams (born Williams) to very good effect,
His acolyte/lover/chauffeur/partner/manager Dennis Heymer was played, to equally good effect, by Rafe Spall.
At a time when public knowledge of his homosexual proclivities would probably have finished a fluctuating show business career, Frankie Howerd, a promiscuous homosexual, was no more convincing as a heterosexual than was that ludicrous toupee masquerading as his real hair.
Both comedy and his sexuality were a curse to this troubled man.
There is no doubt that Dennis Heymer was the best thing that ever happened to him.

101. Cat Chat, Hancock, Tough Tecs & 5 Star Bilge

CONVERSATION WITH A SULKING SHADOW.

"Are you sulking?" I asked the cat Shadow.
"Why would you care?" he answered sullenly.
"You are," I said. "You're sulking."
He had a quick wash and feigned interest in the line of Harry Potter DVDs alongside the television.
"Come on then, who's rubbed your fur up the wrong way?" I demanded.
"I've seen that picture on your blog," he announced aggrievedly."That should have been me, that should."
It took a moment for me to cotton on. Then I said: "Mother's one hundredth? It couldn't be you. You weren't there. Roz and Jess's cat Figgy was there. That's why he's in the picture."
"Well I'm thinking of leaving home," he said.
"You already do," I retorted. "Every night after supper. And every bloody morning you're back for breakfast."
As suddenly as he was miffed he was mollified.
He grinned his cat grin.
"Yeah," he said. "Why break the habit of a lifetime."

HANCOCK AND JOAN. (BBC4)

After Phil Davies and Jason Isaacs as Steptoe and Son, another acting tour de force, Ken Stott as Tony Hancock.
When I read about it in my ultimate digital TV and radio guide I had to look twice. S-S-S-Stott as H-H-H-Hancock? Swipe me, he's nothing like him!
Trouble with playing one-off individuals is that their unique talent defies reproduction. Being a talented original is what made them famous.
At his best Tony Hancock was a comic genius of instantly recognizable voice, loveable pomposity and impeccable timing.
At less than his best he was a talent sadly wasted.
At his worst he was a thoroughly nasty alcoholic.
Ken Stott, neither looking nor sounding like him, managed to portray the lad 'imself - by walk, mannerism and gesture - with uncanny accuracy.
Co-star Maxine Peake was excellent as Joan Le Mesurier, wife of Hancock's actor friend John, who became the ultimate love of the comedian's life.
With Hughie Green (Trevor Eve) and Frankie Howerd (David Walliams) to follow, The Curse of Comedy is proving to be a very fine drama series indeed.

TWO DETECTIVES TOO MANY.

Last Thursday saw the final episode in the current run of two detective shows. Ashes to Ashes (BBC1) and Trial & Retribution (ITV1).
I can't say I was sorry to see them go. Hard-bitten, tough-talking tecs are a bit wearisome after a while. Two of them on the same night can become downright tiresome: anyway, I get niggly trying to decide which of them to record.
So I hope DCI Gene Hunt (Philip Glenister) and Chief Supt. Michael Walker (David Hayman) will be given a long holiday.
Bring back Miss Marple.

HE KILLS COPPERS. (ITV1)

Another villainous cops and murderous villains yarn. This three-parter, with opening sequences set in 1966, is based on a Jake Arnott novel and brought to mind the early work of G.F.Newman. Everybody is a chancer and nobody half decent lives longer than the first episode.
Keeps you watching, though.

HOTEL BABYLON. (BBC1)

Have you watched this?
Then perhaps you are one of the several million appreciative Babylonians.
Sorry to say I'm not.
I think it's a load of five star bilge.
Dexter Fletcher, as The Concierge, tries hard to give credibility to his and everybody else's part.
Leading actors, first Tamzin Outhwaite then Max Beesley, playing the Hotel Manager, struggle desperately to manage unbelievable staff, impossible guests, ludicrous scripts and unlikely love interests before disappearing, with a relieved sigh, to the West End or the provincial stage for sanity and less money. At the moment Lee Williams has the role. I give him until the end of the series and that's just a P45 away.
Each week a guest star, usually well enough known to know better, turns up and hams it up, presumably for a decent pay packet.
I was all for chucking it in midway through the episode after Max Beesley left: but then, magically, one of the hotel guests (a licentious, conceited actor - yeah, some of it rings true) sat down at a piano and started to play Bohemian Rhapsody. Before you could say Freddie Mercury he was joined by three of the staff in a hilarious parody of the original Queen masterpiece. It almost compensated for the damned silly story.
By the end I was even cheerful enough to accept as guest star the omnipresent John - somebody really should tell him about Kelly Monteith - Barrowman.
Well, you can't blame any entertainer for grabbing all the work he can get.
But I still remember Kelly Monteith.
Do you?
You do?
Bloody hell.

100. From 100 Not Out to No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency.

ONE HUNDRED NOT OUT.

