Post 358. TRUTH TO TELL.

CLINT EASTWOOD IS SO RIGHT.

About we anti-socials.

To those like me who spend far too many hours locked in with a computer I doubt there has been a more apposite view on anti-sociability than this one from Clint Eastwood.

What a wonderfully dry observation.

It was sent to my Facebook account which I mostly forget to look at. My cellphone is switched off most of the time, too. I forget to switch it on. Twenty quid's worth ($24) of pay-as-you-go goes a long way with me.

So, for what it's worth, this is a more accurate view of my pandemic world than any other expressed so far.

Sad, ain't it.

WHEN IT'S NOT CORONAVIRUS.

It's still the weather.

Yes, with we Brits the weather is still probably the most regular topic of our everyday conversation next to the vast number of fatalities from Covid 19 (apparently the highest in Europe).

How long it will be before we can return to normal life again, and whether anything will ever be the way it was, is also much discussed.

The former royals Harry and Meghan, thanks largely to their current press image in the UK, get scant mention.

Ah well. They'll survive.

So will chit-chat about the weather.

Eh? Oh, currently sunny with cold winds.

I know, I know...

THEN THERE'S TELEVISION.

Or house hunting.

Most of it (if the sight of a packed bookcase conveniently situated behind even the most vacuous of television personality is to be trusted) around startlingly bookish people. 
No, I don't believe it either.

I do believe that chat show panellists, accustomed to the approval of a compliant audience, are struggling with lockdown broadcasting: none of the popular shows still making an appearance has a comfortable feel to it. Many of them would have been better served staying away and giving their regulars a rest. Off-screen introverts do not react well to intrusion: they embrace their personal space. 
It shows.

SO FOR THE LAST LAUGH.

Trust a smart kid.

Is this why they want 'em back at school?

Enjoy a bit of relaxation.

Don't go socially berserk.

Post 357. END OF WW2 CELEBRATIONS?

OH, DO GIVE OVER!

It's the cats' birthday.

Yep. Both of them. Spike (above), who insisted on being seen in front of a bookcase because that's what they're all doing nowadays and she's read about as many books as most of them, and Angel – the boy – the other half of a name mix-up by daughter Roz when they were the size of a very small fist: Spike was the spikier one then and she still rules the roost now. Angel and the dog Buddy (a week younger than them) are putty in her tiny but lethal paws. I love 'em all: and they love me when I'm dispensing biscuit treats.

LOCKDOWN.

The schoolroom is open. 

Roz's living room has become grandson Ellis's schoolroom and, in keeping with the irrepressible sense of humour of his mother and teacher, has its own Ofsted report defiantly posted on the door. 

It ain't a fair reflection, but I love it.

TELEVISION.

A real book person.

You can pick out the real book people if you don't just take those camera views into other people's houses as an invitation to check on their wallpaper.

One real book person is the English academic Dame Mary Beard (above) who is an expert on Ancient Roman civilization, a Professor of Classics at Cambridge University and an extremely likeable television personality. 

Her extended, book- filled, den is everything Mo and I feel at home around. 

To add to the ambience, in a recent TV programme she interviewed Sir Simon Schama who, clearly at home, stood in front of the most gloriously chaotic bookcase in the whole learned world. He immediately became our favourite art historian.

LAST BUT NOT LEAST.

YouTube.

If you scramble around you can sometimes come across an unexpected gem. It was my good fortune the other evening to chance upon a great performance of Nessun Dorma sung by Michael Bolton (below}. I have his Vintage album of classic songs, which we cherish, but this is something else. If you like Michael and have not heard this track, look it up. It is followed by Vesti La Giubba, a wonderful duet with Luciano Pavarotti.

Go carefully.

Don't chance your arm. 

Post 356. EVERYONE'S GOT A BOOKCASE.

TO SIT IN FRONT OF.

When they're on television.

Have you noticed? Could you help but notice? Each of 'em has a bookcase to plonk 'emself in front of: even the buggers you sense have never read right through a book in their entire celebrity lives.

