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

GOOD TELE, INNIT?

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

MARPLE UNVEILED.

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

ROWAN PUTS HIS OAR IN.

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

LARK RISE TO CANDLEFORD (BBC1).

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

THE PALACE (ITV 1).

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

97. An Independent reader, watcher and complainant

AN INDEPENDENT READER.

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

(IGNORING BIGOTRY - final paragraph)
It is as well that Yasmin Alibhai-Brown of The Independent does not read stuff like this. I would not want to add to her despair at the state of the national psyche. But there you are, concerned lady, an awful lot of old buckets will have to be kicked before this country becomes a haven for any but the likes of Al Murray's Pub Landlord or, more insidiously, those like me who sadly can condone bigotry by ignoring it.

LAMENT FOR A DEPARTING MARPLE.

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

[Avoid abominable alliteration. Ed]

REPETITION, REPETITION, REPETITION.

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

AND A WORD OF PRAISE.

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

96. Mainly Musical Memories

A FEW CHERISHED RECORDINGS.

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

AND MEMORIES...

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

95. Another load of readin' and watchin'

COOPER AND CARSON - TWO GOOD READS.

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

THE GOLDEN COMPASS.

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

NCIS (FIVE - Fridays)

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

POLITICS (Very briefly)

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

NEGLECTED ONES.

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

FOOTNOTE.

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

94. Happy New Year

THAT'S IT.

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

NCIS. (Five)

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

NO RESOLUTIONS.

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

93. Goodbye Rebus, Hallo Gibbs, Merry Xmas All

I HAD A MAN'S COLD.

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

CRANFORD IS THE VERY BEST. (BBC1 - Sundays)

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

NCIS. (Five - Fridays)

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

REBUS. (ITV1)

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

WHAM! IT'S CHRISTMAS AGAIN.

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


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

92. Old ones, new ones, loved ones...

CRANFORD (BBC1 - Sundays)

Just glance down the cast list and you can sense a superb series. This is Elizabeth Gaskell's Cheshire market town beautifully staged and looking, though I feel sure Miss Deborah Jenkyns (Eileen Atkins) would deplore my saying so, a million dollars.
Something to record after the Antiques Roadshow, then.
We shall still watch Long Way Down (BBC2) until the very end. Boorman and McGregor are compulsive viewing.

EGGHEADS. (BBC2 - nightly)

Last week the Eggheads were beaten twice in two days.
On Tuesday they lost to a team of museum people who departed with £33,000.
On Wednesday they were beaten by a bunch of tax inspectors, but the prize money was back to £1,000. (Hurray!)
Time to demand a change in the format, Eggheads.
And the departure of Dreadful Dermot.

WE CAN'T ALL BE EGGHEADS.
(Or museum people or, thanks be, tax inspectors.)

On Monday at 7.30 pm my Leader reminded me that Mastermind was about to start.
"Hurry up or you'll miss the chance to get your two right answers," she advised cheerfully.
The gifted imagination of television schedulers ensures that half an hour of Mastermind (John Humphrys being consistently pleasant) is followed by half an hour of University Challenge (Jeremy Paxman being occasionally likeable).
After Mastermind I repaired to the kitchen.
When "Come on! Come on!" Paxman started his introduction I bolted back to the television.
"What's the rush?" my bemused Leader called after me.
The truth will out.
"Must try to increase my right answers to four."

MATCH OF THE DAY LIVE. (BBC1 - Wednesday 19th November)
England 2 - Croatia 3

So England failed to qualify for Euro 2008.
The scoreline says it all.
The cat Shadow departed long before it finished.
England manager Steve McClaren and assistant Terry Venables departed shortly after it finished.
I departed at 9 pm to watch Heroes on BBC2.

NCIS. (Five)

At the end (a while back) of what I took to be the final series, Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon), having quit his job, walked along a beach to meet up with his old boss.
I thought that was it.
NCIS was over.
Now it seems he may have had a dream in a shower or something because a new series is being advertised and the word repeat has not been mentioned.
If this really is brand new and has never been shown here before, great!
I need no longer watch repeats of

CRIMINAL MINDS. (Five)

Where each week dear old Mandy Patinkin, gravitas glasses on the end of his nose, appears with The Sequential Dialogue Club.
This is a delightful load of bunkum in which it is clear that from me - to you - via her - to him - back to Mandy dialogue has been allocated to the ensemble, sequentially, to be delivered without pause for breath or suggestion of thought.
Sometimes two or three people share a sentence.
It is democracy gone mad.
Once the Criminal Mind of the week has been terminated, a voice-only who sounds a lot like Mandy Patinkin delivers a worldly-wise denouement - without let or hindrance - and that's that.
I still enjoy it.
Though ol' Mandy really is better when he's singing.