My mother, Lilian, was 100 on the last day of last year. A decent age to reach.
She received a congratulatory card from Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2 (which nowadays the forthcoming centenarian's relatives have to apply for via the Ministry of Pensions) and, there no longer being a telegram service, she received an imitation telegram from the Pensions Minister.
Well, the Prime Minister was probably abroad: Scotland, perhaps.
Most of the family were able to attend the celebratory get-together and we have finally managed to transfer the digital camera pictures onto the computer: these include one of mother with granddaughter (holding great grandson), son, grandson and great granddaughter (holding cat) which I publish just in case any old friend or distant relative should chance upon it.
Although physically frail, Lilian is mentally as sharp as a razor and, despite poor eyesight, still keeps up with the snooker on television.
She had a good birthday and thoroughly enjoyed all the attention

GETTING ON A BIT.

The process of ageing, or getting on a bit, can be a bugger. The words creaky, cranky and invisible may well spring to the mind of any getting on a bit reader who still has a mind, or any spring. So maybe it is because I am getting on a bit - though I don't feel especially old - that I find myself increasingly irked by much of the twaddle currently purporting to be entertainment on television. There's way too much reality bunkum; too many copycat competition shows featuring publicity seeking celebs; too many repeats (including those cheekily describing an old show as revisited); far too many cooking programmes, antiques programmes, auctioneering programmes, and property rubbish where, when they are not tarting up tat for profit, people are swanning all over the place looking at properties they have not the slightest intention of buying.
"Mabel and Maurice eventually decided not to purchase the twenty-seven-roomed mansion in Ascot and unfortunately were outbid for the two-up-two-down pied-a-terre in France. They are remaining in their mobile home (think caravan) while they review their options."
Know what? I really dont give a toss. Do you? Does anybody?
So I have become more discriminating in my television viewing habits of late. I am no longer bothered when Mark Harmon's acting haircut fails to register in a couple of episodes of NCIS, or David Caruso's sunglasses upstage everybody by being donned as he enters, rather than when he leaves, through the French windows in CSI Miami.
I don't care when Mac, of CSI New York, is stalked and endangered throughout several episodes by a 333 lunatic straight out of Sax Rohmer.
(What? Sax who? Oh, an old thriller writer...Dr.Fu Manchu...see Wikipedia...)
Furthermore, I do not believe that there is a Middle Eastern terrorist under every American bed just waiting to creep out and join the vast Muslim alliance that will huff and puff until it blows all their skyscrapers down. Hell, there were never any Reds under the beds, either, so stop being so bloody melodramatic.
Besides, there's still quite a lot to be cheerful about.
Well, there is on our tele.
On our tele we still have Harry Hill's TV Burp and Justin Fletcher on CCTV and darned good plays like Brian Fillis's The Curse of Steptoe, featuring darned good actors like Phil Davis and Jason Isaacs as Wilfrid Brambell and Harry H. Corbett. We still have Russell T. Davies's Torchwood and we still have splendid soaps and excellent costume dramas.
University Challenge, Mastermind and Fry's QI remain constant pleasures if you like that sort of thing: we do.
There are even some pretty good, albeit foul-mouthed, comedians still to be seen.
And, without doubt, getting on a bit is still preferable to the alternative.

HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF BLOOD PRINCE.

Yippee! Here we go again!
The film Harry Potter and the Half Cut Prince (Does ask for it, doesn't it, J.K.) is due for release on the 21st of November. It is being directed by David Yates. .
Additional characters will include Jim Broadbent as Horace Slughorn: I had Ian McNeice in mind but Jim Broadbent is very good. There is also some talk (if the part is not inexplicably scrapped) of Bill Nighy being cast as the new Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour: I would have chosen Jim Carter but Bill Nighy is very good.
Well it's Easter now.
There will be Christmas stuff on the shop shelves next week.
It'll be September before you can blink.

LARK RISE TO CANDLEFORD. (BBC1)

This fine series came to an end on Easter Day. Faultless sets, direction and acting. I even came to tolerate Laura referring to her parents as Mar and Par.
By the time it was over there was scarcely a dry eye in the house.

THE No.1 LADIES' DETECTIVE AGENCY. (BBC1)

I thoroughly enjoyed Alexander McCall Smith's novel about Precious Ramotswe setting up the first, the only and therefore the No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency in Botswana and was eager to see the television version of it.
Well, nobody ever adapted difficult books more skilfully and sensitively for the screen than the gifted writer/director Anthony Minghella, so of course it was a delight.
More than that I have little to say except that Anthony's death at the age of 54 has stunned the Isle of Wight He was born and bred here and unfailingly made public mention of it when collecting numerous awards.
Our kindest thoughts go out to the family of this much respected, gentle man.
He will be sadly missed.

99. Not for those of a nervous disposition.

ANONYMOUS VAGRANT.

