Post 268. LOTS OF READING.

TOO LITTLE WRITING.

 Still struggling.
Unless you are one of those gifted chaps who churns out words with infuriating ease (and actually knows the derivation of every one of them), the thing about writing, or even rewriting, a book is that, from the outset, you have to be irrevocably obsessive.
That means you don't stop to make the tea, or help fold the duvet for ironing, or answer the door bell, or put the dustbins out/get the post in, or traipse out to buy a daily paper, or heed telephone calls from anybody (International what?), or spend hours tolerating tiresome twats on tele, or give a toss what needs to be done in the garden.
No! No!No!
It means you do commit yourself to eyes-down, key-tapping, sod-everybody, self-obsessed, prescribed-number-of-words-a-day, complete and utter lunacy.
When you've spent years giving way to the former, the latter comes extremely hard.
I am still struggling with the rewriting of The Badgers of Deep Wood (working title of a book for children aged nine to ninety nine), wrestling constantly with the opening of that too-long-imagined thriller and concurrently trying to turn out regular blog posts.
It's a self-inflicted struggle and, at my age, I should know better.
My rate of knots has diminished considerably over the years and I am currently writing as much as I can - which is far too little - in what time (and I do sometimes ponder) I may now have left.
And that's enough of the morbid stuff, thank you.
READING

The very readable.
Bearing in mind the rate of knots comment, there has been quite a lot of reading recently: this has come about because daughter Roz kindly handed me three more of her Terry Pratchett books to read and, the late Sir Tel being as readable as any writer has ever been or ever will be, I set about the task right away.
In quick succession I saw off The Truth (a wonderful Discworld evocation of a Fleet Street starting up in Ankh-Morpork) and The Amazing Maurice - and his Educated Rodents (which is clearly a book for children aged nine to ninety nine, so I loved it).

 At the moment I am about fifty pages into Thief of Time, about which more when I have ticked to the end of it.
To add to my marathon, I re-read Graham Hurley's The Perfect Soldier.

A story fraught with landmines. Went to it for a reference and finished up reading right through it again; gripped by the wicked, beautifully written truth of it.
To the question I posed in Post 267 (What are the Americans, the British and the French doing in the Middle East?) this book provides the awful answer.
Encouraging those who profiteer off misery, that's what.
No point in seeking to stop it. It has gone way beyond that.
The Devil has the reins.
LONDON AGAIN.

Another calamity in the capital.
Apparently complaints had been lodged, concerns expressed, and warnings given for years, about the disaster waiting to happen at Grenfell Tower.
The sympathy of the entire nation goes out to all hurt by it.
It could and should have been prevented.
Now the Prime Minister says lessons will be learnt.
No they bloody won't. Not all the time we kowtow to corner-cutting councils they won't.
All for now.

Post 267. A QUICK RETURN.

THE GOOD.

Well done, Ariana.
In common, I'm sure, with many another Brit of mature years, I had never heard of Ariana Grande (above) before a bomb-happy nutcase blew himself and twenty two of her fans to death at Manchester Arena on the 22 May, 2017.
She could have taken off right then and never returned. Nobody but the right wing press would have blamed her for that.
But, bless her, the girl came good. She took a quick breather, returned to visit many of her injured fans and those in grief at the loss of loved ones, and finally put two fingers up to terrorism with her brave One Love Manchester concert (held at Old Trafford on 4 June), which so far has raised over £2 million for the families of the Arena victims.

 Well done, Ariana.
Those of us who had never heard of you will never forget you now.
And the buddies who appeared with you at Old Trafford weren't a bad bunch either.
THE BAD.

More maniacal mayhem.
Now at London Bridge and Borough Market.
This time three of the lethal bastards drove a stolen van, from side to side across London Bridge, deliberately mowing down pedestrians.
Armed with knives the three then left the van and, killing as they went, made their way into Borough Market to savagely attack everybody they met.
Eventually, and with commendable speed, armed police shot them dead.
On their way they had murdered eight innocent citizens, three from France, two from Australia, a Briton, a Canadian and a Spaniard.
There was no provocation for any of it.
It was just further proof that the lunatics are hellbent on taking over the asylum.
This three have now been named. I wouldn't give them that much publicity.
They were worthless shits.
THE UGLY.

