70. Let's hear it for technology!

ON A PERSONAL NOTE.

At the outset I regarded this blog lark as a bit of Lone Ranger thing. Took it for granted that you just knocked out a few lines, clicked publish and committed the lot to the ether to go unnoticed by one half of the blogging world and ignored by the other. So I was no little surprised to hear last week from a friend with whom we lost touch all of twenty years ago. Helmut is Austrian and lives in Vienna. Seems he caught sight of me on the blog - surely a startling sight for somebody not prepared for it - and, once he had recovered his equilibrium, took the opportunity to e-mail. It was nice to hear from him after such a long time and it looks like I may even have another reader now. Including my Leader that will make around half a dozen that I know of. Hooray!

MORE THOUGHTS FROM A TOO CLEVER CAT.

"You're too clever by half," I said to the cat Shadow when he magically appeared as I was filling his food dish.
"It's a cat's senses thing," he replied airily.
"And was the Man. United - Roma result a cat's senses thing, too?" I asked. "You said you hoped United would get a load of goals in that Champions League return and they didn't disappoint. 7 - 1? Blimey!"
"Oh, according to the word up on the roof it was predictable," he said. "Let slip the dogs of war, didn't they."
"Now you're showing off," I said. "So I guess the win against Watford had to be a foregone conclusion, too."
He shrugged and I blinked foolishly. I can never keep up with his infuriating ability to convey a wordless reprimand for a pointless remark.
I put his food dish down.
"Here you are," I said ungraciously. "Looks like the Red Devils are well on their way in all the competitions, anyway."
He waited in front of his dish, as he always does, until I had stroked his back and murmured the customary: "There you go then."
"They didn't beat Portsmouth, though, did they," he said. "Out of their last four games at Fratton Park, Pompey have won three. Old Harry Redknapp can make a team out of anything. Well, he has to, he can't afford the boot-kicking Scot's sort of signings."
I left him contentedly filling his face with expensive catfood.
It took will-power but I resisted kicking his too clever backside.

NOW THE TECHNOLOGY BIT.

Son Neil has sent us a film of a mouse and a bird simultaneously attacking a food container in their Cornish garden. He has named this little masterpiece Tit Mouse! and the following link may enable you to watch it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fPciedliT5s

Let's hear it for technology!

69. New stuff on the box - good and bad!

GEORGE GENTLY (BBC1, Easter Day 2007)

After Foyle's War and Life On Mars we have George Gently, an early sixties crime buster played by the former randy Judge John Deed, Martin Shaw. This was a one-off, which is probably just another word for pilot. It certainly looked good to become a series.
Martin Shaw always impresses. He has televisual looks and enough acting ability to be comfortable in any company. His gruff "Fabian of the Yard" character in this decent detective drama was incorruptible and believable. It is not always easy to convince as both but he did. He was splendidly supported by Phil ("Shake me up, Judy") Davis as Joe Webster, the sort of villain everybody has read about in the Sunday papers and prays will not move into their manor. He was also given the ambitious, well-connected, smart-arse of a juvenile lead Bacchus (Lee Ingleby) as his assistant.
This was a promising first adaptation of a book by Alan Hunter and a quite neat attempt to find a replacement for the late lamented John Thaw's late lamented Endeavour Morse. I just hope that it will not be used (as it rather tended to be with Philip Glenister's DCI Gene Hunt in Life On Mars) as a back door means of absolving the politically incorrect. Any device used to perpetuate values since discarded as valueless has to be viewed with suspicion.

IGNORING BIGOTRY.

I was brought up in the thirties. As a boy, the only black people I ever saw were in films. They threw spears at Tarzan (Johnny Weissmuller) or carried parcels on their heads for actors like Leslie Banks (Sanders of the River. 1935) and Sir C. Aubrey Smith (Tarzan The Ape Man. 1932) The only P.C. in our upbringing was a fat old copper on a bike: nobody liked him. East was east and west was west (Kipling, I believe, but no matter). Our schooling allowed for no awkward questions and was strong on the principle that everything coloured pink on the globe was ruled by us.
We have ruled nobody for almost as long as I have been alive, of course, but there are still many people who would like to believe that we do; that we are still a nation to be reckoned with. Pro rata we have as many bigots in this country as there are in America and that says something.
Nowadays I try to avoid all the jingoistic crap, the blatant sex discrimination and the puerile political (let alone religious) beliefs still popular with many of my fellow countrymen.
That having been said, I find, to my shame, that I offer no word of reproval when an old friend and contemporary tells me that he has stopped supporting his local football team because if he wanted to watch Kenya play he'd go to bloody Africa.
I may even have laughed.
It is as well that Yasmin Alibhai-Brown of The Independent does not read stuff like this. I would not want to add to her despair at the state of the national psyche. But there you are, concerned lady, an awful lot of old buckets will have to be kicked before this country becomes a haven for any but the likes of Al Murray's Pub Landlord or, more insidiously, those like me who sadly can condone bigotry by ignoring it.

RUDDY HELL! IT'S HARRY & PAUL. (BBC1, Friday 13th April)

Bloody hell! It's absolute crap.

68. One aged failure and two old favourites.

THROUGH THE KEYHOLE. (BBC 2)

Yes, David Frost is back again with the show where, according to the Radio Times: "Celebrity panellists put their heads together to identify the homes of the rich and famous."
Trouble is, the 'celebrity panellists' mostly only meet the modern reality game show definition of celebrity (unknown but confident) and the 'rich and famous' are far more the former than the latter.
The programme has now been extended to three quarters of an hour, which allows time for the lovely Stefanie Powers to look over the house of a (probably 'resting') showbiz person in America - a process carried out giving every clue imaginable as to the resident's identity short of actually using their long forgotten name.
As for the British homes, I have been pushing the cleaner around in my Leader's absence because if some of their owners are famous, so am I! Our unstately home could be on the next series. I wouldn't lay any odds, though.
Sadly the format of this old chestnut remains, like its presenter, boring and repetitive. It should be scrapped and he should retire to his stately pile. Has that ever been seen on Through the Keyhole?
No?
Well, if it ever is, don't bother me.
I'll be out making the tea.