CSI (Five)

Thinking about sequential dialogue brought to mind my one bone of contention with CSI.
No forensic or other expert in a CSI/NY/Miami (whatever) episode is ever allowed to express a view without some fellow cast member simplifying it, in alternative words, for the benefit of the viewing public.
Ever stopped to wonder at the incredible patience of experts who take no offence at this?
I have.
I find myself longing for just one expert who will yell: "Stop re-wording everything I say, you smart-ass! Fuck off!"

91. A few more Dribs and Drabs

CANUTE AT THE SEASIDE.

When we moved here seven years ago I could sit at my computer by the upstairs workroom window and, on the corner of a road just along from our garage, take in the sight of a pleasant little bungalow probably built around the time of the second world war.
It stood in a reasonable garden.
Then, a few months ago, it was demolished.
The entire site has now been taken up by a three storey block of flats. It is the second of its kind to be built around here, less than a hundred yards apart, in the past six months. Most of them are devoid of private parking.
Seems councils have been counselled that people who choose to live in flats should not be encouraged to own cars. Well. the shops are but a short walk away.
I am well aware that the jaw-dropping Scot and his henchpersons are tossers - they are M.P.s after all - and I do realize that the local prats-in-power are fiscally bound to creep to central government.
But are not their sad attempts to drive more and more people back to the pre 1950 days of mass public transport just another example of Canute at the seaside?
Mark you, with petrol at the cost it is now even old Two Jags Prescott may soon have to use his bus pass.

EIGHT WASTED MINUTES, YOUR MAJESTY.

Yes, all that pomp and paraphernalia and thumping on doors just for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2 to tell us, in eight wasted minutes, that her government is going to stick its oar into education...health...oh...you name it...you've heard it all before.
The eight minutes would have been far better spent if the aforementioned Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly lady who really has done me no harm) had been allowed to say:
"My government will make the same almighty cockup of absolutely everything that it and previous governments have for as long as I, or any of my subjects, can remember. It will also indulge in the same lies and deception to cover up its considerable shortcomings. That having been said, my husband and I look forward, with wry amusement, to the childish party squabbling which, no doubt, my words will engender at Westminster in the near future."

A COLLINS MOMENT.

Love her or loathe her, ol' Joan Collins does occasionally come out with a gem.
Talking to Melanie Sykes on The Paul O'Grady Show recently, she was asked whether there was anything sexy about kissing handsome actors in films. Her reply was a throwaway masterpiece.
"No. You are too worried about being on the right camera. And makeup are too worried that you might smudge your lipstick - or smudge his lipstick!"
Wicked.

SPOOKS OR MIAMI?

On Tuesday nights at 9 o'clock it is either Spooks on BBC1 or CSI: Miami on Five. Or watch one of them and record the other. Both are hilarious tosh, but while the former has actors. the latter has David Caruso and his acting sunglasses.
I cannot choose between them so I always record Spooks and watch it after I have seen Miami with my Leader. She does not watch Spooks. Well, apart from Peter Firth there are no antiques in it.
On the other hand, David Caruso's sunglasses are probably worth as much as any antique.
My Leader and I count how many times ol' David stands sideways to talk to somebody.
My Leader: "Why do you think he stands like that?"
Me: "To avoid being kicked in the balls."
(Later)
My Leader: "He's got that strange, wistful look on his face again."
Me: "Perhaps he forgot to stand sideways."
Both of us: "Hallo! He's putting his sunglasses on! There'll be trouble now..."

JOE'S PALACE.

One of the Spooks stalwarts, Rupert Penry-Jones, had a leading role in this absorbing drama by Stephen Poliakoff. The main character, Joe, was beautifully portrayed by newcomer Danny Lee Wynter and the eccentric billionaire who employed him to act as doorkeeper at a mansion was that star actor, very funny interviewee and self-proclaimed liar, Sir Michael Gambon.
Nothing ever seems to happen in a Poliakoff story. You just have to keep watching.
The end was worth the wait.