Why constantly meddle?
I know I have asked before, but in face of what could, from all the obvious signs, finish up becoming the third world war, can anybody tell me why, other than selling arms and procuring cheap oil, America, France and Britain are still meddling (frequently with bombs) in the affairs of countries in the Middle East?
My plaintive query may be simply the disquiet of an ordinary old Brit who lived through the last world conflict and, for his kith and kin's sake, does not want it all again, but I think it is a pertinent one. Think on. It's an ugly business.
AND THE FUNNY.
So Mrs. May had her snap election and it backfired on her.
Good.
Trouble is, hard on its heels could come yet another election when the handling of a hung parliament becomes too much.

 Sorry, Brenda.

Post 266. WHERE TO START?

AS A SIMPLE SCRIBBLER.
Manchester Arena.

Have to start there, don't you.
Another lunatic attack on innocent people (this time mostly young pop fans) who had been watching a concert given by the singer Ariana Grande.
As a simple blog scribbler there's not much I can add to that already written and said by experienced folk in the media and by the kith and kin of those so tragically involved. It was a savage, stupid, senseless act (for whatever twisted reason it was carried out) and it will accomplish nothing.
The sympathy of every right-minded person, religious or not, is with the victims and those closest to them.
Latest news is that Ariana Grande (together with a strong supporting team) will be back at the Arena in a fortnight's time. It is one of those situations where she can be faulted if she returns very quickly and faulted if she doesn't.
I think good on her and those supporting her.     
HOME. 
Loss of another old friend.
Another of our cancer suffering friends died early this month.
His name was John Robins and he was an islander to the core. Born on Guernsey, he moved to England as a teenager; was, by all accounts, a fine footballer (and master of the two-footed tackle); joined the police force in Southampton; moved on to spend four years as a policeman in New Zealand; returned to this country; rejoined the police and, until his retirement, was the Special Branch officer here on the Isle of Wight.
He then became a leading figure in the running of CCTV on the island.
John, a staunch family man, never stopped organising and was never still. The monthly lunch club (consisting of retired police colleagues and allied friends) to which he introduced me over twenty years ago, was his club.
His circle of friends was vast and the gathering at his funeral last week exceeded any we had ever seen.
Maureen and I stood, in the overspill outside the crematorium, throughout a fascinating service which included tributes by his brother and by two former senior police officers. It was a lovely sunny day and it was a privilege to be there.
RIP John Robins. Good copper. Good friend.
BLOG POST 265
Re: Peter White.

The mention of broadcaster Peter White (above) in my blog post earlier this month elicited a lovely response from another old friend, Ian Dillow.
In an email Ian wrote that he was not sure if Peter White could sing but he could do pretty much everything else.
It seems that 'about a hundred years ago,' in order to earn some extra crusts, Ian did weekend shifts as a news reporter and presenter at Radio Solent.
Back then you had to "drive" your own studio so presenters 'had to learn (or try to) how to operate the myriad switches and buttons' glaring at them from the desk. In Ian's early days he was completely overawed by all this.
When, eventually, he shared his problems with Peter White, that gentleman said maybe he could help.
He then took Ian back into the studio and slowly and calmly introduced him to all the lights and buzzers. It was a virtuoso performance. Peter White is blind: has been from birth. He was also the BBC's disability correspondent and regularly took himself off to places like Washington DC without an apparent care in the world.
"An amazing guy," Ian wrote, "and a really nice one too...I wonder why he is so absent from our screens these days."
Well, I have heard him sometimes on Radio 4, Ian, and I can only put down his absence from our television screens to the notion that his niceness might not fit in with the modern definition of good tele.
Think about it.




 

Post 265. THIS IS ROBERT WHITE.

TELEVISION.

The Good Old Days.

American Irish tenor Robert White (above) was one of the many talented performers who graced the stage of Leeds City Varieties during the thirty years (1953 - 83) that The Good Old Days, produced by Barney Colehan, was televised.

Recent repeat showings - currently from the seventies - of the show, will have reminded those who cared to revisit them that popular entertainment will never die.