EGGHEADS. (BBC2)

I like the Eggheads. Oh, the show is pretty much the sort of thing that I would usually avoid, but I happen to like the Eggheads themselves and sometimes wonder if I am the only twit in the country who does not obtain a spark of malicious pleasure when, very occasionally, they are beaten.
Strange though it may seem, one of the reasons I find myself siding with them is that they are very much the underdogs in this cunningly manipulated posh pub quiz. Everything is weighted in the challengers' favour. Choice of opponent, whether to go first or second with the questions, knowledge - through viewing past programmes - of the particular Egghead's weak subject and, last and very much least, the programme host, Dermot Murnaghan (a refugee news reader) whose totally one-sided presentation leaves no doubt that he just can't wait to see the clever buggers beaten by somebody...anybody!
In fairness, I do not think Mr. Murnaghan alone is responsible for this "let's beat the smug know-alls" attitude. I feel that those manipulative little sods behind the scenes may have something to do with it, too. Perhaps I am being paranoid, but have they advised challengers whether it will be better to go first or second? Have they suggested loud, open discussions on the Eggheads' perceived strengths and weaknesses? Have they encouraged the challenging team's wild applause and noisy support not only when one of them gets an answer right but when an Egghead gets one wrong?
(We-e-ell, it's good television, innit?)
Meanwhile the unflappable Kevin Ashman answers, briefly and correctly, almost every question put to him. Dear, deceptive Daphne Fowler twinkles as she dispatches yet another rash victim. Ol' Chris Hughes wraps up the simplest answer in a welter of (invariably correct) verbiage. Judith Keppel clearly struggles as the Murnaghan-baited fish-out-of-water and CJ de Mooi, whatever hairstyle, is himself: a laughable, knowledgeable, dismissive, vulnerable, occasionally sulky but mostly likeable young man with an impressive IQ. (He and I would be unlikely to get along but I'm an old man who has to look up IQ in the dictionary.)
I shall continue to watch Eggheads, continue to support the home team and continue to hurl abuse at the leprechaun of a referee.
Don't tell me I should get out more.
I know.

NCIS (Five)

I make no excuse for mentioning NCIS again. It continues to stand way above the majority of the opposition if only for the talent of its scriptwriters. Tonight's episode started with a weekend emergency which brought our team hurrying to Leroy Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) and his by now typecast haircut. There followed some deft throwaway lines culminating in an exchange between Abby (Pauley Perette) and Agent Gibbs which starts with Abby marching in, military style, removing her helmet and giving a left-handed salute:
Gibbs: Wrong hand, Abbs.
(Abby salutes again, right handed)
Abby: Permission to speak freely, sir?
Gibbs: You always do, Abbs.
Abby: I know, but I've always wanted to say that.
And finishes with:
Abby: Thank you, sir!
Gibbs: Don't call me sir.
Abby: Thank you, ma'm. (Exits)
(Gibbs grins)
We grinned, too. This clever, funny, thoughtful show stays high on our don't miss list

67. I still remember...

AND THEY'RE STILL AT WAR.

"You were right," I told the cat Shadow."Football is only an
excuse for more and more war."
He looked surprisingly less than triumphant.
He said: "Saw that business in Rome, did you? No decent cat
would behave like that. We try to look all tough and territorial
but only a psychopathic cat fights for nothing."
I sighed.
"The Italian police certainly didn't seem to need much of
an excuse," I said. "You get the feeling that they were just
waiting to baton-charge a crowd of unarmed foreign
football fans. That they've been waiting for it all year."
"They probably have," he said. "It's an us and them thing
with most police forces. Besides, nobody is going to arrest
the police for assault, are they, no matter how violent. So
they use the excuse to let off steam and practise all the
crowd control thuggery they've been taught during the year."
"Anyway, Manchester United lost," I said as an afterthought.
"Oh, I'm not crowing," he reflected gently. "I may not be
fond of the boot-kicking Scot and his Red Devils but I don't
wish violence on them or their supporters. No, with any luck
Wayne Rooney and Cristiano Ronaldo will score a load of
goals when Roma goes to Old Trafford next Tuesday."
I eyed him in total perplexity:
"Thought you weren't interested in soccer anymore?"
"Oh, I'm not," he said. "I shan't watch it."
"You'll be out beating the bounds then," I said.
He sensed the disbelief in my voice and headed for
the cat flap.
I went the other way.
I still remember the last time he did that...

IT'S A BIT QUIET.

My Leader is in Oxford so it's a bit quiet around here.
Don't ask, just guess that it has everything to do
with looking after cats and you won't be far wrong.
Anyway, she will be back at the weekend.
I shall drive down to meet her off the 4 p.m
boat, BT and Wightlink permitting.
The French have a train which travels at over three
hundred miles an hour. ("Mind your coffee, Henri!")
We have an Oh Mister Porter set-up that goes into line
maintenance melt down every bank holiday.
So Maureen will be back at the helm on Saturday evening, BT
and our generally dependable ferry service permitting.
Why am I telling you this?
I don't know.
Like I said, it's a bit quiet around here.

T.H.WHITE AGAIN.

I have just finished reading the second book in
T.H.White's Arthurian saga The Once And Future King.
The Witch in the Wood is an equally compelling but
altogether different book from The Sword in the Stone.
Much of The Witch in the Wood is taken up with the
origin and effects of war.
Mr. White's philosophy was sound and humane.
His book should be compulsory reading once a year
for Tony Blair.
And once a year it should be read to George Bush

66. It's war everywhere

WHAT FOOTBALL?

"England won," I said to the cat Shadow.
"Won what?" he asked.
"The football," I said.
"What football?"
"The international. Beat Andorra."
"Oh, I was away while all those overpaid prima donnas pranced
about," he grumbled. "Seemed by far the best thing a sensible
cat could do."
"Well, England won 3 - 0," I persisted.
"Not until the second half, though," he said.
I eyed him speculatively.
"Oh, we hear it all up there on the rooftops," he continued.
"News travels fast, especially bad news."
"And a 3 - 0 win is bad news?"
"Given the team they were playing and the time it took...very
bad news."
I gave him my Professor Snape look of hearty detestation.
"Do sod off," I said.
He marched to the cat flap.
Half way out he broke wind.
Just has to have the last word.

ANOTHER GIFT FROM THE CHANCER CHANCELLOR.

A government which contains the tiresome trio Blair, Brown
and Reid is a government with three Scottish connections
too many. Latest of these unworthies to arouse my ire yet
again is the jaw-dropping Chancellor who last week finished
a budget speech by smugly announcing a drop in income
tax, then slapped an extra £5 on the Road Fund Tax for my
little car and required me to pay the extra when I presented
at the post office the following day.
If proof was needed that the only thing worse than a
politician is a child molester, there it is.
What's more, when dear Tony finally gets his backside out of
it, this pillar of probity will probably become Prime Minister.
Bloody hell!

WHY ARE WE THERE AT ALL?