Anonymous John's wife and our good pal, Sheila, has sent us an email headed Vagrant. It seems this decidedly dicey character has been seen in the vicinity of Sheila and Anonymous John's mini manor, a pleasant abode where they have lived in modest luxury (with the occasional meal) ever since A.J. won a few quid on the viewers' lottery, masquerading as a competition, that occurs daily on the ITV1 programme Dickinson's Raw Deal (sic).
I think Anonymous John should beware.
An anonymous vagrant like this could have designs on his wife and his winnings.

IT'S ALL OR NOTHING.

I have been engaged in what our daughter-in-law, Pauline, jocularly refers to as playing dolls houses again. This time it has involved the dismantling of built-in bookcases and their departure, along with over a thousand books, from our first (American second) floor computer room to a variety of destinations.
My Leader empathises but cannot refrain from the gentle dig that I am overdoing it. She says it's all or nothing with me. I try to dismiss such calumny but truth to tell I'm knackered.
Never mind, the job is almost done, though I have not tackled a blog post since the 19th of February.
Doesn't time fly when you're having fun?

THE BRITISH WEATHER.

Never ceases to surprise that in an area of land stretching at most 874 miles (Land's End to John O'Groats) there can be blizzards in Scotland and Northern England, flood warnings in The Midlands and balmy weather from London to the South Coast. All at the same time.
We have just experienced hurricane conditions throughout much of England.
Not in Scotland. The sun shone and birds sang in Inverness.
Oh yes, we Brits do have a reason for our obsession with the weather. Which leads me, somewhat tortuously, to...

DANCING ON ICE (ITV1).

This is one of those winter television programmes that has celebrities (many of whom have allegedly never skated before) partnered with professional ice skaters in a bid to become the best duo in yet another reality competition.
Viewers are invited to vote. The money made from their telephone calls probably pays the participants' fees and may even cover the cost of Phillip Schofield's eyebrow pencil.
During the last series I saw that definitive little battler Bonny Langford get her head cracked, so this time I was inclined to give it a miss. I like Bonny.
But my Leader is a fan of the programme and, in the way of a woman who could have taught Margaret Thatcher the art of manipulation, inveigled my interest with the words: "Linda Lusardi's in it."
Now lovely Linda, in the nicest possible way, is a standing joke in our house.
When we first moved here I found myself listening, amused and slightly alarmed, as little Jess discussed with her mother which startling pink she should have on the main wall of the bedroom we had set aside for her. She would only be in the room for one night a week, but she knew what she wanted. I knew what I didn't want. I didn't want startling pink.
In those days paint manufacturers were giving weird names to their colours. Names like Mortimer Mauve, Belinda Blue and Winsome White were not unusual.
I ambled back to the kitchen and my Leader, busy cooking, enquired: "How are they doing?"
"She wants Penelope Pink in her bedroom," I said. "Well, I want Linda Lusardi in my bedroom but it ain't going to happen."
I came to like that pink wall eventually. I was a little disappointed when Jess changed rooms and it was re-decorated.
Oh, Linda Lusardi was all too soon voted off Dancing On Ice. But she tried bravely and came across as a thoroughly nice person.

ICE ROAD TRUCKERS (Five).

This documentary series followed the fortunes of a bunch of cussedly reckless individuals.
It seems that every winter ice roads are constructed across the expanse of frozen lakes in Canada's Northwest Territories.
Along these roads tons of essential supplies are delivered by truck to the diamond mines. Top money is paid to those prepared to put their skill and nerve to the test in making such deliveries.
The trucks are huge, the loads enormous and the ice road often barely three feet thick atop water which can and will swallow up vehicle, driver and cargo in a careless or just unlucky instant.
As the season draws out the ice gradually thaws until, eventually, there is no road. Well, not until next year.
For whatever reason they do it, money, pride, daring, the ice road truckers are a breed apart.
They are gamblers. They are heroes. They are bloody mad!
My Leader and I think they are great.

THE FIXER (ITV1).

John Mercer (Andrew Buchan) is an ex soldier, a killer with a conscience, a man required against his will to perform acts of murder. He has a lame duck assistant, Calum (Jody Latham), a colleague, Rose, who the management has planted on him (Tamzin Outhwaite) and a ruthless boss called Lenny (Peter Mullan).
I quite enjoyed the first episode. Well I knew I would because I liked it forty years ago. It ran from 1967 to 1972 and it was called Callan.
David Callan (Edward Woodward) was an ex soldier, a killer with a conscience etc. He had a lame duck assistant, Lonely (Russell Hunter), colleagues Meres (Anthony Valentine) and later Cross (Patrick Mower) placed by the management to keep an eye on him and a ruthless boss called Hunter (firstly Ronald Radd and finally William Squire).
Yep, The Fixer is simply 21st century Callan.
I don't know whether Callan writer James Mitchell has grounds for legal action against Fixer writer Ben Richards, but if I was Ben I'd be careful in future not to be standing too near the edge of an underground railway platform when the train is coming in.

