Post 273. DON'T LOOK FOR 272.

IT WAS 271 (b).
Computer simplification. 

Last month I turned out a blog post that was too long to suit Google's length of publications policy, if such a thing exists. Whatever.
Every time I set the post up for publication I was frustrated by the squeezed-up-words syndrome (which I am sure I have bemoaned before so won't bore you with again): upshot was the division of post 271 into two posts a) and b) which finally wangled me through the publishing process.
Google then rightly surmised that 272 blog posts had been published and will persist in reminding me so whenever I visit my Blogger posts list.
It's computer simplification, buddies.
Figures are figures and letters are letters and never the twain shall meet.
So that's why this is Post 273.
No, don't lose your temper; count to ten (a?)  HOME.
Here's a little buddy.

Daughter Roz has this little Buddy and a couple of perky kittens, Spike and Angel, in her world now.
The animals are mischievous and charming and she, along with Jess and Ellis, is delighted with them.
I asked the cat Shadow whether he would like me to find him two or three junior companions. "What?" he said. "More food? Bigger vets bills? Don't be daft. You can't afford me."
Tact has no place in his CV.
Inspired by Wight Art Exhibition.

Our daughter-in-law, Pauline Barnden (click on picture for gallery view), will be one of the artists with work on display at Ventnor Botanic Gardens, August 20 - 28.
Daphne Ellman, Anne Toase, Margaret Plant, Susana Watts and Carolyne Viney are fellow artists with work on show at this popular annual event.
A good afternoon out.
Parking is free and there is no entrance fee.
There's a decent cafe, too.
The Phoenix Choir, Isle of Wight. 

Maureen has been a follower of this highly successful Island choir (formed in April 2009 at Wootton Bridge) for a couple of years or so and, to my loss, up until this month I had declined all invitations to go with her to their concerts.
She went with her pal, Mo.
However, last Saturday evening (12th August) the choir was booked to appear at East Cowes Town Hall, just down the road from us, and (after all the positive publicity from my Leader, including the gift of their sell-out CD) I was persuaded to abandon my reclusive tendency and go with her to see them.
What followed was a typical Isle of Wight night out: you meet nice folk you have not seen for years, are reminded again how small the island is, and reflect how wretchedly short-sighted you are not to get out more often.
The choir, directed by its founder Robin Burnett, did not disappoint.
Their programme, varying from Cohen's Hallelujah to the traditional Men of Harlech, was performed with a confidence that would have brought joy to the heart of Gareth Malone and certainly brightened mine. Sadly their final two numbers had to be cancelled when one of the singers was taken ill and an ambulance was summoned. It looked as though the singer (a lady) would be taken to hospital: the ambulance was still standing by when, with apologies, the audience was asked to leave.
I have since learned that the lady concerned was taken to hospital where, fortunately, nothing untoward was found. When musical director Robin Burnett spoke to her the following day she was much improved. Just heat exhaustion perhaps, but very worrying for her and all around her.
Our good wishes go to the lady, and our thanks for an (only slightly shortened) evening of uplifting music go to the entire choir.
Performing under their banner "From Pavarotti to Presley" these splendid amateur singers have already raised close on £29,000 for deserving causes.
What more can one say?
Bravo!

 

Post 271(a). IF YOU WRITE.

YOU HAVE TO LIKE YOUR OWN COMPANY.

Or at least tolerate it.

It's a lonely game, writing. Not so much, I guess, for those 'celebrities' (most of whom couldn't write their own name without the aid of a - probably lonely - ghost writer) who produce egocentric 'autobiographies' to use as props on television chat shows, nor for the rightly famous and approachable professional writer.

J.K. Rowling, for example, probably has a Dursleybox full of mail every day and needs people around her to deal with it while she writes another couple of books. I imagine she will have company most of the time, even if they're only bringing in the coffee.

Her diary must be packed with appointments, too.

Every Harry Potter reader and film follower in the world would surely like to meet her; this one would, if only to say thank you for hours of happy reading and to ask if she would kindly sign the eight - four Potters, three Strikes and one 'village people' - hardbacks of her work in our library. I would not ask her to sign the four Potter paperbacks (those hardbacks went to someone very special), but I don't think she'd be offended if I did.

She will also, I'm sure, be constantly sought to guest at one or another of the book festivals now appearing annually around the country. (Time was, says the grumpy old man in me, when Hay-On-Wye was quite enough.) All said and done, though, she - and any compatriot who matches her in media popularity - is alone with a keyboard when the work starts.

No matter what your status, if you write you have to like, or at least tolerate, your own company for long periods of time.

Right now I'm off to make my Leader a cup of tea.

What?

Oh sod my own company.   

READING.