I particularly mention Mr. White because, not only was he then (and is still now) a very fine tenor, in our house he possessed a dual persona.

How come?

Well, in our house, whenever I sat at my computer with the music centre gently relaying Den's musical choices of the day, if those choices happened to include the voice of Peter Dawson, my Leader, as she passed by en route to wherever, would pause in the doorway to say with a smile: "Ah, Robert White."

So that's how come.

In our house, Peter Dawson (Australian bass-baritone and songwriter born in Adelaide in 1882) regularly metamorphosed into Robert White (American tenor and voice teacher born in the Bronx in 1936).

Don't ask me how it happened.

I have absolutely no idea.

He just did.

For some years I shook my head and said: "No, love, it's Peter Dawson, but you're close."

Then I gave up.

(Well at least she didn't confuse Peter Dawson (in the wing collar) with Peter White, a visually impaired English radio broadcaster and thoroughly nice bloke, who probably couldn't sing for toffee.)

Time went by and elderly memories became slightly foggy (well, mine did, anyway).

Then, a few weeks ago, BBC Four re-ran a Good Old Days episode first broadcast on New Year's Eve 1978/9 and there, along with Roy Castle, Dolores Gray and Eira Heath, was the handsome, forty-two-year-old, note-perfect tenor Robert White who, for his set, sang Sylvia and Danny Boy and, to round off the show, When You Come To The End Of A Perfect Day.

I duly recorded it and at breakfast the following day played it back for Maureen.

"Remember Peter Dawson?"I said. "Well, my love, this is Robert White."

"What a nice surprise and what a lovely voice," she said. "Is he still alive?"

"Dunno," I said. "Look him up on your ipad."

She did.

"Says he was born on the 27th October 1936. That makes him exactly six years and a month younger than you."

"No whatsit watson," I said. "I'll have a look on my computer later on."

I did.

Not only is he still going strong at eighty years old but, according to his Wiki entry, he still teaches at Juilliard in New York, one of the most prestigious music schools in the world.

So can he still sing?

If you would like to know, Google: Bird Songs At Eventide - Robert White - YouTube and hear him, two days after his seventy ninth birthday, enchant a gathering of well-wishers with an impeccable rendering of Eric Coates's composition.

 And that's it for now.

Footnote:

We had our local elections.

The results were not surprising.

More, perhaps, at the end of the month.

 

   

 

Post 264. YEP, MORE POLITICS.

FOR YOU PERHAPS.
Not for me.

Following that Bristol lady Brenda's much publicised disgust at Teresa May's snap election decision, the respected (by me, anyway) i columnist Simon Kelner hastened to decry Brenda's attitude on the grounds that we should all welcome every opportunity to vote, however repetitious or inconvenient we may feel it to be, because many people fought and died to give us our voting rights.
Whilst I instinctively side with Mr. Kelner on just about everything, I really do not think that people inveigled into two world wars saw the voting rights of future generations as their prime reason for going to war, let alone for enduring the all too oft ineptitude of their top brass. Neither do I believe that most wartime conscripts sent to the front gave a toss about what sent them there; most of them went because they had no choice and because they wanted to get the whole mess over with as quickly as possible, to get back home and to never talk about it again.
No. When it comes to it, I'm with the lady from Bristol on this one.
Another election? Not for me, thanks.
Oh, I'll go to the polling booth. But I know, no matter how much of a wet plank it may be (viz the one who has just resigned) or whatever guise it adopts, a Tory will be elected over here.
And if I wasn't so bloody-minded I'd stay at home.
C'est la vie.
TELEVISION.
Our recent choices.

 Broadchurch (ITV): we watched series 3 and were reminded yet again that Britain is home to some of the finest acting talent in the world.
The Wright Stuff (Channel 5) frontman Matthew Wright apparently does not agree with that opinion. Well, not when it comes to Broadchurch anyway. In advance of looking in on the last series he dismissed it (to television critic Kevin O'Sullivan) as "more over-acting."
Hell, what does he know?
The Boss (BBC 1) is a new daytime quiz show hosted by Glaswegian actress, writer and comedian, Susan Calman. She is good. The format is tiresome.
World Snooker (BBC 2) We have been mesmermized again by those skilful enough to grace the tables at The Crucible, Sheffield, this year. My Leader has taken to calling me away from my computer when one or another of the participants is making an interesting break. Y'don't get more hooked than that. Not in this house y'don't.
I would look in more, but I get fed up with the verbal diarrhoea that engulfs every shot: John Virgo is particularly guilty. I do wish he'd shut up. Don't tell me it's for the visually impaired. He just likes the sound of his own voice.
Ah well. 