90. Unresolved history, a bit of tele and a new film

DECENT COPPERS DON'T GET THANKED ENOUGH.

On Tuesday last we had a telephone call from P.C. Gamble, the police officer who took our statements when we experienced the abortive burglary early this month, to tell us that CCTV footage on the cameras closest to where we live have revealed no sign of any suspiciously sneaking, or obviously fleeing, white-jacketed figure.
Nobody saw anything of the cheeky git or any companion(s) he may have had. He simply disappeared like one of the subjects of the TV series Without a Trace.
He is unresolved history.
Meantime I have not only renewed the security at the back of the house but have opted to double it.
Paul, the nice chap who originally supplied and fitted the garage door, advised me to drill holes through the bottom of the door and continue straight on down for least four inches into the concrete floor. Then drop six inch bolts through.
So when he had repaired the damage that is exactly what I did. If matey tries his arm again he may, with any luck, pull his shoulders out of joint.
The mental insecurity these little bastards cause is incalculable.
Our thanks, though, to P.C. Gamble for his common sense approach to the whole tiresome business.
Decent coppers don't get thanked often enough.

SMILEY'S PEOPLE. (Saturday evenings) (BBC4)

This sequel to John le Carre's Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy is a long awaited repeat.
George Smiley (Alec Guinness) spent almost the entire second part of the two-part opener walking alone, looking about him and being enigmatic.
Made you realize what a damned good actor Guinness was, though.

THE SOPRANOS (Final episode) (E4)

There was an expected flood of fatalities and an unexpected ending.
James Gandolfini (as the overweight, lethal, strangely charismatic Tony Soprano) was watchable until the last second.
His fellow actors were, without exception, superb.
Since its inception in 1999 this HBO production has been universally praised.
Brilliant direction, brilliant background music and meticulous observation ensured its success.
It will be a hard act to follow.

HIS DARK MATERIALS HAS MATERIALIZED.

Clearly I was well adrift with my suggestion that Ken Stott would make a good Lord Asriel in Northern Lights.
The film had already been made and is currently being advertised under the title The Golden Compass.
So, good for Philip Pullman, His Dark Materials has materialized.
I had not heard a murmur until now. Well, I wouldn't have known me Golden Compass from me Northern Lights, anyway, but the other two books will surely follow, with or without their original titles.
Wonder if Iorek Byrnison sounds like Gandalf?
Oh, Daniel Craig plays Lord Asriel.
Sorry, Ken.

89. Dribs and Drabs

ALIBHAI-BROWN v AMIS.

At a slow time for news - and I include the resignation of Sir Menzies Campbell - Martin Amis managed to get himself named and pictured on the front page of The Independent simply by pissing off Yasmin Alibhai - Brown. (Surely not a recommended course of action for any but the most supremely arrogant man.) I would as soon seek serious trouble with my Leader.
Mr. Amis had allegedly made remarks of a Muslim baiting/hating nature which were seized upon by Ms. Alibhai-Brown - who can be quite touchy where such matters are concerned - and she roasted him in her newspaper column.
His reply, in which he blamed Professor Terry Eagleton, a Manchester University colleague, for misrepresenting his views, ("The anti-Muslim measures he says I 'advocated' I merely adumbrated..." Christ!) proclaimed his innocence in a weirdly conciliatory and condescending letter which became the biggest news in The Independent on a slow Friday.
Anyway, since both Ms. Alibhai - Brown and Mr. Amis are featured in Wikipedia, where their differences are mentioned, I will remark only that Yasmin A - B, for all her tendency to professional indignation, remains high on my list of respected people and that I have read none of Martin Amis's work because - to paraphrase Spike Milligan - he wouldn't read any of mine.
Further comment would be superfluous.

THE WEAKEST LINK (POLITICAL SPECIAL)

Ming, why Chris?
He has attracted a bunch of supporters determined to undermine my leadership.
Chris, why Ming?
How can anyone take seriously a man who pronounces his name like a Chinese dynasty? Anyway, it's my turn.
Nick, why Ming?
Well, he's old enough to have founded a Chinese dynasty. He's had his time. The party needs a new image.
So this is not just the back-stabbing treachery of a colourless bunch of juniors?
No...no...no...
Ming, you are the weakest link. Goodbye.