The Thief of Time: Terry Pratchett.
I finished this intriguing yarn buoyed and humbled by the sheer artistry of the writer. As you may have gathered, if you regularly look in, I have enjoyed each and every one of the late Sir Terence's Disc World books to come my way.
If you are interested, I recommend the in-depth analysis to be found in Pratchett Job, a blog produced by a truly knowledgeable follower of the master.
Sadly there will be no more Disc World books on loan to me, and it would take far too long to peruse the shelves in a bookshop hoping to find some I may not have read.
Anyway, there's at least one real life Black Books misery in the trade now who would rather shut up shop than let the customer browse.
Isn't that charming?
So I fear Disc World may be over for me.
I shall miss it.
Have just embarked on a Career of Evil by (I almost wrote with) Robert Galbraith. This is the third Cormoran Strike detective yarn under J.K. Rowling's pen name and it opens promisingly.

More to come.

 

 

 

Post 271 (b) IF YOU WRITE

MUSIC.

BBC Proms time again.

Which means lots more of Katie Derham. Hurray!

We watched the concert celebrating John Williams' 85th Birthday and were reminded once more that even the foremost composer of film music in the world is sometimes better heard when accompanied by screen images to divert attention from lengthy periods of pedestrian background music that are inevitable at film composer concerts.

No pictures at the Albert Hall, of course, just the orchestra. But Indiana Jones and Jaws and Raiders of the Lost Ark and Schindler's List and ET and Harry Potter were all in the programme and we loved it.

The man really is a genius, isn't he?

We also saw maestro Daniel Barenboim, who conducted the Staatskapelle Berlin, give what seemed to me to be a well-meaning, innocuous, little speech linking Elgar and Brexit. This affronted Spectator journalist Douglas Murray and a few other right (wing) thinking scribblers on-line.

Bravo Barenboim!

Let's never outlaw freedom of speech, eh?

That impeccable gentleman Bernard Haitink was back, too. He conducted a Chamber Orchestra of Europe programme: symphonies by Mozart and Schumann, along with a beautiful rendition of Mozart's Violin Concerto No.3 by Isabelle Faust.

Yes, the Proms looks good this year, even if I do have to be vigilant not to be taken in by increasing efforts to persuade me that 'modern,' or 'advanced,' music has to be given a hearing. I have tried, but even the most revered of those discordant composers puts my teeth on edge.

Walton's Facade, described as 'modern,' is an eminent exception: I certainly enjoyed those quirky excerpts from it played by the BBC Symphony Orchestra at Sir Malcolm Sargent's 500th Prom celebration.

The entire programme, from Sir Henry Wood's arrangement of The National Anthem, to the Schumann Piano Concerto, played by Italian pianist Beatrice Rana, through to Britten's The Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra, was music to my ears and the conductor, avuncular Sir Andrew Davis (pictured), was a joy to watch.

Right now I am sitting here with my Leader's The Hollies 20 Golden Greats CD playing on the music centre.

The opening lines of I can't tell the bottom from the top have me close to tears. Silly old fool.

But they were a great group at their best (the times when Allan Clarke was lead vocalist) and I can understand why Mo rated them so highly.

TELEVISION.

Repetition and a bit of bunkum.

Along with the usual crop of repeated repeats: Morse, Lewis, Endeavour, Foyle, Midsomer Murders,Vera and Wycliffe, we are currently enjoying (currently on Sunday afternoons) a re-run of the entire Harry Potter film series (four down, four to go).

Room 101: Extra Storage is much in evidence, too, and Would I Lie To You?

Ripper Street has gone forever, hardly a spoiler to reflect: 'not very happily.' 

But Game of Thrones is back. It has a new follow-up programme, too: Thronecast, led by Sue Perkins.

Seen it? I have. It's bunkum.

Whether or not you have already seen them, do watch the Potter films, though.

They're great.

That's it for the time being.

 

 

 

 

 

  

Post 270. IT'S ANOTHER WORLD.

BUT SOME THINGS DO STAY GOOD.