 

Post 263. AND ANOTHER THING

ABOUT GROWING OLD.
You sleep a lot.

When you grow old (unless you are a nocturnal nonagenarian or an indefatigable insomniac), you are inclined to sleep a lot.
The cat Shadow and I can sleep for England. It is our chosen sport. He is kipping right now in one of his favourite spots, my old armchair. Background piano music courtesy of John Ogden and Daniel Adni - a very elderly tape - and me here at the computer trying to look as though I am not at all likely to fall asleep at any second. It's our sort of afternoon. Before I do doze off, though, I must relay my thanks to all of you who expressed concern and sympathy at Shadow's recent brush with the more dangerous side of cat life. I am glad to report he is making excellent progress.
ABOUT THE DVLA.
You instinctively know.

When you grow old you instinctively know there will be no fucking justice. My Leader insisted we make an approach to the money grabbing political pawns in Swansea to seek a possible reversal of the eighty quid fine imposed on us for our wholly unintentional failure to pay the thirty quid or so vehicle license on our little car last year (Post 259).
I was agin any further dealings with them.
“They've been paid more than three times our annual fee now,” I said, “and no matter how good you think your argument is, they won't give a penny back. Trust me.”
But, bless her, she is still soft hearted enough to believe there might be kindly reason out there, so she drafted a letter and I signed it and off it went and in due course we had a missive from a minion described as an Enforcement Officer saying that s/he had reviewed the information provided and had “found nothing to support withdrawal of the Late Licensing Penalty.”
(In other words: Up Yours!)
All the letter actually amounted to was a lame set of reasons why the DVLA can never be wrong. e.g. “Your driver's license details are separate to those of your vehicle, therefore you are required to notify us separately using your V5C.” (Your what?).
Well, they do proudly boast that they collect around £6 billion a year in Vehicle Excise Duty (VED). And now that the Brexiteers are in power they are going to be collecting even more (at least £130/£140 per car per year w.e.f. April Fools' Day 2017 – ain't that appropriate?).
Furthermore, their offices are in Swansea (which cannot help but remind an old geezer like me of the nursery rhyme Taffy was a Welshman).
So the Enforcement Officer's decision (on behalf of the Secretary of State for Transport) “concludes the dispute process and we will not consider any further information from you about the case.”
We-e-ll, I never thought they would, so it's water under the bridge.
The future for the motorist in this country was settled years ago with the MP (probably a transport minister) who snootily proclaimed: “The motorist is a buoyant source of revenue.”
Motorists in this deferential little country have been finding out just how bloody buoyant ever since and, no doubt, will continue so to do ad infinitum.

                       (see W.Heath Robinson)
Happy driving, buddies.

Post 262. WHAT NEXT?

AN ARMED POLICE FORCE?

A British born middle-aged nut job goes berserk with a hired car on Westminster Bridge and the cry for cowboy cops reaches another crescendo.
The reaction is understandable. Not only did this loser kill and maim innocent people going about their peaceful business, he then murdered an unarmed Palace of Westminster police officer (who should, surely, have been armed?) before another officer (who came from lord knows where, armed but just too late) rightly shot him dead.
So what next?
Must we finally give way to the gun totin' example set by America and most of the rest of the world? Will all British bobbies soon be wearing side arms?
I fear so and I hope not.
Throughout my life I have come to know (and generally like) quite a lot of policemen. The majority of them, whatever their rank or disposition, have been opposed to the notion of an armed police force in Britain. They believe that weapon carrying lawmen attract weapon carrying villains. I respect that opinion.
Doesn't stop me wishing, whenever some murderous moron attacks them, that they all wore body protection and were armed with more than a truncheon. I fear, though, that many British policemen given guns would be more of a danger to themselves, their colleagues and the public, than to any armed lawbreaker.
Perhaps the answer is to equip them with Tasers.
I am also much inclined to the belief that only the terrorist bedecked in explosives is likely to be a genuine 'soldier of Isis' (or whatever the fundamentalist freaks are currently calling themselves). The rest are just pathetic publicity seekers who see an act of insane violence as their sole guarantee of gaining the public recognition they have no hope of obtaining in any other way.
Sick world, ain't it?
TELEVISION.