I believe the techno nerds who know all about resizing an image (don't look at me) are already picking the titles off books on the shelves behind this diverse bunch of often unlikely academics. Gawdawmighty!

Time to join the club, though, I thought. Get yourself looking a bit educated, Den. Sit yourself down before one of the bookcases in the living room and get your grandson, aided by his grandmother's ipad, to take a 'this is me at home' picture.

So there you are. You don't need be a television 'celebrity.' All you need is a bookcase and a grandson: and a, prefererably eclectic, selection of books.

In case anybody cares, up there behind me on the top shelf is a handful of WW2 ego trips by Winston Churchill (warmongering politician, decent writer), a selection of titles by wonderful novelist Mary Wesley, an Oxford English dictionary, and a 'let's keep it all tidy' miscellany of fillers (don't ask).

On the shelf below that are the complete Harry Potter (and some other) books by J.K. Rowling, the His Dark Materials (and some other) books by Philip Pullman, The Once and Future King by T.H. White, There's a Boy in the Girls' Bathroom by Louis Sachar and my old friend the late George Woodman's Taken at the Flood (which should perhaps be in another bookcase but books get shifted in this house). I won't bore you with any more name dropping. Suffice it to say I have actually read all the books on those shelves written by those authors. I have not just been photographed in front of that particular bookcase because some smart-arse television producer said: “You sit there, Dennis, it'll look more like you're knowledgeable.” If I sound grouchy it's because I am bloody grouchy.

It is not lockdown and it is not

TELEVISION.

Which started unusually well this week.

Sunday evening kicked off with the BBC Young Musician 2020 Keyboard Category final which was won by sixteen-year-old pianist Thomas Luke (above), an Isle of Wight lad. Hurray!

No question the choice was right. One of the judges was the renowned pianist Peter Donohoe (below) and if he says you're the winner, you're the winner.

My evening concluded with:

The last ever episode of Homeland in which arguably the worst mother in the world, Carrie Mathison (she wouldn't pose for a picture), single-handedly averted WW3 and suitably rounded off her career as a spy for Saul Berenson by becoming... guess what?

Ho-hum.

Bye-bye, Carrie.

That's it for now.

Post 355. AS LOCKDOWN CONTINUES.

WE ARE WATCHING MORE

Films and TV series. 

I think people are seeing much more on Netflix (other suppliers of film and TV series are available) since the lockdown. We are taking in films and series of stuff we didn't see before because, surprise surprise, they were on stations we mostly ignored. It has encouraged us to watch everything from the previously unseen (by us) western series Godless, which I liked, to the many heaps of abandoned garbage which my Leader has subsequently dismissed with the words: "That was half an hour we'll never get back."

One of my current viewing enjoyments is the UFO 'conspiracy theory' series Project Blue Book. I firmly believe we cannot be the only reasoning beings in all the galaxies, and this fascinating take on the findings of Professor J. Allen Hynek, excellently portrayed by Aiden Gillen (pictured), does seem to justify that belief.

SYFY HD is currently screening series 2.  

I have found YouTube on our television, too, and that has enabled me to rediscover Pekka Kuusisto's 2016 performance of Tchaikovsky's violin concerto at the Royal Albert Hall, together with the most hilarious encore given at the BBC Proms in its entire history. I read that the maestro suffered an injury late in 2018 which put a stop to his violin playing and he consequently, despite prior reservations, joined the ever lengthening list of soloists who have become orchestra conductors. I think any orchestra would be happy to see him on the rostrum, but I hope he will be back scraping the catgut when the next Proms gathering comes along.

Cheers, Pekka Kuusisto!

The departure of live sport from television, together with wise adherence to the safe distance rule, has completely bemused the sadly limited imagination of most television producers. It has, however, enabled them to serve up even more ancient tat and repeat repeats than they can when those long hours of live reality rubbish and semisacred sport are in full sway.

Well, chancers never miss a chance, do they.