DEBORAH KERR.

The actress Deborah Kerr died on the 16th October aged 86. She was the most (six times) nominated film star never to actually win an Oscar. In her seventies she received an honorary Oscar, a just reward for a beautiful, talented leading lady who over the years carried many, often less deserving, co-stars to glory.
I wonder whether she minded always being remembered for From Here To Eternity?
Surely not.
She was wonderful in it.

WHAT A SILLY PROFESSOR.

Professor James Watson, a 79-year-old geneticist and Nobel Prize winner, has caused one helluva furore with his much publicized view that black people are less intelligent than their white counterparts.
What a silly professor he is.
I wouldn't care if he had found incontrovertible proof of his theory, his silliness lies in the shouting of it from the roof tops.
The grievance brigade, nooses in hand, have rushed to the attack of course.
Better him than me.
That having been said, I feel I should still defend our (fast diminishing) right to free speech.
But then I am too old and cynical to be much influenced by anyone's scientific, religious, or political opinion.
I long ago realized that had I been born with half the brains and talent of a Paul Robeson or a Lord Leary Constantine I would have made far more of my life.
And no redneck in America or snotty little London hotel manager would have objected to my colour.
Well they don't when you're white.

SPORT.

The cat Shadow came into the kitchen and, by way of making conversation, I said: "Haven't heard much from you lately."
He gave me a questioning look.
"Well you generally have some comment on the sport," I added. "But we've had the England soccer and rugger games and Lewis Hamilton's Formula One championship bid and you haven't said a thing."
He turned about and exited, cat flap, kitchen door.
"Know what you mean," I shouted as the flap swung shut behind him.

88. A burglar, an actor, two losses and a win.

A BIT OF A SHOCK.

One evening a week or so back we were sitting at ease in our living room when there was an almighty crash at the back of the house.
"What the hell was that?" I wondered as I headed for the kitchen.
When I found out it was a bit of a shock.
In the sideway leading from the back door of the garage to the courtyard I made out a (probably teenage) figure.
He registered my appearance at the same moment I saw him and he turned tail.
We keep the kitchen door locked so by the time I had recovered the key and made my way outside he was well gone. The garage light was on and he had kicked open its locked back door, smashing the rimlock in the process. That had been the cause of the almighty crash. The actual garage door (electric) had been prised halfway up and dislodged from its runner on the mechanism side.
The road beyond was empty. It runs alongside our terrace and there are no houses opposite, just a church wall.
My language stripped leaves off the trees in the churchyard.
I have never been much of a tough guy but had I been a few years younger and got my hands on him he'd have received a bloody good thumping.
Would have done no good, though. I'd have been charged with assault and the thieving little bastard would have got away with a caution.
Oh. we gave statements to a very decent young policeman and I guess that will be the end of it.
Anyway, you can't really cure thieves.
Back when I was an army boy a thief was caught in the act by his room-mates. They summarily stamped on his hands. Months later he was discovered to be stealing from the NAAFI shop and was discharged from the service. When his kit was checked and packed it was found to contain items of equipment belonging to just about every other boy in his barrack room.
No, you can't cure them.
But sometimes, awfully, I think the Arabs had the right idea.

AN ACTOR'S (BETWEEN DRAGS) VIEWPOINT.

According to the 29 September - 5 October edition of my ultimate digital TV and radio guide, Ken Stott, who plays Detective Inspector John Rebus, has decided that four months of dead bodies at a time has become too harrowing. It seems he may do something along the lines of a two-hour Rebus The Opera, Rebus On Ice or Rebus Christmas Special (my definitions, not his) in the future, but doubts he will do another series.
All this was conveyed between breaks taken for a quick drag at a cigarette.
Asked whether a role in a Harry Potter film would be of interest to him he made it very clear that it would not. It seems his viewpoint is that the Potter books are overrated and that if we are going to encourage children to read books it should be to read Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials, not J.K.Rowling.
Oh dear.
Perhaps, when the Pullman stories are eventually filmed, he will be sought to join the cast of Northern Lights, The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass. (Probably given the title Dark Materials 1, 2 and 3 by some genius.) He would make a splendid Lord Asriel. But he should take care if the producers are the Disney organization. He could find himself spending an entire series with Goofy or Donald Duck as his daemon and that would do little for his dignity.
I mock lightly.
This is a man who can walk alone down an empty beach, stand looking out to sea, and keep your interest throughout the entire mundane manoeuvre.
This is an actor.