Colin Dexter, the crime writer whose thirteen Morse books (from which came the television series, succeeded by the equally popular Lewis and then Endeavour follow ups) has died aged 86.
The entire Morse set was gifted to me some years ago by the younger of our two daughters, Roz, and I am still assiduously ploughing through them.
Mr. Dexter was, of course, that little bloke whose Hitchcockian appearances in his televised Morse and Lewis stories were waggish fun. His death came as a small reminder to me that none of us goes on forever. He was two days my junior.
This week:

Yasmin Alibhai Brown has been one of the panellists on The Wright Stuff and I have watched with a smile as she has entered into brief exchanges with fellow panellist Richard Fairbrass and guests such as Alistair Campbell.
Though we have never met, I like Yasmin and only occasionally disagree with her, so it was good to hear that she has been voted Newspaper Columnist of the Year at this year's National Press Awards.
I would say "Good on you, girl!" but that would be extremely pesumptuous, probably sexist, and could get me into big trouble with the PC brigade.
Sod it. I'll say it anyway. "Good on you, girl!"
Another series of Call the Midwife came and went. We watched every episode, as we always do, close to tears at the tear-jerker situations (don't talk to us about the good old days, we lived them) and filled to the brim with admiration at the sheer talent of the actors involved. I hope they'll all be back before too long.
I guess everybody has a favourite. Mine is Judy Parfitt who, if my memory serves me rightly, played some deliciously nasty characters in her youth, and now plays Sister Monica Joan, a dementia sufferer with a wonderful heart, a sweet tooth and a wicked sense of humour. She has me misty-eyed as soon as she appears. My Leader smiles and says: "She's done it again, hasn't she." Yep, she has.

She does it every time.

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Post 261. THIS IS SHADOW.

THE FAMILY CAT.

The cat Shadow had a good day last Friday: well, right up until his last trip out to beat the bounds he did. He went out quite late in the evening, was gone longer than usual and when he returned was bleeding badly from his right front paw. Maureen bathed the paw in a mild saline solution and we settled him for the night.
By morning the paw had swollen considerably and the state of his left front leg was also questionable. We booked to have him seen at the local veterinary practice, Medina Veterinary Group, which (praise be) is open on Saturday mornings.
There followed the short journey in the car with him (wrapped in a towel - he'd have fought to escape a box) in my arms: the long, long wait (he could not have been more patient) to see the vet: the examination (he only swore once): the X-rays (he has a broken and partially crushed bone in his right leg and a dislocated bone in the left one): the summing up: the paying up (i.e. the timely reminder that a veterinary practice is not a department of the NHS) and the trip back home.
Vet. Mr. Tommy Blaehr was precise and practical. It looked as though Shadow had been run over by a vehicle of some kind: he was in very good nick for his age (22/23ish) but would be better not subjected to an operation: he had now been given a two week antibiotic injection (his last trip to the vet was 11 years ago) and a dose of liquid pain killer. We (that will be nurse Mo) would need to administer the pain killer for the next few days.
Cats, counselled the vet, have a propensity for self-healing. Given a satisfactory first week (eating, drinking, resting) Shadow could be close to recovery between four and six weeks time.
Mr. Blaehr would like to check him over during the first week and if all was well that would be that.
THE MIRACLE CAT.
Check-up day. We took him back for his check-up today - Wednesday - and (wrapped in a towel in my arms) he patiently waited in the car, his head moving like a Wimbledon spectator as the rush hour traffic filed past, until the vet was free to see him.
He then paraded across the surgery floor placing all four paws firmly down in proud cat marching order. (I knew he could do it. He jumped up onto my desk this morning.)
Mr. Blaehr called in a colleague to see the miracle cat walking and said: "You have to see this. Two front legs broken last Friday night. Now look at him."
Elated, we came home with him in his towel and a final word of veterinarian advice: "Try not letting him jump off any walls for a while."
Try to stop him, I thought.