We view much of the unearthed TV output from our middle-aged years with wry smiles and, often, mutterings of disbelief at what was acceptable then. The golden age of television?

A cliché to say so, but it's another world now.

Some of it for the better. 

BUT NOT ALL.

Some things just get worse.

In America: President Trump has a brainwave (a worrying thing in any politician) and queries whether it might not be possible to inject some sort of cleansing agent (bleach?) into coronavirus sufferers to clean out their lungs. Oh dear.

And in the UK: Prime Minister Johnson's current partner gives birth to a baby boy (his sixth - publicly known of - child) and the House of Commons wildly applauds it.

Well, everybody loves a new baby. But that effusively?

Yeah, it really is another world now.

AND TO CONCLUDE.

A perverse month.
Just when it seemed the sun would shine forever, along came April showers and, just as quiet roads were becoming rather enjoyable, out came the dickheads (petrolheads) to pollute the peace again. 
Human nature? Huh!

Oh, our window cleaner came this morning. Sun was shining. From a suitable distance he cleaned all the windows.  
As he left the downpour started. 
Essential service? Huh!

Help yourself and others stay alive.

Stay at home.

Post 354. THE LEGALISED GANGSTERS..

HERE ON THIS ISLAND

And throughout Britain.

National, local and private administrative bodies are increasingly taking the heavy-handed approach and employing firms of legalised gangsters (debt collection 'businesses') to extort cash from the public for them. This extortion takes the form of 'fining' citizens (usually motorists) for alleged misdemeanours (mostly parking infringements), however unintentional. The 'fines' are increased for failure to pay within a certain time and there is a threat of blacklisting on a list of 'bad debtors' for any who refuse to be blackmailed. 

In America in the nineteen twenties those who illegally imposed such demands on people were known as protection racketeers. Britain's twenty first century version is no better. Just legal. 
My wife has recently fallen foul of the insidious bastards, so at the moment I am hopping mad about them. But I have been sick and tired of the acquisitive line taken by the powers that be to motorists in the UK since the day I passed my driving test in 1957. Various authorities and their bounty hunter 'heavies' have been bleeding the vehicle owner dry ever since, so I have had a very long time to hate their guts.

Truth to tell I still think the MP, way back, who smugly described the motorist as “a buoyant source of revenue,” should have been dragged from Parliament and hung by his neck from the nearest lamppost no matter how accurate his description. That would have wiped the silly grin off his face. 

For me, driving's not a pleasure anymore. 
Hasn't been for years. So now I neither drive nor own a car. My wife is our car owner and driver. Still will be, all being well, when this plague thing is over and done with. 
She (like you?) is missing the driving at present.

What? Oh, she was totally mislead by somebody at the desk in Newport's Riverside Centre who assured her she was OK parked there when she visited them one Saturday before the lockdown. Even with her disabled driver badge, she wasn't.

She has paid the fine. 

I'd have told them to fuck off.

LEISURE TIME.

Well, unless you are one of those poor souls in hospital, or having a tough time making a recovery from your last visit to one, or somebody who is able to work from home, it's all leisure time now, isn't it. 

Trouble is, you can't go out and enjoy it. My Leader is currently working like a pixilated pixie in the garden. I take her a cuppa and do a bit of edging. She doesn't let me overdo that, either. 
There is a lot more traffic about here now. They can't all be going to essential work, or walking the dog, or going to a shop for imperative supplies, can they? 
Word is, though, that there is a police car stationed up the road watching them fly by. 
But shouldn't somebody be stopping some of them? If only to ask how much they really want Covid-19 to spread? 
Well, perhaps not. Most of them wouldn't have a clue why they were being asked a question like that. 
You can't ask reasonable questions of dickheads.
So fine 'em. 
Better that than fining elderly ladies parked in wrong places. 
Can't resist showing this pair of fine ladies again.

Go carefully, and only if entirely necessary.

Post 353. LIKE SUNDAY EVERY DAY.