The news that fifteen British sailors and marines had been
captured in disputed waters of the Persian Gulf and were
being held captive in Iran came as the sort of shock that
brings about the reaction: "Right! That's us at war then!"
Now that they have been released, however, is it not
reasonable to ask why we are there at all?
All this 'ferreting out terrorists' bullshit cuts no ice when
it is clear that we are probably only there to safeguard
the price of petrol in America.
And If you think about it, how would we react if a bunch
of Iranian gunboats turned up in The English Channel and
searched passing ships?
Would we accept their claims that they were on the
French side of the water?
Huh!

65. A grumpy pensioner, two decent girls and a departing gangster

A MAN'S COLD.

Don't come too near!
Not even now!
I have had the father and mother of all colds.
It was a man's cold so it was a near death job.
It was definitely not a woman's cold which is just a get on with it job.
My Leader suggested I use paper handkerchiefs. They could,
I was informed, be shredded and flushed down the loo to eventually
reach the sewers where they would no doubt become a major
ingredient in the first ever cold cure for rats.
But I do not like paper handkerchiefs. They are never big enough,
Not even the mansize super-strength supersoft big-as-Texas ones.
They are too thin to be used singly, they become even more
offensively soggy than their cotton counterparts and they are
a sore nose certainty.
All right. So the cotton handkerchief will carry germs which
may be passed on.
But heck!
I did warn you!
Don't come too near!

STILL TRIPPING ON WORDS.

If you have heeded my occasional advice to follow their exploits
you will know that those two lovely young TrippingOnWords
women, Claire and Lara, are in Kenya where they are out
running at odd hours, teaching English to some clearly delightful
children and dispensing free footwear as a (more popular when
trendily new) sideline.
This pair are proof that America has more to offer than friendly
fire fatalities and the distinction of joining two world wars too
late then claiming to have won them. (Who wrote their history
books? Lewis Carroll?)
No, this pair are part of what is good in any country.
They are caring and no little determined to do something
worthwhile. They'll not always be popular with those they
seek to help or, for that matter, with some of their own
countrymen, but they will keep trying I'm sure.
And if, instead of being just an English pensioner, I had been
clever and ruthless enough to become a millionaire, I would
be sending them as many pairs of brand new trainers as
their Kenyan children could possibly use - and then some.
So come on, one of you footwear millionaires, do yourself
and Tumaini Children's Centre a favour. Send them a few
hundred trendy pairs of trainers, gratis.
Just e-mail Claire and Lara@trippingonwords.com
and offer your help.
You'll probably be able to knock the gift off your tax bill
and the publicity value when news of your generosity
reaches the rest of the world will be incalculable.
Why not give it a go?

A FINAL GOODBYE TO TONY? (THE SOPRANOS - CHANNEL 4)

It looks as though we are saying a final goodbye to the gloriously
overweight, overbearing, over-the-top Tony Soprano, played by
James Gandolfini.
He has a macabre charisma. A deceptive menace.
He has a family to die of rather than for, is surrounded
by a mob of arguably the worst hair styles, wigs and
hairpieces in the history of organized crime and has a
surprisingly human tendancy to collapse under stress.
He also has a psychiatrist with the best pair of legs in
the entire trick-cycling world.
He and his mad Mafia mates will be missed.
It is obvious they are going, though.
The Sopranos has been dispatched to an 'adult' time of
night, five past eleven, which is a clear indication
that the silly sods who call themselves schedulers -
or some such fancy description - have decided that
the public is no longer interested in the programme.
Soon it will be past midnight and then one in the
morning before you can view it.
You may programme your recorder to catch it but
the said schedulers will then make last minute
changes to the advertised times.
They did all those things when discarding NYPD Blue
(plus screening it on a seldom viewed Channel) so
they have already set a precedent.
I despair, I really do

64. Shadow's Soccer,Lewis's Oxford, Izzard's Kitchen and NCIS's Abby

FURTHER RUMINATIONS OF THE CAT SHADOW.
"Plenty of soccer on the box last week then," I said to the cat Shadow.
He remained curled up in the chair which he has discovered almost
hides him from the baby Ellis.
He ignored me.
"First it was Arsene Wenger's team," I persisted. "Good game that was."
"FA Cup, wasn't it?" he said suddenly.
I thought: gotcha!
"Think it was, yes," I murmured innocently.
"Yeah," he said, "The boot-kicking Scot's Manchester United played
in the evening. They drew with Steve Coppell's Reading."
I wondered again at his ability to dismiss the names of the football
club managers he does not like and instantly recall those he does.
"Sir Alex seemed quite cordial when they shook hands at the end of
the game," I ventured.
He grunted and gave me his stop being such a creep look.
"Following week United did well against Lille in the Champions'
League, too," I said boldly. "Chalk up another good week for the
boot-kicking Scot."
"Nothing to beat the punch up at the end of the Carling Cup Final,
though, when the unsmiling Frenchman's Gunners and the
Portuguese-in-the-posh-overcoat's Pensioners had their set-to,"
he said jubilantly. "Great start to a sporting week that was. Didn't
I tell you footballers were just a bunch of overpaid, warring buggers?"
"United will win the Reading replay, too," I continued doggedly, "and
the league. Just you see."
"No I won't bloody see," he retorted. "I've had enough mayhem for
this season. In future I'll be beating the bounds or sound asleep."
Don't know why I bother.

LEWIS. (ITV1)

Good old Lewis (Kevin Whately) was given the task of looking after
a best-selling author (Owen Teale) in this second of a three part
series based on the character created by Colin Dexter (who still
does the occasional Hitchcock-style background guest appearance).
I don't think I am spoiling anything by revealing that Lewis lost
his man in spectacular style.
It reminded me of the Morse episode "Twighlight of the Gods"
with John Gielgud, Robert Hardy and Sheila Gish as a singer
who was shot in the quad (not the most desirable spot to be shot).
The writer of this Lewis episode was Alan Plater.
Kevin Whately gave his usual sound performance. Laurence Fox
was the clever Det. Sgt. Hathaway, Clare Holman was back as
Dr. Laura Hobson. Rebecca Front has replaced James Grout as
the Chief Superintendant.
It ran for two hours and was easy viewing.
Lewis is Morseless Morse. And if good old Lewis should ever
decide to move on he could well be replaced by clever Hathaway.
Which will be much like watching good old Morse again.