EGGHEADS (BBC2)

Recently their winning run ended and the Eggheads saw £75000 handed over to a team of Oxford undergraduates. Better that than handing it to a team of lawyers or politicians, I suppose.
Oh, the challengers had only two team members left at the end, but they chose to be asked the first batch of questions (there's a surprise), struggled with the fact, but eventually guessed, that Nicosia was further south than Valetta and (what a surprise!) the Eggheads were then posed a question regarding how many States in America still carry the death penalty...38, 18 or 8?
They guessed 8. They should have guessed 38. My guess is that fewer than five out of 303 million Americans would have had the slightest idea.
I have experienced a sensation of deja vu, too.
I started to believe these programmes to be repeats when, £3,000 after that big loss, a bunch from Preston appeared and, lo and behold, the Eggheads were beaten again. There was something much too familiar about it. That's the trouble with being a goggle box gazer, you are sometimes sure you have seen it all before. Could be imagination. Could be coincidence. Could just be that you have. Who cares?
But it really is time the format was changed.
And the presenter!

MATCH OF THE DAY LIVE: (BBC1)
(England v Estonia - 13th October 2007)

The cat Shadow had predicted 'the same sort of win as last time' and, airing the view that England was still only a first half team, had gone to sleep.
Fortunately we had a welcome and unexpected guest who not only knows her football but has the added bonus of a ready sense of humour.
Just before the end of the game, with Englad 3 - 0 in the lead, she remarked dryly: "I think they should give Man of the Match to that Estonian who scored the marvellous own goal."
Now that really is a guest worth welcoming.

87. Blogs will become spiritual fish and chip paper

GILES'S PREDICTION.

On the rare occasion that I am in masochistic mood I visit the website of Giles Turnbull and linger long enough to be reminded how little I know about this computer lark.
Mr. Turnbull, who is also a husband, dad, freelance writer, singer and photographer, clearly knows a very great deal about computers. I despair. I have been driving a car for fifty years without knowing anything other than how to top up the windscreen washer water and shove some air into the tyres. If I turn the ignition key and it fails to start I curse and ring for help. It is unlikely that I will ever understand the computer.
What's more, I too am a husband, a dad, still have an old Box Brownie somewhere and nowadays have a singing voice about which the late Henry Root might have said: "He's no Michael Buble but he is bad."
None of which does anything to lift my depression when the knowledgeable Mr.T predicts, as he has recently, that in less time than it took to start a run on Northern Rock, all our blog stuff will be erased.
Sadly I had rather looked forward (when bucket kicking time arrives) to soaring through the ether and being hailed by a friendly shout of "Hi, Barney," (the army nickname) "been reading your blogstuff...there's a posse of politicians hell bent on keeping you out of their heaven!" and shouting back: "Thanks, mate, I've been relying on it."
But now it is not to be. The blogstuff will have disappeared like a forgotten celebrity. Someone in the ether will have wrapped their spiritual fish and chips in it.
I have Giles Turnbull's educated opinion and I'll bet he's right.
Ah well, I still drive the car when the engine sparks into life so I might as well still thump the computer keys when I have been welcomed to XP.
The results won't last forever, but nothing does.
And I will continue to visit http://gilest.org/. (surreptitiously) until the Blog Ed's blue pencil or intransigent time puts an end to it.
What?
Oh, I shall read the non technical stuff and look at the pictures.
I'm good at that.

DEPARTURE OF THE PORTUGUESE IN THE POSH OVERCOAT.

On the day that The Pensioner's manager departed I called to the cat Shadow: "Jose Mourinho has left Chelsea! It's been on the news!"
"Well that's no surprise," he said. "Word was out on the roof weeks back."
"Really? Saying what?" I asked.
"Saying that the Portuguese in the posh overcoat had taken to the track suit. 'He's on his way out,' they said."
"Because he'd taken to the track suit?" I jeered. "You're having a laugh."
"Change of image, change of team," he intoned sententiously.
I shook my head. "Come and have some breakfast," I spluttered.
Well, what can you say?