IT'S ALMOST RELIGIOUSLY QUIET. 

Without the traffic. 

If you ever prayed for some peace and quiet you must be thinking your prayers have been answered.

It's like Sunday every day, isn't it? Almost religiously quiet. I keep expecting roast beef for dinner with Rawicz and Landauer providing the background music. Or Billy Cotton and his band if you were a dinner at lunchtime person.

We live on the main road between the towns of Newport and Ryde. Over thirty years ago a bypass around our village, Wootton Bridge, was planned by the I.W. Council which, in customary Council fashion, compulsory purchased two en route little bungalows from which three helpless villagers were evicted. The Council was then persuaded to reallocate the funding for the bypass to the building of a new bridge at Yarmouth which would enable wealthy yachties to safely get to the supermarket at Freshwater for their groceries.The Wootton bypass plan was abandoned and has never, to my knowledge, been broached at any subsequent Council meeting.

The two little bungalows were demolished and the land where they stood was appropriated to accommodate one large, attractive, not to be subjected to a compulsory purchase order, replacement.

It was probably all settled by Council petty corruption. Most things are over here, just as they are in almost every town and city in the entire country.

So what brings it all back to me now?

Well, on the positive side, if that bypass had been built the road outside here would have been as almost religiously quiet as it is now, we would not have needed double glazing (wonderful though that may be), our windows would have been wide open on every bright sunny day, and the value of this and every other property along this stretch of road would have gone through the roof. 

On the negative side: we could never have afforded to be here.

Anyway, the old bridge at Yarmouth was bloody dangerous.

LAST MONTH I FORGOT TO MENTION.

That confounded hour.

It went forward at 1 o'clock a couple of weeks ago and we shall have British Summer Time now until the last Sunday in October. I'd be happy if it never changed again. I like BST even if, for a few weeks, I shall be awake at dark o'clock every morning with the bedside timepiece telling me it's an hour later than my body clock reckons it to be. By the time October gets here I shall be tickety-boo and totally unready to change back again. I really don't want that clock up there to read an hour earlier come 25 October next. So, you bureaucrats, do us a favour: from now on leave our clocks at BST. 
It's a civilized time.

But it really does fly.

Discussing recently how quickly the years go by after one retires (thirty one since my retirement from the NHS), was surprised to learn that two friends I always thought of as much younger than me have both been retired for more than twenty years.

I've always had a viewpoint older than I am, though that takes some doing nowadays. The only youthful thing I ever did was abandon bachelorhood when I was nearly thirty two years old to marry a lass thirteen years my junior. That rash flurry into adolescence has so far lasted fifty nine years and, three children, two grandchildren, and a bevi of step and courtesy young relatives later, seems set to continue until one of us kicks the bucket.

To those seeking the secret of our lengthy marriage we have a stock explanation: We're both extremely stubborn. Eh? 

Mmm. Perhaps it is a little more than that.

TELEVISION.

It's films and mini-series now.

Every now and then it comes home to me that we survived WW2 without television. 

How did we manage? I guess it was a case of what you've never had you never miss. We had the radio of course. It was seldom off in our house. But we didn't have talking pictures anywhere other than in cinemas – and I was ordered to leave promptly for home if the sirens went while I was 'at the pictures.' I always did as I was told. You didn't defy my mother. 

Our local 'fleapit' survived the war. Was there for some years after. If it's still there now it will be a supermarket.

RIP Johnny Mack Brown. That's progress.

And now we are not allowed out, so thank the gods for the box in the living room.

Currently I am watching a fascinating reworking of War of the Worlds with Gabriel Byrne, Elizabeth McGovern and Co. It's good.

We are also watching 'the last ever series' of Homeland. Really? Whatever. 

CIA agent Carrie (Claire Danes) is still manically rushing around the middle east spreading ill will for America in the most well-meaning way and Saul Berenson (Mandy Patinkin), her mentor, is still failing to control her while making excuses for her excesses. When it's all over I hope Mr. Patinkin will continue to entertain with his singing. I have just been listening on YouTube to his 2008 recording of Over The Rainbow. Beautiful. 