KITCHEN. (Five)

Drama on Five and a welcome change from the customary diet
of American forensic experts, detectives, documentary dross
and second rate films.
Set in a swank Glasgow restaurant (eh?) this two part play
(a modern presentation so it contained not one really nice
character) was proof yet again that, while actors may not make
good stand-ups, stand-ups often make good actors.
A leading role in Kitchen was played by cross-dressing
stand-up comedian Eddie Izzard and, as a once famous but now
sadly drunken top chef, he was good.
Simon Ashdown's story of sex-obsessed, drug-snorting liars and
thieves was not for the faint-hearted.
Danny, a gifted young cook, was the central character. The main
story concerned whether he could complete his year on probation
for theft given the ill-will of his crooked probation officer, the
attentions of the probation officer's wife and the advances of the
viciously queer sous chef in the kitchen where he worked.
James Young as Danny and the rest of an excellent cast
(Stuart Bowman, Frank Gallagher, Charlene McKenna, Natalie
Robb et al.) made this a kitchen well worth the watching.

NCIS. (Five)

Back to the American forensic experts and detectives again.
But this one remains a cracking example of what television
should be. Entertainment.
Frame-Up had the dislikeable Anthony DiNozzo (Michael
Weatherley) being framed for murdering a couple of
female legs.
Well, not quite, but that's close enough.
The star of this episode was the delightful Abby Scluto
(Pauley Peretta), the team's forensic genius and a prize
cookie understandably cherished by team boss Jethro
Gibbs (Mark Harmon).
I'll not give anything away.
Suffice it to say we enjoyed every gloriously daft, funny,
unbelievable moment.
It even had a twist at the end.

63. Foyle, Sypowicz, Arthur, Bucket, Potter & Those ***king Politicians

FOYLE'S WAR. (ITV 1)

He was back again at the weekend. The excellent Michael Kitchen playing DCS Christopher Foyle. He was accompanied as usual by posh driver Sam Stewart, played by Honeysuckle Weeks (I do so love that name), his "lorst-a-leg-in- action-and-a-wife-when-'e-got-'ome" sergeant, the unfortunate Paul Milner (Anthony Howell) and a reliable cast of wartime appearance actors which included Liz Fraser to remind us that there can be life after Carry On. He was also assisted by his acting trilby, the blue one, just to show that he meant business.
This time poor old Milner was prime suspect in the eyes of everybody...well, everybody but Foyle, Sam, the entire Hastings police station and us... when his absentee wife returned and promptly got done in. Any mockery on my part is gentle.
The acting, the sets, the authentic 39 - 45 feel of it all takes me right back to those magical b/w days of Green For Danger ( Alistair Sim), Went The Day Well? (Leslie Banks) and Cottage To Let (Leslie Banks, Alistair Sim, John Mills and a little boy named George Cole).
Foyle's War rates extremely well, especially alongside the latter two which were simply propaganda films.
A new series soon, please, ITV.

NYPD Blue. Series 12 (More4)

I guess that's it then. Sgt. Sypowicz was seconded to Detectives as predicted in my post before last. It didn't take an egghead to work it out. He was then made boss of the department and succeeded in pissing off the Chief right away by doing that most unacceptable of all things - being right. That figured, too.
He was making a start on the paperwork at the end.
My thanks for some splendid viewing go to Dennis Franz and Co.
Come back soon.

CURRENT READING.

I am reading The Once And Future King the complete edition of T.H. White's Arthurian fantasy (HarperCollins) and am currently close to the end of Book 1, The Sword In The Stone. Terence Hanbury White is required reading.
Born in 1906 and educated at Cheltenham and Cambridge he had written poems, books on sports and some detective stories before finding fame with this first King Arthur tale in 1939. The second book, The Witch In The Wood was published in 1940, the same year that the final volume, The Candle In The Wind was written. Ill-Made Knight and The Book Of Merlyn were produced in 1941.
These are wonderfully imaginative, meticulously researched, beautifully written books by a master of his craft. They will keep me company, along with Keeping Up Appearances, Hyacinth Bucket's unashamedly pretentious Book Of Etiquette for the Socially Less Fortunate (BBC Books) until I re-read Harry Potter And (as I usually refer to him) The Half Cut Prince. That will be just before July 21 this year when Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows brings the series to an end.
I hear that J.K. Rowling has already finished it.
Well, whether she has or she has not:
"Keep writing, J.K., keep writing!"

THOSE GREEDY ***KING POLITICIANS AGAIN.

I hear today that those greedy ***king politicians in London have put up their "grab the motorist's money and sod'im" payment to £8 and extended the boundary further west. I think they call it "congestion tax."
It is actually highway robbery. How much further west do they intend to go?
Reading?
Bristol?
And how long before all the other little local money grabbers follow suit?
Maybe one day millions of we motorists will do what should have done years ago and say: "Get stuffed! We're not paying!"
Well the Tossers in Power would have a job labelling all of us as terrorists, and they surely have neither enough remote MoD airfields nor enough hard-faced American 'friends' to secretly shuffle that many people off to Guantamano Bay.
Have they?

62. Browsing the Box

FIVE DAYS (BBC1)
We enjoyed this thriller by Gwyneth Hughes as much as we
thought we would and our expectations were quite high.
Jack Shepherd's Wycliffe and Michael Kitchen's Foyle apart,
DSI Iain Barclay (Hugh Bonneville) was more restrained than
has been any boss of a television police department since
the monstrous DS Charlie Barlow, played by Stratford Johns,
shouted his way into our living rooms back in the dim and
distant days of Z Cars.
Currently we are suffering the manic DS Peter Boyd
(Trevor Eve) in Waking the Dead (BBC1) and the
bellowing DCS Michael Walker (David Hayman) in
Trial and Retribution (ITV1).
DSI (whatever that may stand for) Barclay was a change
for the better.
Met too many of the likes of Boyd and Walker in my army
days.
They were pricks, too.

YOU DON'T KNOW YOU'RE BORN.

Despite an obvious rip-off from the earlier (BBC) genealogy
series, Who Do You Think You Are? (Moira Stuart, Ian Hislop
etc.) this short ITV1 series turned out to be a steal with a
neat twist.
It invited celebrity participants to find out about their
ancestors and, as they did so, to try their hands at some of
the jobs done by them.
This week it was the charismatic Ken Stott.
He found a Scottish past in baking and tailoring and, on his
Italian side, one in both fish selling and the priesthood.
His attempts as baker, tailor and fisherman were good
natured and (as could be expected) immensely watchable.
At times, despite his best efforts, his depth of feeling was
palpable.
Everywhere he went he was clearly liked and respected.
No surprise there.
My Leader likes him: my daughters like him: even our
bloody cat likes him.
And he still manages to keep his private life private.
I'd like him if only for that.

61. A nostalgic trip from Sherwood to New York

A SPLENDID FILM.