AGATHA CHRISTIE'S MARPLE. (ITV1 Sunday 23rd September)

This time it was At Bertram's Hotel, probably Agatha Christie's most nonsensical whodunnit (discounting anything to do with the ludicrous duo Tommy and Tuppence) and proof that even a very famous mystery writer should have avoided incorporating an institution like Brown's - which I believe was her favourite hotel and the model for Bertram's - into a story without making sure the plot was equal to the location.
Geraldine McEwan's Miss Marple was again completely different from the late Joan Hickson's definitive portrayal. I think the author would have liked Ms. McEwan little more than she liked Margaret Rutherford in the role, but I like her whoever she's playing.
Martine McCutcheon was fine as her volunteer assistant.
Francesca Annis, Peter Davison and the remainder of a hard working cast struggled gamely to make sense of it all and very nearly succeeded.

DOC MARTIN. (ITV1 Monday 24th September)

Martin Clunes is back as the Cornish village GP Martin Ellingham who is sickened by the sight of blood. This is Sunday night fare held over for a day. Daft storylines are rescued by the leading actors (see Monarch of the Glen, Heartbeat, The Royal etc.) and it makes perfect viewing for someone doing the quick crossword.
I like the fact that among the quaint characters, unbelievable love interests and barmpot story lines, Martin Clunes's former hospital consultant rings true if only for his pomposity and rudeness.
As an old boss of mine once said: "The most unbearable GPs are the failed consultants."
He was right, y'know.

WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE? NURSES SPECIAL.
(ITV1 Tuesday 25th September)

There was a large and sympathetic studio audience, doubtless a large and sympathetic viewing public and Chris Tarrant sucking in air through his teeth with a loud hissing noise. None of it helped much. Nerves clearly took over. One nurse won £20,000, two won £10,000 and, if general knowledge was anything to go by, your life was anything but safe in their hands.
Perhaps they were put off by ol' Tarrant's hissing, perhaps it was the sudden realization that they were frighteningly vulnerable away from the security of their hospital specialism, but one of them even had to check with the audience that a contusion was a bruise.
Never mind, they all took the money at the right time.
Hurray for that!

86. One niggling little thing after another

HAVE BEEN NIGGLED BY....

I know I promised otherwise, but it is hard to resist having an occasional niggle when you really are a grumpy old git. Anyway, I'm fed up with midde-aged comics trotting out grumpy old people twaddle on television. Comedians on the box should be funny. If they can't be funny they should keep their traps shut. That's my first niggle sorted.
My second niggle is with the way jargon spouters mess up the English language. I remember the first time I heard the phrase 'at this moment in time.' It was at a meeting of yet another committee of self-important meddlers.
"Do you mean now?" I asked the speaker.
The disapproving look I received suggested I had been caught robbing the offertory.
I became well accustomed to that look over the following years as I dared to question such gems as: 'At grass roots level' ("Are we talking underground here?") 'Madam Chairman' ("Would that be a female male or a male female?") 'I am flying a flag in the direction of...' ("Since flags generally fly towards the rear do you mean you're talking out of your arse?")
Currently one of my pet dislikes is the word "Enjoy" used to round off a sales pitch. If somebody hopes you will enjoy a meal, or a particular experience, or a car, or any other bloody thing, why the hell don't they expand enough to say so? Truth to tell they don't give a toss. Their token "enjoy" means no more than does the token: "Have a nice day."
Niggle three:- Why are Graham Norton and Alan Titchmarsh chosen to present every other programme on television? Do they have hidden expertise in musical theatre, classical music etc. as well as a bit of a talent for listening to celebrity chatter and (in Titchy's case) remembering the Latin names of flowers? Do they have better agents than anybody else? Or is it just that they know where the bodies are buried?
Niggle four:- What twat convinced the directors/producers (whatever) of television competition programmes that the long...long...long...far too long pause between question and answer is 'good television?' It ain't. It's just a pain.
Latest sufferer is that pleasant chap Donny Osmond who hosts the programme Identity where, in a bid to win £10,000, contestants are required to guess the correct identity of a selection of participants chosen from a dozen possibilities.
When the contestant of the day has made a choice (e.g. Flatulence Sufferer From Farnborough), Donny points at the chosen participant and demands something along the lines of: "Number four! Flatulence Sufferer From Farnborough! Is that your identity?" There follows not only the long...long...long...far too long pause (during which the participant is allowed neither to say nor to indicate that the truth - let alone the wind - may be out), but then a silly suspense tune is incorporated to prolong the agony.
I just read my newspaper until Eggheads comes on. Then I get niggled with Dermot Murnaghan all over again.
And don't talk to me about on/off switches - you'll only get me niggled.