98. Mr.Fogle, Ms McKenzie, Dr.Williams, L.R. to C. & The Palace

GOOD TELE, INNIT?

I have been watching Ben Fogle's Extreme - climb every mountain, ford every stream -Dreams. Might have given it a miss on the grounds that it is the dreaded reality television. [I am still strongly opposed to the use of the general public as entertainers.] But Ben is the sort of bloke who expects nobody to do what he won't do himself, so that makes it half bearable even to an old grouch like me.
I will never understand the logic behind the choice of certain team members of course, (well...it's good tele, innit?) but there is a feel good conclusion to the proceedings each week which appeals to those fans of Ben Fogle who just have to have an a-a-a-a-a-ah ending.
Afraid I tend to snort impatiently when the compulsory attention seekers whinge on.
Cannot help but be aware that there is a crew with a bloody great camera tackling the same desert - forest - mountain - river - swamp and doing it without sound or dramatics.
Daunting? Tell them about it.
Still, my Leader is a fan, so a-a-a-a-ah.

MARPLE UNVEILED.

That didn't take long.
The next Miss Marple on television will be Julia McKenzie.
Well, she'll be a fine successor to Geraldine McEwan and I feel slightly smug that she was one of my choices for the role. Oh, all right, one of my ten names. I reckon as a soothsayer that has to put me on a par with Professor Sybil Trelawney (see Emma Thompson via J.K. Rowling). Anyway, I very much look forward to the new series and wish Ms McKenzie all the theatrical breaking of legs in the world.

ROWAN PUTS HIS OAR IN.

As a choirboy in wartime Britain I attended matins and evensong every Sunday without fail. Swinging the lead was not encouraged: swinging the thurible was.
But I quickly lost patience with dogma and have long held the view that nobody should believe anything without question.
Now Dr. Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury, has (somewhat in keeping with a sainted predecessor, Thomas Becket) put his oar into turbulent waters. It is his view that the adoption of certain aspects of sharia law is unavoidable in the U.K.
He must be thankful that this is not the 12th century or four knights would have been on their way to visit him.
As it is there have been rumblings from certain establishment mouthpieces who should know better but never do: there have been hysterical calls for his resignation from the office boy press: and there has been the usual sanctimonious posturing about the need for him to apologise.
Why?
I have no idea whether he is right or wrong and I am not about to believe him without question.
But he, like me, is a citizen of a country where there is supposed to be freedom of speech within the law.
I cannot see that he has broken any law.

LARK RISE TO CANDLEFORD (BBC1).

Not quite Cranford, perhaps, but this Sunday night excursion into the land of oo-ar and la-di-da accents has all the right ingredients.
There is a wise and decent postmistress, Dorcas Lane, played by Julia Sawalha, a wise and decent squire, Sir Timothy Midwinter, played by Ben Miles and a splendid cast of oo-ar and la-di-da actors including the ever reliable Liz Smith and dear ol' Karl Johnson. There is also Dawn French as a constantly abandoned wife and mother (a boozy version of her Jam and Jerusalem character).
The main character, Laura Timmins, thought to be based on herself by author Flora Thompson (1876 - 1947), is faultlessly played by Olivia Hallinan.
My Leader and I like it.

THE PALACE (ITV 1).

Here we have newly crowned King Richard IV (Rupert Evans) struggling to find his way through the morass of intrigue, resentment and stupidity that surrounds him: most of it engendered by his own family. No change there, then.
It is watchable, too, particularly if you are one of those who gives any credence to the weird conspiracy theories currently being aired by Mr. Mohamed al-Fayed in the lawcourts. (I think they are just the sad, impossible to prove, honest beliefs of a bereaved father - and I am no fan of self-important Prince Philip.)
But as a television series The Palace is no West Wing or Dallas.
It's simply tripe with tiaras.
And yeah, my Leader and I like it.

97. An Independent reader, watcher and complainant

AN INDEPENDENT READER.