Other than that we are doing the mini-series circuit (Mo goes for the historical stuff and I for westerns and thrillers) and we are constantly on the lookout for decent films. Netflix is pretty good on that score. Have just seen Effie Gray, Emma Thompson's film about John Ruskin and his wife. Well worth the viewing.

And that's that for now.

Mo's talking to her pals on ipad. They go to one or the other's house on Wednesday evenings but that's out at the moment.

So thanks be for technology. 

Go safely wherever you are. 

Post 352. A DREADFUL MONTH WORLDWIDE.

AN EVENTFUL MONTH AT HOME.

The coronavirus pandemic is upon us and even the global warming deniers, Holocaust deniers, and EU corruption theorists, cannot contradict that fact. It'll be galling for them but there y'go.

No doubt there will still be self-centred sods sidestepping the rules of commonsense right up until there's a copper on every street corner to stop them leaving home, but that's humanity for you.

As I write this nearly thirty two thousand people have died worldwide, around a third of them in that family-oriented and sociable country Italy.

Now poor old Italy's sociability has rebounded on it in the most dreadful way. At close on eleven thousand deaths that lovely country has sounded a stark global warning.

COVID-19 may well be the Black Death of our time.

So let's just do as we're told in the fight against it, eh?

Unless we're embarking on essential work or a truly imperative trip to the shops, let's park our arses at home.

I have a soft spot for Italy. Way back in the nineteen fifties an army 'schoolie' and I were driven from Austria to Italy in a very small sports car owned by R. Signals pal Clive Rook. We finished up at Udine, which turned out to be a place bursting with festive joy. It was one of the most cheerful weekend experiences of my often less than happy military career. In the way that soldiers do, I lost touch with Clive when I left BTA for BAOR. He was a good buddy and I hope he fared well. 

ANOTHER GOOD BUDDY.

Ian Dillow (pictured with his wife Jean) who lives many miles from us in Hampshire, has recently undergone a delicate medical procedure and is having a tough time making his recovery from it.

Sadly it can happen to the best, of which he is one. Our love and heartfelt good wishes go to him and Jean throughout this arduous and worrying period.

HERE ON THE ISLAND.

The happy and the sad. Starting with the half century birthday of daughter Roz, the only one of our brood actually born on the Island. Her birthday was a happy occasion at a time when she is still in a vulnerable health state. The family gathering in our local restaurant was a lucky one: it immediately preceded the coronavirus warning that curtailed our mainland attendance at the funeral of Maureen's sister Pam.

Mo now has only one remaining sister from the original seven. So many goodbyes over so many years.

AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST.

Sky Arts can still please. 

No, they have not reintroduced my Barenboim and Vogt recordings yet (well not so far as I can see) but they have provided another one to hold on to. 

Simply Red: Live in Holland. Magic!

Stay safe.