I watched Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves again at the weekend.
Director Kevin Reynolds. Year of release, 1991.
Doesn't seem possible..
Everyone except me is sixteen years older now.
It was, still is, a splendid film..
What a cast.
Kevin Costner and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio could not have had better fellow actors.
Dear ol' Brian Blessed shouted his way to an early demise. Only way to go, Brian.
Alan Rickman (even better than Basil Rathbone) again called off Christmas before smilingly making a dear departed of his incompetent fellow villain, Guy of Gisbourne, played by Michael Wincott.
Will Scarlett (Christian Slater) was the good - bad - good half-brother of Robin of Locksley.
Robin's friend, Azeem, was the redoubtable Morgan Freeman, upstaged by nobody.
Michael McShane made a massively impressive Friar Tuck and Nick Brimble a hugely likeable Little John.
There was Walter Sparrow, blindly blundering, Harold Innocent, sanctimoniously sneaking and a marvellously mad Mortianna in the barely recognizable form of Geraldine McEwan.
Then, finally, when Friar Tuck performed the Robin/Marian wedding ceremony at the end:
"If any man knows of any...(reason why these two should not be married)... let him speak now," he was answered by the only Scottish Richard The Lionheart in Christendom: "I have shomething to shay." And King Richard (Sean Connery) entered Stage R. on horseback.

I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed it the first time around.

NYPD BLUE (More4).
A while back some bright programme planners (huh!) decided that NYPD Blue was no longer suitable entertainment for current audiences.
Obviously cheap reality television and crap game shows were in.
So this once vaunted cop show was shoved further and further into the dark hours until you needed to be a night watchman or an insomniac to keep abreast of it.
Now it languishes on More4.
It has reached 17/20 Series 12.
Andy Sipowicz (Dennis Franz) has been made a uniformed Sergeant and is clearly not too happy.
Greg Medavoy (Gordon Clapp) has found a romantic interest and is seriously considering leaving the force.
Reckon Sipowicz back to Detective before the series ends?
Ah-h-h-h-h! Why should we care? Obviously the so-called programmers/schedulers - whatever - don't.

60. Thoughts on an Ellisless day

BABY BOO AND ME.

The baby Ellis (20 months) will not be in to see me today.
My Leader has gone to his house to be there if the delivery van arrives from a local DIY shop ("We will deliver from 8 am onwards"). Time was when trades people delivered at times requested but now they tell you what they will or won't do. We've become far too apathetic in this country.
Anyway, his mother (our Roz) is off doing her lollipop lady job and, as decreed by Sod's Law, will probably not be around when the van arrives.
Hence the change in the usual arrangement.
The usual arrangement is for Roz to arrive here each schoolday morning bringing daughter Jess (who is a pupil at the school across the road from us) and the baby Ellis who stays with us until his mother returns from work.
He has his own routine.
First he greets his grandmother who is always downstairs to meet them all.
The 'hallo' drops in the middle and rises again, the 'there' becomes 'air.'
"A-a-a-o-o-Oa-a-aiR."
He then climbs the stairs, unaided, comes to me, sitting in bed, and says : "A-a-o-O, Boo."
A month or so ago I was Daish (presumably his attempt at Dennis) and my Leader was, still is, Gosh (not a clue where that came from).
Now I am Boo.
How that happened is not exactly clear, either.
But I feel very flattered because Boo is Roz's pet name for him so I feel he associates it with someone who is loved.
My invariable reply is: "'Allo, baby Boo."
He then holds his arms wide and reaches up to give me a quick cuddle.
Next he turns to my bedside cabinet, picks up the recumbent phone and settles it on its stand.
If I have not donned my glasses he lifts them off the cabinet and ceremoniously hands them to me.
A Boo without spectacles is not a satisfactory Boo.
And then he turns and points up to where the biscuit tin resides on top of my chest of drawers.
You see, a Boo without spectacles might lose the location of the biscuit tin.
He dances on tippytoes as the biscuit tin comes down and applies maximum concentration to the choosing of the right biscuit.
Biscuit chosen he heads for the door, takes the ten stairs to the ground floor on his backside, and until his breakfast arrives settles in my armchair to watch Bob The Builder, Barney, Poo Bear, Balamory or that Octopus thingy on video.
His conversation about it all is constant and mostly unintelligible.
I think the cat Shadow understands him.
When baby Ellis croons: "Ah-h-h, ca-a-at..." it is time to curl up in a tighter ball or head for the catflap
Of course I sometimes sigh a heartfelt sigh of relief when the little bloke goes home.
But when he has gone a certain emptiness comes over the place.
It does not really wake up again until the next cry of:
"A-a-a-a-o-o-oha-a-a-aiR!"

I SHALL BE WATCHING...

BBC1 are showing the new drama Five Days over three nights this week and two nights next.
So far it has been a splendid example of what televiewing should be about.
The story is gripping.
The acting is superb.
The direction is faultless.
It is a thoroughly professional presentation.
I may tape anything which could arguably compete but I shall certainly be watching Five Days.

I SHALL NOT BE WATCHING...

The world famous Australian cook John Torode (who?) famous, presumably, for his braised kangaroo and the greengrocer Gregg Wallace (who?) elevated to nutrition expert for a week, are back on BBC2 with their reality 'let's scoff their food and insult them' tele cook show.
I may watch something I've taped but I shall certainly not be watching MasterChef Goes Large.

59. Ruminations of the cat Shadow

MORE FOOTBALL COMMENT.

I went downstairs to the cat Shadow.
He was curled up on his big beanbag and appeared to be asleep.
He opened one eye.
"Where you been?" he demanded.
"Blog," I replied, trying not to sound too defensive.
He snorted.
"Y'know," I said, "you're the only cat I've ever come across who can snort."
"You missed the football," he said. "It was the team managed by that bloke who kicks boots at people when they lose. They lost. You'll be sorry you missed that."
He seldom gives Alex Ferguson a name, never mind Sir Alex. He is convinced that there walks one knight of the realm who would kick a football boot at a convenient cat if Manchester United lost.
"Up against Arsenal, weren't they?" I inquired.
"The unsmiling Frenchman. Him with Thierry Henri in his team: and still he can't smile."
"That's Arsene Wenger," I said. "He probably smiles inside."
"He must have done at the end of that game," the cat Shadow chortled. "In extra time ol' Henri rose head and shoulders above the very best in the Premiership to head the winner."
"I would have liked to see that," I admitted.
"Oh, just watch the footie programmes for a couple of weeks," he said. "It'll be repeated often enough."
"Didn't Arsenal beat them away, too?"
"Yep. It was the double. Talk about snow in Scotland. There was sure ice at the Emirates Stadium when those managers did the hypocritical handshake at the end. They didn't even look at each other."
"It's good to see the magnanimity of two sporting leaders," I said. "Lifts your heart."
"Don't it just," he said.

THEN THE WHOLE SPORTS THING.