 

He said nothing, but I reckon he thought a lot.
  

Post 260. SHORT POST TO END A SHORT MONTH.

TELEVISION.
Mostly old ones.

Father Brown came back; a new series followed immediately by the repeat of an old one. I liked Mark Williams (above) in the Harry Potter films and I like him in this, even if the story lines do remind me how very dated so many of my boyhood favourites now are.
By the same token, I like Claire Goose who, in The Coroner, is surely the most unlikely law representative on television since Brenda Blethyn's Vera. Claire's Coroner is showing daily as I write, but it's the old stuff (series 1) again.
Anyone trapped into watching daytime television may also wonder that the ubiquitous Tim Wonnacott (him of the colour co-ordinated clothes, bow ties and silly hats) is still regularly fronting episodes of Bargain Hunt.
I guess the Beeb has too many hours to fill not to join in the internationally indulged plethora of ancient repeats and use of material fronted by ego-driven people they claim to have removed for one or another disciplinary reason.
It's a bit of a farce, but I doubt any of it will be more than a ripple on the sand by this time next year.
With any luck the same will apply to whatever sycophantic shit has been spouted by tabloid journalist Piers Morgan and his fellow Trump disciple Nigel Farage.
Say no more: I wish they would.
IN MEMORIAM.
Peter Skellern.

                    14.03.1947 - 17.02.2017
I am sitting here listening to Peter Skellern's CD Sentimentally yours which contains 20 impeccably (as always) presented songs including the moving Still Magic, a favourite of ours for many years.
Peter died of cancer - that wretched disease again - at the age of 69. He was a haunting singer, gifted songwriter and an extremely accomplished musician who studied piano at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama. His song You're A Lady brought him to prominence in 1972 and he then enjoyed a steadily successful career.
Last October it was revealed that he had a brain cancer and it was inoperable: on the 26th of that month he was ordained by the Bishop of Truro as a deacon and priest of the Church of England.
He is survived by his wife, two children and four grandchildren.
The charming Sentimentally yours will continue to be given the occasional airing in this house for as long this old geezer is around to listen to it and Still Magic will forever leave the hint of a tear in this old geezer's eye.
                RIP Rev. Peter Skellern
   entertainer extraordinary and a good man.

 

Post 259. BACK IN THE OLD ROUTINE.

HOME.
Change of IW council leader.

Councillor Jonathan Bacon (Independent) resigned last month as leader of the council over here.
I was sorry to hear it.
Back in 2015 I wrote to Councillor Bacon expressing my displeasure at the poor facilities afforded elderly citizens using the council's refuse tip in Forest Road on the Island. It was a carping old guy's letter of the sort a busy public representative must receive far too often and I figured it would end up tidily filed in a wastepaper basket.
Imagine my surprise when I received a polite and informative reply from the council leader.
I concluded that he was an all right person (even if his political group did appear to have no more grip on things than any of them ever do) and that he would certainly get my vote if the opportunity arose in the future.
His resignation (together with that of his deputy) came about because the government is squeezing the financial life out of county authorities nearly everywhere and, to add to the usual problems here, the Conservative group, rejected at the last local election, has consistently thrown its toys out of the political playpen.
Mr. Bacon has now been replaced as council leader by the Tory leader of the Conservative - Ukip alliance (God help us).
It will not be a change for the better.
ABROAD.
To Wales.