Yasmin Alibhai - Brown and Johann Hari are the first two people I read in The Independent every Monday. I then turn to the erudite Andreas Whittam Smith, whose financial nous scares me silly. I try to ignore The Pocket Churchill, Bruce Anderson. (Well, with my advancing years and diminishing powers I sometimes have a disgraceful tendency to agree with him, if only in a very small c conservative way.)
I usually read Miles Kington's piece before turning to the editorial, the letters and the quick crossword. His death last week was an enormous loss to the world of humorous writing and he will be a terribly hard act to follow.
Last Monday, Yasmin wanted to know why racial abuse is now considered acceptable in this country.
It seems she and others were subjected to crass treatment from "posh hooligans" at a public debate (on "what we wanted from the London Mayor") in Cadogan Hall, Sloane Square, a couple of weeks ago.
In the course of a loud verbal attack she was called a "cunt" and told to go back to Uganda.
As I have remarked elsewhere in this blog, bullies are scum.
So the moron who shouted those brave words should have been spirited away by the law, thrown into a Black Maria, transported to a distant police station to spend a contemplative night and then released on a week's police bail with the words: "C.U. Next Tuesday, eh?"
Who knows what has come over this nation.
To be good mannered is now regarded as patronising. Effing and blinding in public is accepted. There is contempt for anything but a positive approach i.e. rudeness. No age group or class is exempt. There is an absence of self respect and respect for others. Litter louts and fly-tippers abound. Don't try to get through to anybody; they'll be too busy talking on their mobile or listening to their ipod.
Sadly, we oldies are no little to blame
(See my post of 15th April 07 New stuff on the block - good and bad! Ignoring Bigotry.)
More sadly, it is far too late to do anything about it.
There is too much apathy and negativity and fear.
And too much sitting in front of the television - or computer.

(IGNORING BIGOTRY - final paragraph)
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.

LAMENT FOR A DEPARTING MARPLE.

I was sorry to hear that Geraldine McEwan will no longer be playing Miss Marple.
In a nineteen twenties middle class way Jane Marple was easily the most charming of Agatha Christie's fictional detectives and Ms. McEwan, with a wicked glint here and a sly riposte there, accomplished a subtle revamping of the character for the current television series. Not that I am impressed by the all singing all dancing Agatha Christie's Marple or, for that matter, by Agatha Christie's Poirot: where are Miss Lemon, Inspector Japp and Captain Hastings?
I do like Geraldine McEwan, though, and look forward to seeing her on screen again soon, whatever the role.
So who will replace her as Miss Marple?
I dunno.
How about Miriam Margolyes? She would be great and I like her.
But I like Eileen Atkins and Barbara Flynn and Sue Johnston and Gemma Jones and Julia McKenzie and Doreen Mantle and Maggie Smith and Imelda Staunton and June Whitfield and a whole lot of others who would be great, too.
If you are a follower of Miss Marple you will no doubt be looking for a favourite of your own to fill the role.
Doubtless we will all be left foolishly floundering when the sublime successor surfaces.

[Avoid abominable alliteration. Ed]

REPETITION, REPETITION, REPETITION.

If there is one thing you can rely on from the compilers of television programmes it is that there will be no shortage of repeats.
Currently we are starting what must be at least the third re-run on ITV3 of Pie In The Sky, the enjoyable cook/detective romp which originally ran from 1994 to 1997. Even with unmissable Richard Griffiths and always watchable Maggie Steed, this is a slice too much.
Same goes for the Best of American in the CSI's and NCIS. After five or six lengthy series, viewers surely do not welcome the reminder that they could have ignored it all from the very beginning.
Today Cadfael is back. A one-off, perhaps, but one I have seen twice already. This time even Derek Jacobi with his herbs cannot revive it.
As for Poirot, I've seen the series so many times I'm a phantom understudy to most of the actors.
Likewise I probably know more about Morse than Kevin Whately does.
Sherlock Holmes has spent as much time in my living room as he has in Baker Street.
Wexford waves to me across the road.
Hetty Wainwright smiles when we meet in the grocer's shop.
Monk recognizes me instantly - but doesn't shake hands.
And I am a regular guest at the homes of Mark Sloan and Jessica Fletcher in America and the Tom Barnaby family in England.
What? How have I avoided becoming a 'vic' at Malibu Beach, Cabot Cove or Midsomer?
Hell, I'm just too damned unreasonable to finish up as a non-speaking extra in a body bag.
Ironically, this complaint is a repeat.
But a genuinely restructured repeat, not a blatantly cheap space filler.

AND A WORD OF PRAISE.

Don't usually watch soaps, but the solo performance by June Brown on East Enders last week was not to be missed. Dot Branning's message to her husband was superb stuff. If Ms Brown and all concerned do not get television awards there will be no justice.

96. Mainly Musical Memories

A FEW CHERISHED RECORDINGS.