Post 351. Index 7. Posts 301 – 350

Alibhai-Brown, Yasmin: 310, 350 Allen, Lily: 305 Angel, the cat: 323, 328, 332  Anonymous John Appleton: 314, 319, 339, 341 Appleton, Sheila: 314 Baker, Danny: 327 Baker, Hylda: 306 Baker, Matt: 350 Baeva, Alena: 346 Barenboim, Daniel: 346, 347 Barnden, Jacqueline: 315, 330, 334, 341, 342  Barnden, Mo: 303, 311, 315, 317, 320, 323,343,345 Barnden, Neil: 306, 314, 315, 336, 341, 342, 345 Barnden, Pauline: 312, 315, 347 Barnden, Roz: 302, 306 (309 through to 323) 325, 328, 329, 330,332, 333, 336, 341,347  Beaton, M. C. 332 Beecham, Sir Thomas: 312 Bellfield, Levi: 320 Bhaskar, Sanjeev: 334 Birmingham, Mick: 319 Bleksley, Peter: 320 Blethyn, Brenda: 345 Blomstedt, Herbert: 347 Borgnine, Ernest: 312 Bowman, Stuart: 313 Boyd-Kerr, Maxie: 318 Boyd-Kerr, Stuart: 318, 319, 331 Boys, Pamela Rose: 348 Bryson, Bill: 342 Buddy, the dog: 302, 303, 306, 322, 323, 325, 328, 332, 336 Buniatishvili, Khatia: 312 Butler, Philip: 303, 312, 321 Butler, Julie: 312 Butler, Steve: 312 Chesterton, G.K. 321 Christie, Gwendoline: 328 Clunes, Martin: 320 Comer, Jodie: 314 Corbin, Jeremy: 338, 339, 340 Cox, Brian: 330 Crisp, Quentin: 324 Curry, Bishop Michael: 304 Davies, Russell T. 329 Day, Doris: 346 Dayer, Ellis: 312, 319, 320, 322, 323, 325, 329,332,333, 336  Dean: 319, 320  Derek next door, 311 Derham, Katie: 311 Diamond, Anne: 301 Dillow, Ian: 314, 339, 341 Dillow: Jean: 314 Dimbleby, David: 307 Dinklage, Peter: 324, 327 Djokovic, Novak: 331 Dudamel, Gustavo: 347 Dunbar, Adrian: 325 Durrell, Gerald: 326 Elba, Idris: 324 Fairhead, Hannah: 310 Farthing, Jack: 331 Federer, Roger: 331 Fischer, Ivan: 312 Fogle, Ben: 315 Gibson, Sian: 305  Goode, Matthew: 313 Gove, Michael: 324 Green, Robson: 320, 322 Grey, Berkeley: 332 Guetary, Georges: 338 Gurira, Danai: 350 Hackman, Gene: 312 Hanna, David: 339 Hardwick, Chris: 318, 350  Harmon, Mark: 323 Harris, Ed: 345 Hawes, Keeley: 312, 313, 314, 326 Helin, Sofia: 308 Henshall, Douglas: 323 Holland, Jools: 305 Horowitz, Anthony: 342 Howard, Leslie: 312  Huntley, Storm: 350 Hurley, Graham: 343 Irons, Jeremy: 345 Jach, Babs: 348 Jach, James: 348 James, Clive: 342 Jarvi, Paavo: 312 Johnson, Boris: 324, 329, 332, 339,340, 344  Jones, Alex: 350 Jones, Owen: 350 Jones. Suranne: 331 Karyo, Tchéky: 323  Kay, Peter: 305 Keep, Joan: 319 Kennedy, Nigel: 305 Kill, Vic: 348 King, Mark: 305 Kitchen, Michael: 334 Kneale, Nigel: 327 Kuusisto, Pekka: 311, 346 Kyle. Jeremy: 327 Laverne, Lauren: 320, 338 Lewis, Russell: 322 Lincoln, Andrew:316, 318 Lister, Anne: 331  Lumley, Joanna: 315 Lynn, Vera: 344 Madeley, Richard: 301 Madden, Richard: 312, 313 Martin, George R.R. 327, 328 Marvin, Lee: 312  May, Theresa: 324 McEwan, Geraldine: 334 McIntosh, Pollyanna: 318 Meghan (Duchess of Sussex) 304 Mercurio, Jed: 313, 314, 325, 326  Mortensen, Viggo: 345 Nesbitt, James: 313 Nilssen, Harry, 338 Norton, James: 320 Nye, Simon: 326 Oh, Sandra: 314 David Owen: 311 O'Sullivan, Kevin: 310 Palmer, Teresa: 313 Parker, Milo: 326 Parker, Robert B: 345 Payne, Tom: 318 Powell, Enoch: 310 Pratchett, Terry: 325 Prince Charles: 304 Prince Harry (Duke of Sussex): 304 Prince Philip (Duke of Edinburgh): 304 Pullman, Philip: 329, 336, 342, 344  Queen Elizabeth II: 304, 310 Ratner, Gerald: 307 Rattle, Sir Simon: 320 Rees-Mogg, Jacob: 324  Rix, Brian: 344 Rowling, J.K. 347 Scales, Prunella: 330 Selleck. Tom: 345 Shadow, the cat: 317, 322, 323, 326, 329, 330, 335, 336, 341.  Shriver, Lionel: 307 Simm, John: 316 Sky Arts Team: 347 Slim, Fatboy: 329 Smith, Maggie: 345 Soderbergh, Steven: 350 Spike, the cat: 323, 328, 332  Stanley, Thelma: 319 Staunton, Imelda: 345 Suchet, David: 334 Sutton, Colin: 320 Tomlinson, Eleanor: 331 Trevor, William: 325 True-May, Brian: 307 Trump, Donald: 301, 302, 309, 310, 329 Turner, Aidan: 331  Venables, Philip: 311 Vine, Jeremy: 310, 350 Vogt, Lars: 320, 346, 347  Walker, Nicola: 334 Walsh, Barney: 345 Walsh, Bradley: 345 Warhol, Andy: 304 West, Timothy: 330 White, Daryl: 312, 313 White, Jess Daisy: 303, 306, 312, 313, 314, 317, 332,333 Widmark, Richard: 312 Wilkening, Anne: 306, 325 Williams, Mark: 320 Wingate, Orde: 342 Woods, Hannah: 333, 336 Woods, Mike: 330, 333 Wright, Matthew: 301, 307, 310 Young, Kirsty: 320 Zellweger, Rene: 345 Zephaniah, Benjamin, 329