I had barely got comfortable when he landed on my lap with all the arrogance of a cat who has owned you for long enough to know who's boss.
"Truth to tell," he ventured, "I don't have much time for sport. I think its benefits are greatly overrated."
"Go on, maestro," I said.
"Well, take the English. Not bad at games where they can be jolly good losers and tell themselves that it isn't the winning but the taking part that counts. Rubbish at sports where the only point in competing is to win and make money."
"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?" I said. "We started things like football and cricket. You can't expect to win all the time just because you invented something. Other countries will desperately want to beat us because we invented the game."
"Other countries will desperately want to beat us because they hate our guts." he said. "Look at the Scots with football. Look at the Welsh and French with rugger. Look at the Aussies with cricket. Don't even think about the Irish. And look at the whole of Europe with the Eurovision song contest."
That's neither sport nor entertainment," I objected.
"Whatever," he said. "If a sensible cat had been running things this country would have opted out of all sports. Sports are just wars waged on playing fields. We won the wars years ago. Why fight them again now?
"England should have refused to appear on a cricket pitch after Douglas Jardine and Harold Larwood polished off the Australians. They should have packed in football before the Hungarians came along. As for rugger, if they had done the right thing and expelled that boy who picked up the ball at Rugby School thousands of broken bones and cauliflower ears would have been avoided. Anyway, if you can't beat 'em don't play 'em. Sod sportsmanship, it doesn't exist."
"Snooker?" I suggested, cautiously.
"Club game made big by tele," he said. "The more money it attracts the less friendly it will become. You see."
I sighed.
I started to tell him that he was not in favour of sport because he was such a bad loser.
But he had already gone back to sleep.

58. Bloggerdom is a very big place indeed

THOSE CUSSED BLOGS OF NOTE.

I have allowed myself to be influenced by the BlogEd's cussed
Blogs Of Note again.
Fatal mistake.
I am still enjoying TrippingOnWords at least once a week and have been brought down to earth by the realization that Bloggerdom is a very big place indeed.
Not all of it is given over to advertisements, technical photographs and bloggerdegook.
Yesterday I sat enthralled at the Adventures of the Urban Cowgirl.
This lovely Londoner moved to New Zealand last year.
Her description of being swung above a gorge on some sort of rope and wire device is priceless.
Scared to tears, but fuck it, she'd paid for it.
Her search for a job took me back fifty years.
The BlogEds didn't stop there.
They put me on to gilest.org where the freelance writer Giles Turnbull had me laughing aloud at his experience with an old couple's narrow boat and head shaking with admiration at his determination to mend a washing machine.
Neither of these bloggers is just a keyboard tapper.
Both will have a go at something active.
Think I might take a stroll down town later on.

MORE MIDSOMER MURDERS.

Yep, they're back to their killing ways again. A new three part series of Midsomer Murders started last night on ITV1.
A walk up a long driveway still has dear old John Nettles sounding as though he has run a mile.
Dead bodies can appear in pairs.
Patrick Troughton's son, David, and the West's boy, Samuel, were (as they are in just about everything nowadays) welcome guests.
I wrestled with falling asleep because after ten I can do that,
My Leader shouted me awake a couple of times.
I enjoyed every waking moment..
They can keep their all too serious reality television.
At the same time I recorded NCIS followed by Law And Order; Criminal Intent.
Probably it will be more of Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) and Det Robert Goran (Vincent D'Onofrio) trying to convince me that murderers who have been set free by plea bargaining can gain access to any secure establishment in America and open fire on the hapless denizens.
I shall scoff at the notion.
I shall check on Mark Harmon's haircut.
I shall remark that there must be a competition going on between Vincent D'Onofrio and David Caruso for the title America's Most Mannered Actor.
And I shall enjoy the entire silliness of it all.

57. A Connecticut Yankee in King Kos's Court

BUT FIRST THE SCOTS.

Taggart was back on the box last night. A new one-off (ITV1).
This is a Scottish thriller for Scots.
White Heather Club it ain't.
What it is, in case you are anti thriller or living in another dimension, is Detective Chief Inspector Matt Burke (Alex Norton) and his unglamorous crew taking on an assortment of hardcase Scottish villains.
There are no sympathetic characters (except perhaps the gay Detective Constable Stuart Fraser played by Colin McCredie) and the grim, generally ugly, locations chosen by the makers of the show are well matched by the grim, generally ugly, appearance of most of the cast.
It seethes with violence and resentment.
It has incomprehensible plots with stark endings.
It is snarled out in a broad Scottish brogue.
It defies you to be critical and if you are: stuff you!
You're probably a Sassenach anyway.
I love it.

BLOG WARS.

This was a sort of Connecticut Yankee in King Kos's court documentary in the Storyville series on BBC4 and told of the remarkable influence wielded by bloggers like Kos in the Connecticut Democratic Senatorial primary race of the 2006 mid-term elections. (Whatever all that may mean.)
I have about as much faith in politicians as I do in clergymen or estate agents or tabloid journalists.
So I did find it rather sad, and no little disturbing, that one young woman sat cross-legged (the lotus position?) mouthing a relentless diatribe about anybody who dared to criticise the glorious leader of her faultless country. There was something of the automaton about it.
The politician the bloggers were bent on deposing was clearly a smug tosser.
The one they had chosen to replace him was clearly a wealthy tosser.
I wondered what everybody over there was on.
It could almost have been written by Mark Twain.
I was reminded again that we are divided by a common language.
I remembered the unwittingly funny comment by the 1963 - 69 U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson that he never arrived in another country without thinking that the people there would like to be Americans.
What a smug, dog-ear-pulling President that one was!
I am an admirer of many things American.
But much of what they have exported they should have kept to themselves.

THAT CELEBRITY BIG BROTHER THING.

Was this an American import?
After all the free publicity gained from accusations of bullying I gather that the recently mediocre viewing figures for this dire crap shot up by a couple of million last night.
No, I wasn't one of them.
Channel 4 will be overjoyed of course.
They will probably be planning yet another series.
There's no justice.

56. Up, Up and Away!

BACK AGAIN WITH HIGH HOPES.

Late this afternoon I found myself back in touch with the world without resorting to magic.
I think both Merlin and Albus Dumbledore would have been impressed by the tortuous route I had been taking to break out of the Outlook Express/Blogger prison in which I found myself.
But at last I appear to be free.
So as Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, once said: " Publish and be damned!"
My thanks as ever go to my long-suffering son and, this time, to the Broadband Band at Tesco's broadbandsupport, too.
I am back again - with high hopes!

BULLIES ARE STILL SCUM.