Have been sitting here with a tape playing on the ancient hi-fi. Thought it was rather good, then realized it was one of my own compilations from way back.
I was always particular. If I hadn't thought David Whitfield made a great job of Bernstein's Maria he wouldn't be on the tape. Same applied to Dolly Parton's version of Cole Porter's I Get A Kick Out Of You and to Robert Preston singing Jerry Herman's I Won't Send Roses.
Trouble is, I have seldom bought a tape or CD (let alone a DVD) which has not been a disappointment once the single which enticed me to buy it has worked its magic. This particularly applies to the works of modern singer/songwriters, many of whom surround their one deservedly popular composition with a load of self-penned dross.
I solved the problem by transferring the stuff I really liked onto blank tape.
There are now several such tapes floating around the place. Jimmy Durante singing Make Someone Happy is on the same tape as Enrico Caruso's recording of Because. Yehudi Menuhin and Stephane Grappelli are there, too, with their rendition of Gershwin's They Can't take That Away From Me: so is Shirley Bassey (There's a Place For Us) and Georges Guetary (I'll Build A Stairway To Paradise).There is also a marvellous Welsh contralto called Iris Williams singing He Was Beautiful and a couple of classics from Freddie Gardner, arguably the greatest alto sax player ever.
There is the joy of hearing Franco Corelli sing Nessun Dorma, of smiling as Ethel Merman yet again belts out There's No Business Like Show Business and of laughing aloud as Elvis Presley fights that hilarious losing battle with the truly wonderful backing singer on Are You Lonesome Tonght.
It's not all home-made recordings of course. A tape of Bing Crosby's 20 Golden Greats bears listening to right through, especially the tracks made with John Scott Trotter's orchestra.
And it would be sacrilege to filch a movement from Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No.2, none of which, despite David Lean's film Brief Encounter, was composed by Noel Coward. (Ol' Noel wrote the 'frightfully-frightfully' Brief Encounter script. It was based on his 1936 one-act play Still Life. The fragrant Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard - a man who, according to Robert Mitchum, "You'll never catch acting" - then turned in classic British performances. The rest is 'frightfully-frightful' history.) Anyway, only a vandal would meddle with a recording made by the great pianist John Ogden.

AND MEMORIES...

The memories of those I have seen on stage are particularly cherished.
When the Austrian tenor Richard Tauber sang at The Kings Theatre, Southsea, he took centre stage (without microphone) and his voice hit the dome which looms above the gallery and filled it with breathtaking sound.
I was a teenager sitting in 'the gods' for one and sixpence in the old money (seven and a half pence now) and that evening I joined the ranks of the truly privileged. I witnessed a superb performance by the finest lyric tenor of the age who, to close his programme, acknowledged our wild applause with half a dozen encores. What a star.
Tenors were very popular on the variety stages back then. The second world war was barely over, there was radio but no television. Theatres and cinemas provided the bulk of our entertainment.
I saw Harry Secombe at the South Parade Pier Theatre, Southsea. He did a crazy shaving act which he brought to a conclusion, in the customary way, with a song. The young Secombe had a beautiful bel canto tenor voice. I think he sang Rodgers and Hart's With A Song In My Heart. He then blew a raspberry and fell flat on his back.
I liked ol' Harry. Nothing ever changed him. Not the success, not the knighthood, not the vagaries of colleagues. He was just a thoroughly nice man. It came as no surprise when, after his death, a friend said: "He sang 'If I Ruled The World.' If he had ruled the world it would have been a better place."
I was in an army camp when I first heard Josef Locke. I noted his name and the next time I saw my mother told her:
"I heard a great tenor on the wireless a few weeks back. I've written down his name."
"I heard a good 'un recently, too," said my mother. "What's your chap's name? Mine's Josef Locke."
Josef Locke (real name Joseph McLaughlin) was a top of the bill favourite and, by all accounts, a generous after show party giver. He was a big, tall, former policeman who stood all of his own height back from the microphone when he sang.
Perfect microphone technique. Perfect clarity. Perfect presentation.
When he appeared at the Theatre Royal, Portsmouth, I was one of a packed house held spellbound. He could embrace an entire audience. Years later one of the old variety turns, interviewed on television, was asked who was the most charismatic performer he ever saw. There was no hesitation, "Josef Locke," he said.
Eventually ol' Jo took off to Ireland leaving the tax man short changed. Everybody but the tax man saw the funny side of it.
Before the second world war I was taken by my parents to see many fine music hall performers at The Hippodrome, Portsmouth.
I still vaguely remember seeing Gracie Fields, Cyril ("Odd ode coming up") Fletcher, Tessie O'Shea and the show Me and My Girl starring Lupino Lane. Sadly the old Hippodrome became an early victim of the war and was never rebuilt.
My Leader tells me that we went to see the great Australian soprano Joan Hammond in 1961 or early 1962. Anyway, before we were married.
I expect she's right.
Why Dame Joan chose to give what was billed as Her Farewell Performance in England at Portsmouth Guildhall I have no idea. Suffice to say we went and she was as good as she had been when, long before my Leader came into my life, I had seen her in La Boheme and in Madam Butterfly.
It was a memorable evening made doubly so when, during the interval, a charming woman came over to us.
"Maureen, how lovely to see you here," she said.
My future Leader introduced me and a pleasant conversation ensued in which we all agreed that Joan Hammond was still far too good for retirement.
When we resumed our seats Maureen said: "I always liked Miss Berry. She was my music teacher at school."
Maureen was seventeen or eighteen and later became a devotee of The Hollies. Operatic sopranos were not really her scene.
But she enjoyed that evening: not least, I suspect, because the following day a few eyebrows would have been raised at her alma mater.

95. Another load of readin' and watchin'

COOPER AND CARSON - TWO GOOD READS.