Swansea: where, if my elderly memory serves me aright, the DVLA resides.
I received a letter last week from one of those debt collection firms which every public body now seems to employ (at Christ knows what cost to the taxpayer) to chase up anybody who, for whatever reason, has ignored or overlooked making a payment to them.
It seems I had failed to cough up the road fund licence fee due on our little car last October. (Something which, throughout the close on sixty years I was issued with - and required to display - an annual disc, I never once failed to deal with.)
I phoned the debt collection agency and a pleasant voiced young woman informed me that I would be required to pay a fixed penalty of £80 to them and then get in touch with the Authority to pay the thirty-or-so quid licence fee due.
I there and then made arrangements for payment of the fixed penalty and left the rest to the More Intelligent Half (MIH) of our marriage who had been out when I opened the post.
The MIH rang the DVLA and, in more reasonable tones than I would ever have conjured up, pointed out that we have at no time received notice of our road fund fee being due.
But notice was sent, she was told, to the address on DVLA records (which was, it transpired, our address before we moved here).
But why, inquired my MIH patiently, was said notice sent to that address when the Agency has since been notified of our new one?
Because no such notification has been received by us, asserted the DVLA telephone spokesperson.
That's very strange, countered the MIH, when you consider that we each possess a driving licence bearing our new address.
The glib and clearly oft-repeated reply broached no further discourse.
"Oh, that's not the same department."
NOTE TO DVLA MANAGERS.
No matter how many £s billion your Agency deals in annually, if you are incapable of installing a computer system that concurrently amends the records held by all your departments, you are really no more than a bunch of technically inept twats, are you?
And on the clear understanding that the planks in parliament will never abandon the road fund licence in favour of 10p on every gallon of petrol, bring back the bloody tax disc!

 

Post 258. NEITHER TEEN NOR TITLED.

MISSED THE HONOURS LIST AGAIN.
Wrong age, wrong attitude.

Somewhere back among the changes of title and conversations with the cat that this blog has recently become, I bemoaned that I was never a teenager. People of my era were past their teens before teenage became the 'in' word to describe young people aged thirteen to nineteen: I was merely an awkward adolescent and I did not become an adult until the age of twenty one: some who knew me at the time might question that, too.
Likewise, when my father first went to work 'on the buildings' he was called Bill by those who knew him and nothing at all by those who didn't. This lasted throughout his blue collar years.
Later he joined the collar and tie brigade where he became Mister Barnden to senior colleagues and Sir to tradesmen and juniors.
That was office protocol way back when.
It lasted through most of my working life, too.
Didn't let it bother me.
A lad who went into the army at the age of fourteen soon discovered what answering to rank was all about: and it wasn't always the people you respected who you were obliged to  address as 'sir.'
I met a vast number of dickhead 'sirs,' both in and out of the army.
Never got that far myself.
In the army I did not reach a rank where 'sir' was appropriate and by the time I packed up in the NHS there was scarcely a 'sir' to be heard in the workplace.
Doesn't look like I'm headed for the knighthood now, either.
So: do I regret it?
Na-a-a-h. I don't support a political party, am lukewarm about the royal family and am neither a famous actor nor a gay icon (let alone both).
So why would I be made a sir?
Funny old world we live in, though, ain't it.
TIME FOR MORE WRITING.
And some casual name-dropping.
Maybe a man who finished his last blog post with a warning to the reader that there are a lot of clowns out there really shouldn't have started it with a picture of himself in a wizard's hat; but I did enjoy wearing that titfer: long ago it was a Halloween choice of our granddaughter, Jessica White (Director: CSI Isle of Wight, Series 1 and 2 - Post 110), and I was last seen wearing it at the start of Post 157 on the 31st October, 2010, towards the end of which the two gentlemen named below were mentioned.
To explain: the rewriting of my long ago shelved children's book - current working title The Badgers of Deep Wood - includes a new prologue which I tentatively sent to friend, retired magistrate (and life member of the NUJ), Ian Dillow (still the one wearing the moustache), to assess.

Ian's editorial eye delivered a judgment that was, thankfully, favourable. He advised I also seek the advice of his old friend Graham Hurley, the popular writer of crime fiction and page-turner standalone novels. I did as suggested and was elated to receive another kind response together with some excellent practical advice. Now a New Year writing binge has me rewriting Badgers, attempting the first draft of that too-long-postponed crime story and keeping up with this - aka the cat Shadow's - blog. (Wish me luck. I do enjoy the scribbling, but making it look easy is never as easy as it looks.)

In conclusion, my thanks again to Mr. Dillow,
to M. Hurley (above) and to all of you who regularly look in on my meandering with a kind heart.
May this year be good to you.