The news in the last couple of days has included an item about a Bollywood star in the Big Brother house who, it is alleged, has been mercilessly bullied by fellow occupants.
Viewers have complained of racial discrimination and ceaseless mockery.
As I have remarked before, I do not watch any of this unreal reality crap.
So why a girl from any film world would choose to join such a show is beyond me.
Are they paid that much to have some voyeuristic little prick who calls himself a television producer train a camera on them day and night?
And so far as the guilty housemates are concerned, bullies really are scum.
Surely it is time now to drop this excuse for entertainment altogether.
Pay a few more actors.
Make a few more films and plays.
Bring back variety.
Gawdalmighty! Go mad if you have to!
Teach Jade Goody to juggle!

55. At last 2007!

MADE IT!

I did complete a post.
Took me the entire afternoon last Monday.
Came to the Publish bit and everything went haywire.
The computer had been intermittently playing silly baskets since the beginning of the year and it chose that moment to lose the lot.
Nothing went right after that.
Until today.
Today Neil, the Cornish guru, studied the problem via Skype.
I pointed our camera at the screen while he dispensed instructions and did some educated guesswork.
Worked surprisingly well.
He has Emailed me a possible solution.
Within minutes of our parting company my broadband problem service rang.
I must admit that after a couple of days I had begun to think that the biggest problems were (1) to contact them and (2) to understand them when you did.
This time it was a readily understandable chap with a degree in patience and tact.
It took ages, mind, and left me feeling somewhat ashamed of my intolerance with all the previous waiting.
I suppose they're dealing with lengthy problems and difficult customers every day.
It's just that when you have been told you will be in a queue, or given a time to expect a call...Ah well.
In the end, though, problem sorted.
So I'm up and running in 2007.
Unless this whole thing goes pear shaped on me as soon as I try to publish.

54. Winding down, taking stock and moving on...

WINDING DOWN.

That's it then, another Christmas over (unless you're the sort of pedant who insists on counting the entire twelve days) and time to wind down.
Me? I am winding down by writing this.
My Leader? She is winding down by doing the ironing.
The cat Shadow? He, convinced that he is helping, is winding down asleep alongside my Leader.
It is an overcast but dry day (just in case anyone worries that an Englishman may have failed to mention the weather) and the year, which used to last ten years when we were young, has gone by in about ten days.

TAKING STOCK.

A helicopter has just gone over.
Probably from the hospital on the Island to the hospital at Southampton.
Somebody will be in urgent need of specialist care.
By comparison to whoever that poor soul is we've not had a bad year.
My Leader remains the irresistible force.
I remain the immovable object.
We tend to avoid head-on confrontation.
If you feel you have something to say that would really hurt, don't say it!
Our children and their spouses are in good nick, as are our grandchildren.
Yep, compared to that poor soul in the helicopter...
All we have to do now is see out the old year and see in the new.

AND MOVING ON.

We shall also have to get the insurance claim settled for the accident caused when, just before Christmas, a car came across against the traffic lights and hit our car which my Leader was driving, alone, after taking a friend on a hospital visit.
Always happens like that, doesn't it?
Fortunately neither driver was hurt and there is a witness that Maureen, driving through on a green light, was in no way to blame.
However, due to my connection with them many years ago, I am insured with the charity Age Concern about which I have considerable doubts...
More anon.
Meantime a Happy New Year to my reader and to anyone else who happens to look in.
Be lucky.

53. Readin', writin' and, of course, watchin'.

READIN'

I have just finished reading The Jester by James Patterson and Andrew Gross. This historical thriller runs out at one hundred and fifty four small chapters and (ignoring the occasional 'A man in a deep blue robe with a white beard...' sort of line - and if you are writing over five hundred pages you can surely be granted a little poetic licence) is a darned good read.
My best read of the month, though, is personal and came from the journalist Ian Dillow, former Wessex Regional Health Authority Information Officer and one-time editor of the quarterly Wessex Health Services newspaper, Link.
In Ian's own words: 'This year Jean [his charming wife] and I have decided to follow the growing custom of writing a letter...to summarise our activities during the last 12 months. We have personalised your copy by adding a genuine hand-written signature at the end. We feel that this touch of added warmth is entirely consistent with this season of goodwill.'
There follows a report, month by month, of the fantastic exploits of these two dare-devil record breakers.
Everything from Ian coming first in the PGA Golf Championship to Jean's circumnavigation of the globe in the individual sculling competition, to their joint Nobel Prize for their work with Soya beans and on to, finally, their decision to go back to their favourite pastime of Active Volcano Bungee Jumping.
They have promised to let me know how they get on as they will be trying out a new type of bungee elastic which is guaranteed to send them 75% lower but has suspect fire-resistant properties.
I tried to move quickly but I believe there may be a damp patch in my armchair.
They are off to the New World for a couple of months.
We wish them a grand Christmas and an uproarious New Year.

WRITIN'

I have finally written the Christmas cards.
My Leader had sort of questioned the notion of cards this year.
The privatized postal service - if you can so describe it - has introduced a lunatic system of payment by envelope size.
I've stuck first class stamps on just about everything except letters going abroad.
Balls to the new P.O.
Oh, and what sort of so-called government has left essential services like water, electricity, gas, railways (no matter the number of anti-social sods they may have employed) and fast disappearing post offices in private hands?
A Twats In Power sort of government, that's what.

WATCHIN'

We watched Richard Curtis's Love Actually...without expecting anything very different from Four Weddings... or Notting Hill.
It had Alan Rickman in it, though, splendidly cast against type. Not that the diffident horn-rimmed glasses fooled any but the most gullible. When Rowan Atkinson was making a meal of giftwrapping a parcel for him I found myself wondering whether Harry Potter's bete noir might suddenly emerge to leave Rowan dangling helplessly, upside-down, in mid-air.
We enjoyed it, anyway.
The State Within (BBC1) concluded with Sir Mark (Jason Isaacs) winning through despite rogue Brits and the American Secretary of Defence, Lynne Warner (Sharon Gless).
There were dead bodies and hurt feelings everywhere.
I watched it with the cat Shadow.
'Never mind, mate,' he said afterwards, 'he'll be Lucius Malfoy again next year.'
Keep writing, J.K.!
Jam and Jerusalem (BBC1) becomes less of a comedy by the week.
It is more a gentle drama of English village life now.
Perhaps I blinked but I missed Joanna Lumley altogether.
Didn't see the lollipop lady, either.
Still, if you have the sort of cast Jennifer Saunders has attracted you are never going to be short of watchable characters.
Into The West concluded on BBC2 at the weekend.
What happened at places like Wounded Knee will forever haunt Americans concerned to uphold human decency.
But the injustices will mostly be forgotten.
In the same way that they have been here and in every other colonizing country.
Housewife 49 (ITV1) was an evocative wartime story written by Victoria Wood and based on the Mass Observation diary of Nella Last. Again the casting was impeccable with Victoria Wood as Nella, David Threlfell as her husband and Stephanie Cole as the formidable leader of the local Women's Voluntary Service group.
It will doubtless be repeated and (particularly for those of a certain age who may have missed it) deserves watching.