Entertainment.
Last Friday evening we joined an empathetic audience (mostly family members of the cast) to watch an enthusiastic gathering of drama group pupils at Medina College perform a young people's version of Les Miserables which was called Do You Hear The People Sing.
Grandson Ellis, twelve years old and showing early promise of a good bass-baritone voice, had asked whether he could have one of the few leftover tickets for the show. Cast members were allocated two tickets each (no charge - contributions welcomed at the end of the show) and his two had been reserved for his mother and for his grandmother. He was asked if he was sure the person the third ticket was for would use it and had apparently replied: 
"Oh yes, he has all the music."
So I received an unexpected invitation which led to a most enjoyable evening back at school.
Mo and I arrived ahead of Roz, who is a LSA and knows the building well, so just finding the drama studio took the pair of us back to my very first blog post, which went as follows:
It's a bit like when the kids were at school and...you were invited to go one evening to meet the teacher. I always finished up feeling that our kids had to start next term with a few Brownie points if we had somehow found the classroom, found the teacher and, wonder of wonders, managed to arrive on time.
Afterwards it was more a case of hoping the teacher would be sympathetic towards our kids, considering the obvious disadvantage they had being raised by such parents.
In the event, we became 'such grandparents,' ambling around the nearby theatre complex before discovering that the drama studio was actually in the main school building.
Fortunately we had set out early, so did reach our destination in Brownie points time.
It was a small studio for a large cast playing to a capacity audience on a warm night.
But the young people gave their all - don't they always? - and, bless 'em, they brought it off.
By the time the show ended the stifling heat no longer mattered. The cast exited to cheers and clammy hands clapping squishy appreciation.
These young people had been given five days to learn, rehearse, and stage a tastefully modified version of a show packed with music known and loved all over the world. The teachers who set it up and gave their time and skill to make it work: Hannah Brear (who wrote it), Steph Shorrock, Rich Wiseman, and the 'orchestra' that was Beth Peckham on the hidden piano, had undertaken an almost impossible task. All the tutoring and rehearsal in the world cannot disguise the reality of breaking voices, and the majority of the young men in the cast were of that age.
It didn't matter.
The young women stoically accepted any sudden change of key introduced by their male partner in a duet. It was clearly par for the course.
So in the end a few cues may have been missed, a few lines may have been lost or inadvertently repeated, a few top notes may have cracked and Javert may not have jumped off a bridge. So what.
This was a school show, not a Cameron Mackintosh production. Given the confines in which it was staged (and 5 days!) it was a triumph. A very, very brave triumph.
As we were leaving, I spoke to teaching staff about the confines in which it was staged and remarked that it should have been shown in 'the school theatre.' 
"Yes," I was told, "but we couldn't afford that." Couldn't afford?
How come?
Are we not talking school theatre here?
Well, no, the theatre is part of Medina Leisure Centre, not the school; if the school wants to put on a show it has to hire the theatre, just like anybody else.  I was shocked.
Even in the constantly changing - wickedly underpaid - world of education (blame governments, councils, Ofsted et al), this seemed to me to be a giant step backwards.
Mo and I had been living over here for quite a while when the former Medina High School was built. It was a grand concept set in a pleasant area on the outskirts of Newport and with it came a theatre and swimming pools.
Our son and two daughters were pupils there, as was our granddaughter and, now, our grandson.
All three of our children appeared in shows at the theatre - good shows put together by Medina school drama teachers - and there was never, ever, talk of any payment by the school to put them on.
So how and when did all this payment for use (presumably to the council) start? When exactly did the 'school theatre' become what I can only surmise is now just another council (or, worse still, private) money tree?
I would write and ask, but I don't think knowing the answer would give me that much satisfaction.
Those kids did try hard though. We loved it.
Some things do stay good.

Thanks again to all involved.

Post 269. FILLED WITH DESPAIR AND ANGER.

WHAT PRICE AUSTERITY?

A nationwide investigation.
It has already been discovered that in cities all around the country (among them Portsmouth (above), the city where Mo and I were born) tower blocks have been cheaply and often illegally clad in the type of panel that disastrously accelerated the Grenfell Tower conflagration. Apparently this has been going on for years.
The news has to fill anyone but the most crooked businessman - or uncaring autocrat - with despair and anger.
Many questions will be asked and, were I charged with an investigation, I would certainly put the following three queries to all the councils involved:
(1) Were the inspectors who failed to immediately recognise this as a danger unqualified or incompetent?
(2) How many jobsworths actually recognised the danger, but wouldn't - or didn't dare - speak up? 
And finally, the one to which I might even receive a straight answer:
(3) Did funding cutbacks imposed by Westminster cause your council to relax, shelve or abandon the inspection of new high-rise builds in your area?
I do just wish councils and governments would sometimes disprove my increasingly cynical opinion that they're there for their own good, not for ours. If they stopped playing politics and gave their all to whatever concern they claim to serve, it would be a start. It would be unbelievable, too.
Those who do try locally - mostly decent Independents - are shuttled to the sidelines or, like the worthwhile ex-councillor Jonathan Bacon on the Isle of Wight, voted out by party plonkers at the first opportunity.
Incidentally, the new blue ribbon voted in as MP over here, sought election on the avowal that he was 'standing with Teresa May.'
For how long, I wonder, might that be?
MUSIC.

Non PC listening?
As I write I am listening to a tape recording made at Abbey Road, London in 1962, the year my Leader and I were married.
It is by one of my favourite pianists of all time, John Ogden (above), and he is playing Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No.1 with the Philharmonia Orchestra conducted by Sir John Barbirolli.
Both pianist and conductor were British, white and male.
That may define me, in the eyes of the browsing PC feminist, as 'a racist and misogynist.' 
Y'know, I'm far too old to care.
CALL THIS ONE WHAT YOU LIKE.
He is still a bloody head case.
Doesn't matter how mentally stable, or otherwise, he may be proven to be, it appears that the 47 year old father of four (poor little buggers), who ploughed a hired van into innocent Muslims coming from worship at Finsbury Park (one victim dead, ten injured), was a terrorist. The police said so right away, so it's official.
What's in a name?
Call him what you like. A terrorist by whatever name is still a bloody head case.
Imam Mohammed Mahmoud, clearly a good man and true Muslim, prevented furious captors from doing serious damage to him before the police arrived at the scene.
The hate-crazed attacker should be given the longest possible prison sentence. 
Mr. Mahmoud should be given an award.
That's my lot for this month.

 

 

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.