Towards the end of last year I finished reading Jilly Cooper's Wicked! (Corgi Books 2007) and read Michael Carson's The Knight of the Flaming Heart (Black Swan 1996).
I like Jilly's bonkbusters. Never read one without feeling that (1) she's having a laugh and (2) it will sell and sell and sell. Her research is thorough, whatever the subject, and she is a darned good story teller. Wicked! runs to close on a thousand pages and is well worth buying with your Christmas book vouchers.
The Knight of the Flaming Heart is a slightly fey, very Irish tale in which the ghost of Sir Roger Casement appears and performs miracles in Africa and Ireland. I found it an amusing and interesting read and am still wondering why nobody has adapted it for film or television.
Come to think of it, though, I was the one who did not know that Philip Pullman's Northern Lights had been filmed under the title The Golden Compass, so perhaps The Knight of the Flaming Heart exists in movie form but has been renamed Roddie or Miracle at Ardfert or Boma's Ghost or something.
Oh well, back to...

THE GOLDEN COMPASS.

We saw this film last week: Roz, Jess and me. Jess and I had read Northern Lights so knew, individually, what we expected of it.
Roz is still threatening to borrow my copy of His Dark Materials so she had no preconceptions. No matter. We all enjoyed it. Director Chris Weitz stuck closely to Philip Pullman's book. The well chosen cast - Dakota Blue Richards as Lyra in particular - acted sublimely and the daemons and bears were equal to the imagination of the most demanding Dark Materials fan.
A super film.

NCIS (FIVE - Fridays)

Episode 5/24 of series four and Gibbs has got rid of the moustache. Perhaps he, too, has seen The Golden Compass and concluded that Sam Elliott will be Lee Scoresby for keeps. Or maybe he has heard that Johnny Depp is the rumoured choice to play Wyatt in the next Wyatt Earp film. (With Daniel Craig as Doc Holliday?) If he's heard that I'll be surprised. I just made it up.
Anyway, he looks better clean shaven.

POLITICS (Very briefly)

Our radio and television news is currently filled to bursting with the American political scene. Don't know why.
I cannot imagine that America gives a shit about our political scene. I doubt if ninety percent of Americans know we exist.
So it matters not to me whether the U.S. gets its first black President or its first controlled-weeping female President.
I have made known my views on politicians as a race and when I see thousands of excitedly screaming supporters hailing the victory of one or other of them in any country my heart sinks at the gullibility of those so easily conned into the belief that the victor is there for anyone other than him or herself.
I'll say no more (sniff) for fear of losing New Hampshire.

NEGLECTED ONES.

"You've been neglecting me," said the cat Shadow. "This festive season malarkey has occupied you far too much."
From his chair at the end of the computer room he gazed past me and took in the heading of this item.
"Is that part of the 'Old Ones, New Ones' thing you come out with sometimes?" he asked. "Where did you get it?"
"Semprini," I said. "Albert Semprini. Very good pianist. Popular on BBC radio many years ago. Always started his programme by saying: 'Old ones, new ones, loved ones, neglected ones.' Then he'd give you half an hour or so of charming pianoforte. That's back when music was music, not the stuff you hear now."
"Don't be a music snob," he admonished. "You like Katie Melua and Beth Nielsen Chapman."
"Well, yes, and I liked Bing Crosby and Dinah Shore and Doris Day. I liked Al Bowlly, too. Heck, there were loads of singers I liked back in the old days. Some bloody good composers, too. Best CD I've heard over the years has been Harry Nilsson's A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night. All stuff by wonderful composers like Irving Berlin, Sylvia Fine and Gus Kahn. Michael Bolton did a similar thing a few years back and that was magic, too."
He dropped down off the chair and stretched. "Need to feed and beat the bounds," he said. "We must talk music again later. I like hearing about who was who in your day."
"Why not," I said. "I've bored everybody else daft with it. Why should you escape? I'll try to avoid reeling off a list of names, though, that's taking the boring old git persona a tad too far."
"Breaking the habit of a lifetime, then, just for me. You are kind," he said.
And was gone.

FOOTNOTE.

Am currently reading The Ruby in the Smoke by Philip Pullman and Last Seen Wearing by Colin Dexter.
Keeps me off the streets.

94. Happy New Year

THAT'S IT.

Yes, that's it for another year.
Christmas Eve provided the customary intrigue of people struggling to supermarket checkouts pushing trolleys laden with bread.
I wonder about them. Are they guest-house keepers? Are they bread sauce manufacturers? Are they simply pessimists? It is only a two-day break and many of the shops are open on Boxing Day.
Your guess is as good as mine.
We went to Roz, our youngest, for dinner on Christmas Day.
She, husband Mark and children live a couple of miles up the road from us. When we arrived they were experiencing a power cut. The electricity had been off since half seven in the morning. It came back on at about three in the afternoon.
Fortunately, Roz cooks by gas. It must have been an infuriating time for the people who rely on electricity.
There's a nearby pub which remained open without coolers or fridges and with warm beer. England their England!
The local paper contained a piece about it.
Seems a senior councillor who lives a bit further out was affected by the problem, too.
He had no power from 7.20am until just after 9am.
The paper quoted him as saying: "All the candlelight gave the house a nice traditional feel."
What, for an hour and three quarters?
Who votes for these jokers?