READIN', WRITIN' and WATCHIN'

Those nice girls from TrippingOnWords sent me a line saying thanks.
They didn't need to so their courtesy was the more appreciated.
I have looked in a couple of times recently and seen a dear little lad, Perry (?), who is very like our 19 months old grandson Ellis, having his hair cut.
I have also heard some gloriously incomprehensible explanation of an in-the-know game dealing with parents' names or something.
I have read what they have written about the Kenya project and been surprised that somebody who would write to them decrying Christian involvement in another country would decline to give a name.
I'm no believer, either.
But if something is important I would never choose to withhold my name.
And anybody who writes to me anonymously will be instantly deleted. Neither their argument nor their expression of it will get a second glance.
Happy Christmas, Tripping team.

52. Dare I say it? It's nearly Christmas!

WE'LL FEEL NAKED AFTERWARDS.

Our place is decorated - discreetly as you might expect from a bloke who believes that too much is worse than none at all - and the half Christmas tree (imitation Canadian pine allegedly), which is as big as our little living room can take, is all lit up and looking festive.
We stopped believing that you simply have to have a real tree some years back when the beautiful specimen we bought fresh from a dealer had been sited in the large living room of a bungalow we owned at the time.
After I had festooned it with goodies and three lots of lights, one of our cats came in and pissed up it.
We had to re-site it.
It looked good in the front garden, though, and all the neighbours enjoyed it.
That cat was an ASBO candidate who would bring back two dead rabbits a day from the surrounding fields.
I remember remarking that it would have served him right if the lights had been turned on.
He wouldn't have bothered, though.
He was the sort of cat who would have blown all the fuses and walked away unscathed.
The cat Shadow laughed when I told him the story.
Anyway, the decorating's all done now.
Well, dare I say it? It's nearly Christmas.
News reaches that the PC brigade are trying to have the description Christmas holiday abandoned in favour of the term Winter holiday so that other religions are not slighted. What bilge!
I am a devout non believer.
Not R.C., Parsee, buckshee or Pharisee.
My old mother avers that I shall never get to heaven to which I respond that I am relying on it because heaven will surely be full of the sanctimonious sods I have been avoiding for years.
But I begrudge nobody a share of the joy that is Christmas.
The tree goes up, the lights go on, the decorations are sorted, the cards are written, the turkey is ordered - and the trimmings, the booze bought, the mince pies, the Christmas pudding, the cake, the big box of sweets, the C.D. of festive songs...
Friends, of whatever persuasion, and family are welcome.
Then comes the sudden realization that another year will soon be over.
The decorations will have to come down.
The tree, too.
We will feel naked for a while afterwards.
Everything will be back to normal.
So let everybody enjoy a happy Christmas while it lasts.
Even the P.C. brigade.

51. That Perishin' Profile!.

SORRY IF YOU'RE DISAPPOINTED.

After four months that Perishin' Profile is finally sorted.
I tried to complete it a couple of times before but, needless to say, lacked the facility.
Had no usable picture and, even if I had, would probably not have sussed out how to make it appear to order.
Am hopelessly impatient with instructions whether written or verbal. In my early years the army was full of gits giving orders.
Furthermore, the save button never seemed to save a word
I spoke again, on Skype, to our son in Cornwall.
'Think you could do something about this perishin' profile picture, Neil?'
'Sure. I've got some pictures we took while you were here in August. I'll sort something out.'
He did.
Downloaded and saved it, too.
That day.
The rest I just completed here on the Island.
If you are my reader I'm sorry if you're disappointed.
I didn't think it was that bad a picture of an old geezer, but I got a bit of a shock when the Blogging Ed translated my birth date into years.
Christ! Am I really that old?

THOSE TRIPPINGONWORDS GIRLS.

Oh well, though I doubtless qualify as one of the do-nothing-go-nowhere negative influences they abhor, I still enjoy visiting the blogsite of those TrippingOnWords girls.
They're what the future is about.
I was fascinated by the dunking experts.
In England the word dunk is used only to describe dipping part of a biscuit (cookie) into a drink (usually tea or coffee) before eating it. The use of the word as a description for dropping a ball through a net is something new to me.
Good, though.
Took me right back to the fabulous Harlem Globe Trotters.
Enjoy Las Vegas, you two.
And good luck to Claire's dad next year.

THE VIEWING WEEK.

They've all been on the box again.
NCIS on Channel Five has gone back to Series 1.
I do wish they wouldn't do that.
It's like the old Danny Kaye song where he intones: 'This is a picture that ends in the middle for the benefit of the people who came in in the middle...this, this is the end!'
Well it really is the bitter end.
Anybody who saw the first series would have to be totally uncritical to watch it again straight after the second series.
Programme planners? I spit!

CSI MIAMI (Channel Five) is still running previously unscreened series four.
Trouble is, at 25 episodes a series I can't help feeling the stories are often rehashes of those done in previous episodes or series, or on ol' Bill Petersen's CSI, or on CSI NY or even on Murder, She Wrote. I jest, Ms.Lansbury, I jest!

TORCHWOOD (BBC2) continues to entertain.
Russell T. Davies and Toby Whitehouse were the writers for Greeks Bearing Gifts this week.
The series was the brainchild of the former and anything he is involved in is going to be watchable.
The man is a seriously gifted television writer.

THE STATE WITHIN (BBC1) heads towards a conclusion equalled only by the real life drama surrounding poisoned former KGB opponents of the current Russian regime.
Sir Mark Brydon (Jason Isaacs) is rushing around punching people in the face because they may or may not have been involved in the ungodly goings on which beset him.
His few friends are dropping like flies.
It's the last episode next week.
I hope I can understand a bit more by the time it ends.

JAM AND JERUSALEM (BBC1) Never judge any television series on the first episode.
The second episode of this pleasant little village mockery was much less hilarious than the opener.
I still have high hopes, though.
Love Joanna Lumley.
And do so hope the lollipop lady will be back.

FOOTIE - Uefa Cup (Channel Five)
It was Eintracht Frankfurt v Newcastle United on Thursday. I asked the cat Shadow if he wanted to watch and he said Newcastle beat Pompey last Saturday. So sod 'em.
He really is a very bad loser.