HAVE BEEN READING.

Wicked! by Jilly Cooper (Corgi 2007), a story about two schools, their pupils and their teachers. One of the schools is posh and the other is the sort of school I remember. The book is packed with inspired Jilly Cooper names, some new, some familiar to readers of her past fiction, many difficult to place without constant reference to her useful Cast Of Characters.
So is this another niggle?
Nope, this is Jilly Cooper.
This is a darned good read.

HAVE WATCHED.

Open Range, a western with Robert Duvall, Kevin Costner and Annette Bening. Great stuff in the mould of Lonesome Dove. My Leader and I enjoyed every moment. They even had Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore (Michael - now Sir Michael - Gambon) playing the Irish villain. Goes without saying, but I will say it anyway, the entire cast was excellent.
Dog Soldiers, a horror film set in Scotland, starred Sean Pertwee, Kevin McKidd, Liam Cunningham, Emma Cleasby and a strong supporting cast of squaddies and werewolves. Very British and very, very good.

HAVE BEEN PLEASED AT...

England's soccer performances agains Israel and Russia
"What do you think about it, then?" I asked the cat Shadow as he was leaving to beat the bounds. England were 3 - 0 in the lead against Russia.
"Pretty good," he said. "Now they only have to do the same in Moscow."
"Didn't have Becks, either," I said.
"I noticed," he said dryly. "Seem to remember giving you my opinion on that subject long ago."
"Oh, he'll be back," I said. "You can't leave the likes of him and Rooney out forever."
"Perhaps not. Let's just see how well they do when they meet Germany again," he said.
He can niggle me a bit sometimes.
He does it deliberately.

85. Mostly remembering George Woodman and Pavarotti

GEORGE WAS A VERY POSITIVE INFLUENCE.

The cat Shadow stretched languidly in my Leader's chair, secure in the knowledge that its customary occupant was visiting our solitary (and often unfairly maligned) hospital for an x-ray to make sure the persistent cough with which she has been plagued for several weeks holds no dire significance.
"Were you ever ambitious?" he asked.
"Yeah, I suppose so," I said, "but not for power. I never wanted to rule anybody and I have always opposed anybody who wants to rule me."
"What were your ambitions then?"
"Oh heck, there were loads of them - mostly daydreams - and they changed over the years."
"Go on," he coaxed.
"Well, when I was a kid I wanted to be a newspaper columnist like Cassandra of the Daily Mirror. That was after I got over wanting to be Johnny Mack Brown, the cowboy hero of Flaming Frontiers, or Wilson from The Truth About Wilson in the Wizard comic."
"What happened?"
"Oh, a wise uncle, bit of a negative influence, asked me if I could parse, or do shorthand, or even knew the parts of speech. I was twelve or thirteen and in a wartime elementary school. We were being groomed to be shop assistants, or to unplug sinks on sink estates or something equally useful. We knew there were nouns, verbs and adjectives and how to write 'Dear Sir' and 'Your obedient servant' on a job application form should we ever get to complete one. The wise uncle knew the score even before he asked the questions. He told me to forget a literary career."
"So you went into the army."
"From the age of fourteen until I was twenty six, yes."
"Any ambitions at that time?"
"To see my time out and to complete the correspondence course I'd started when I was about twenty four."
"You've not mentioned that before."
"No, well...it was never going to get me a qualification or a job, but it included a brush-up-your- English introduction from which I learned for the first time about those eight confounded parts of speech. It also acquainted me with the writer George Woodman who was my course tutor and a very positive influence. For a time George was the only Independent member of Whitstable Council. He had a lot of friends and I was fortunate enough to be included among them. We only ever met once, but our friendship by correspondence and the occasional phone call lasted right up until his death."
"Good writer?"
"Oh yes, his novel Taken At The Flood was published by Macmillan in 1957. Darned good yarn. I think it's out of print now, but I saw somewhere that We Remember Whitstable, written by George and his wife Greta and published by Pryor Publications, can still be obtained on the internet.
"So you just wanted to become a writer," he mused and with a glint of mischief in his eyes repeated: "What happened?"
I gave him a decidedly old-fashioned look. "I became a writer."
"I won't argue with that, mate," he said gently, "I don't know what I'd say without you."