NCIS. (Five)

Episode 4/24 of series four had Gibbs (Mark Harmon) running things again, his acting haircut backed up by a well-rehearsed grey moustache which suggested he may have read for the part of Lee Scoresby in The Golden Compass but narrowly lost out to Sam Elliott (a man born wearing a stetson).
Well, there's bound to be another rehash of the interminable Wyatt Earp saga in the pipeline. Perhaps ol' Mark could try for that. He would be very good and he certainly looks the part. He mustn't give up on NCIS though.
Cote de Pablo has settled in as the lethal Ziva David. I don't know whether her attempts to speak Hebrew are good, bad or indifferent and I don't care. She certainly can't sound any worse than dear old Dick Van Dyke did as an Englishman in Mary Poppins.
We shall continue to follow this lovely bunkum next year.
Never mind all the terrorist tosh; we like a good laugh.

NO RESOLUTIONS.

Shan't make any New Year resolutions. Never do.
If you do, I hope you'll manage to keep to them for more than a day.
The following are a few words from an e-mail received today from our friend Jan.
"Life is short, break the rules, forgive quickly, kiss slowly, love truly, laugh uncontrollably and never regret anything that made you smile. I want to wish you all health, happiness and success in 2008. We all have our own idea as to what defines happiness and success - hope all yours are met."
Whether the words are Jan's or those of somebody who sent them to her to be forwarded, they fit the occasion very well indeed.
Happy New Year!

93. Goodbye Rebus, Hallo Gibbs, Merry Xmas All

I HAD A MAN'S COLD.

November departed and December started and there was I, completely out of it all.
I had a man's cold again.
It started with razor blades in the throat and rapidly became the runny, shivery, decidedly life-threatening, probably-flu-despite-the-flu-jab, could-even-be-pneumonia, multi-handkerchief-filler that only a man suffers.
It could not in any way be likened to the get-on-with-it-it's-nothing-compared-to-having-a-baby sort of one-hanky-snuffle instantly dismissed by a woman.
I was stoical of course.
Well, experience counts in these near-death situations.
And my Leader, bless 'er, refrained from any but sympathetic noises.
Not a single birth giving comparison was heard.
I do love that woman.

CRANFORD IS THE VERY BEST. (BBC1 - Sundays)

Just knew it would be.
Brilliant actors have arrived, done their acting bit and gone. There has not been a flaw.
We just sit back and let it wash over us..
So much costume drama produced for television in this country is without equal. We may not do much in the sporting world but nowhere else in the universe can compete with our richness of acting talent, technical know-how and inspired television direction.
Nor has any other country such a wonderful list of long-departed writers whose work could have been written for the medium.
Eschew false modesty.
Cranford is costume drama at its very best.

NCIS. (Five - Fridays)

Well, it's back. Same frightening Middle Eastern villains, same daft sort of plot (only Spooks can compete in that department), same Leroy Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) who has acquired a badly rehearsed acting haircut and a general appearance of one auditioning for Ben Gunn in the pantomime version of Treasure Island.
Great stuff.
Watch this space.

REBUS. (ITV1)

Series 5 ended with the typical "let's finish Rebus" characters failing to finish Rebus. Ken Stott (despite the jaundiced views of the TV editor in my ultimate digital TV and radio guide) is still excellent as Rebus. So is Claire Price as DS Siobhan Clarke and Jennifer Black as DCS Gill Templar.
I think it would be a pity if it just faded away now.
Edinburgh's such a pretty place, too.

WHAM! IT'S CHRISTMAS AGAIN.

Well it is, isn't it?
Heck, shops and garden centres have been flogging Santa stuff around here since September. You get so used to it you lose sight of what it's all about until - wham! - it's under a fortnight away and barely a card written or a gift wrapped.
We'll probably do a lot of Compliments of the Season malarkey this year to avoid upsetting atheists, agnostics, skeptics, infidels, heretics, Pyrrhonists, or the sort of religious fundamentalist who takes offence at the naming of a Teddy bear.
I refuse to be disheartened.
The half tree will go up and the Santas will come out and the Happy Christmas sign will face the front door and friends of all religions or no religion will be equally welcome.
So if you're in the neighbourhood, drop by for a drink and a mince pie.
Oh, and in case I forget, or somehow don't get around to it again,
A Merry Christmas to You!


P.S. Grandson Ellis, two years old, has discovered Christmas.
He says it is: "Baby Jesus in 'is 'ouse."
Now that's what I call a description.