Post 350. NOW IT'S COMPULSORY.

WE'RE UNDER HOUSE ARREST. 

Or solitary confinement for those who are living alone. Why? Well, last weekend thousands of numbskulls gathered on beaches and at beauty spots around the country, presumably to prove that irresponsibility is not confined to the few. 

Whether or not that really is the answer, it certainly didn't help. We're facing a pandemic here, folks, not a small town outbreak of the flu.

I suppose the next thing will be policemen who haven't walked a beat for years out on the streets accompanied (in view of the way austerity has cut back the force) by the SAS, whose departure from the Brecon Beacons will leave Talybont Reservoir entirely unguarded: a prospect only slightly less concerning than that of coppers being instructed to implement a zero tolerance policy. 

For those of us who have no intention of going out (nowadays I seldom do anyway), it's going to be months of the book, the radio, the phone, and no matter how irksome it may frequently be...

TELEVISION.

Where, midst the constant mix of reality rubbish, ceaseless cookery, and cheaply produced quiz shows, we have a couple of defiant dramas in the shape of The Walking Dead (picture refers) and War of the Worlds. The former is a tsunami of living dead and dead dead bodies (you'll understand if you watch it) and the latter is abundant with very dead corpses played by very still extras together with distance shots of motorways that look like the M25 ten minutes after a lorry has jackknifed. Neither series is particularly reassuring in today's climate.

Then we have the films. According to this week's TV watch list in my i weekend, if you were desperate enough to look in on ITV2 for a film this week you could have seen Contagion, Steven Soderbergh's drama about a virus outbreak. Yeah. Really.
Never mind, as an antidote to constantly contrary and openly propagandist COVID-19 briefings, we now have chat shows where the main studio participants are kept two metres apart and subsidiaries are drafted in on screen from their homes.

 Ah, the joy of technology.

I follow only three chat shows: prudently.

On BBC One I look in at The One Show every now and then. Less now that Matt Baker has left it. I liked him in partnership with Alex Jones; they were a good tele twosome. Last I heard he was thought to have coronavirus symptoms and was self-isolating. 

Well he's a fit forty-something with a wife and family so he should make a swift recovery. Good luck to him. I have swiftly dismissed most of the males brought in to replace him.

On Channel 5 weekday mornings I sometimes watch Jeremy Vine. Depends who is on his two-metres-apart panel and how attractive Storm Huntley looks in her studio dress of the day. Mr. Vine has currently adopted the mannerisms of a demented schoolmaster, bouncing to a blackboard every few minutes to scribble an instantly forgettable list for viewers to instantly forget. He is clearly missing his 'wandered in off the Thames Embankment' audience. But, to be fair, he and Storm are managing quite well with the help of a solitary 'medical' panellist and a couple of those magic screens for additional input. 

The panel, since Mr. Vine took over, invariably consisted of one reality show celebrity (what?), one newspaper journalist (I bothered to watch only if it was Yasmin Alibhai Brown or Owen Jones), and one fat failed hack now described as a 'broadcaster.' The replacement of the reality celeb with a clinician has been one small seat change for man. If they now get rid of anybody described as a broadcaster or any former MEP they will have made one giant seat change for mankind.

I also watch The Talking Dead which is broadcast directly after The Walking... and is fronted by a little guy called Chris Hardwick. 

I watch it, in common with most Walking viewers, because actors and directors from the popular show appear on the studio settee to discuss the comings and goings and making of it.

Mr. Hardwick has now joined the band of chat show hosts whose studio audience cannot be in attendance and who is interviewing from home to the homes of interviewees. There's a lot of big screen stuff about. Learned this week that Michonne (Danai Gurira) is leaving the show. Well, actors have to move on. Shame though. 

She'll be mightily missed.

That's more than enough for now.

Mind how you go.

Post 349. NO, IT'S NOT WORLD WAR 3.

IT'S WORLD WIDE CORONAVIRUS.

Here we go again.
Yet another balls-up by the human race.  
One way or another mankind does seem intent on wiping itself out, doesn't it? If it's not mines and nuclear weapons it's a pandemic. 
This time the threat is not WW3, it's WWC. 
So are we ready for it? 
Do me a favour...
Last century we weren't ready for either of two world wars.
When have we ever been ready for anything? 
But we'll blunder on. 
Because we always do. 
And somehow we'll come out on the winning side. 
Because we always do. 
And throughout it all we'll keep joking. 
Because - yep - we always do. 
My favourite jokes so far on Facebook:

There will be plenty more.

In the meantime: 
We are sorry for the many old friends whose social get-togethers have now been postponed indefinitely and with all those whose living conditions or personal circumstances will make self-isolation increasingly burdensome. 
We're lucky. We're blessed with space and company. 

Good luck to every one of you.

Post 348. ANOTHER SAD FAREWELL.

ANOTHER SISTER GONE.

 

Pamela Rose Boys 1936 – 2020. 

I sadly record the death of one of Maureen's two remaining sisters, Pamela, who died in the Q.A. Hospital, Portsmouth on 25 February. 
Pam was a lively character whose often oblique turn of phrase never disguised a heart of gold. She enjoyed amateur dramatics, singing, crosswords, and, at their annual “all the sisters” holiday on the Isle of Wight, a daily swim in Puckpool swimming pool with her sister Marg. She outlived three husbands, by whom she had four children, and she will be sadly missed by the entire family. 
RIP, Pam, you were a one-off.

AFTERMATH.

The funeral. 

Pam's funeral was held at The Oaks Havant crematorium on Monday 16 March. We had every intention of attending and arrangements had been resolved for the trip to the mainland.

Then came the updates on COVID-19 and a warning (by scientists from Imperial College, London, no less) of the extreme danger it posed to the elderly and anyone with an existing health condition. Three quarters of the inhabitants of this house come into that category. My flippant conclusion that “It isn't WW3” became sadly inappropriate.

In the event, we and other vulnerable family members, here and on the mainland, made our apologies and stayed at home. Pam's children were extremely kind about it and I know Pam would have understood. 

A small contingent of nieces and nephews did go from the Island so we were not entirely without representation. Thank you Babs, Vic and James.

This has been a very personal post. 

Back next time to as near normal as the wretched epidemic will allow. 

Go safely or don't go at all.