AUTUMN LOOMS.

Suddenly it is September, two thirds of the way through the year and autumn looms. (Americans call it the fall, one of the few agreeable modifications they have made to our language.)
I dread it.
We have no trees in our tiny front garden or in the courtyard at the back, but the church along the way has loads of them and the school opposite is not short of them; a couple of gardens further down from our courtyard have them, too.
We find ourselves to be the solitary dead leaf depository for the entire neighbourhood.
So each year I get out and sweep and shovel and swear and, for the umpteenth time, point out to uninterested listeners that we have no trees.
"I do not care," I snarl, glaring in the direction of the church,"whether or not they are holy leaves; they are a ...king nuisance and if my drains get blocked I'll sue somebody."
Most of the time my drains do not get blocked and I don't think a lawyer would advise litigation, not even if they did and I knew who was responsible. However, by the time the last leaf has fallen I am quite prepared to repay what my solicitor would call "An act of God" by suing God.
Meantime, we drive out into the country - a stone's throw away - and admire the russets and browns and yellows and reds of the shrubs and trees in all their breath-taking autumnal majesty. We remark upon their beauty and give thanks for it. We say yet again that we must one day visit New England in the fall and know that we probably never will. And we return home gratefully aware there are billions of fallen leaves that did not come to rest in our garden. But don't tell me that when I'm sweeping the buggers up.

LUCIANO PAVAROTTI.

There will be so much written and said about this great tenor. I never had the good fortune to see him on stage but, thanks to television and film, everybody with any interest in singing knew the big man with the big voice, the big smile and the white handkerchief.
His death at 71 was sad but not unexpected.
His legacy will surely last forever

84. Back from abroad, untanned but refreshed.

ANNUAL OVERSEAS JAUNT SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED.

Yes, another annual jaunt has been successfully completed. My Leader and I and granddaughter Jess went abroad again.
Same exotic location as last year: Cornwall। Visited daughter-in-law Pauline and son Neil। Basked in their warm welcome, in the sublime scenery of The Lizard and in the joy of once more meeting our friends, Anne and Peter, who have almost reached the completion of their stunning new home at Mylor, Falmouth (above).

Pauline and Neil have not been idle, either. The building of their art studio is practically finished and will provide the perfect facility for Pauline to resume her pottery business and for Neil to continue with the painting and allied art work which has been his gift since early school days.
Our journeys to and fro were uneventful: the modified A30 is a joy.
We stopped at a Little Chef in Winterbourne Abbas, Dorchester, on the way down for a couple of all day breakfasts - masquerading as Early Starters - and a baked potato with cheese for Jess (her choice).
The staff were young and friendly and efficient. They provided a takeaway container for Jess's unfinished Fanta drink and we departed full of goodwill and unaccustomed fried bread.
On the way back the following week we stopped off at the Little Chef, Shute, Axminster, for drinks and were impressed not only by the concern to please of the young staff but by the impeccable cleanliness of the place. Current owners of Little Chef please note that a fresh coat of paint on the outside of the building and attention to doors in the Ladies from which the old locks have been removed to be replaced by bolts (my wife commented) is all that needs to be done to make this spotless establishment absolutely top grade.
We enjoyed the break and returned refreshed. The roads in and from Cornwall were pristine. Wightlink gently ferried us across to the Island where we ruefully reflected that had we been kidnapped and blindfolded we would instantly have known to where we had been taken: the roads here are a disgrace.

HOME AGAIN.

When we came across the courtyard from the garage we were amused to find the cat Shadow and his pal Manners waiting in the kitchen like a reception party. Manners departed right away. He still knows me as that man who used to ask: "Wotter-youdoin'ere?" in an unfriendly voice. My subsequent blandishments have been rejected. Quite right too.
Shadow ate a hearty meal (leaving just enough for Manners to see off later) and took root on my lap for the evening. He can't be having with all that indignant at being left business.
I switched on the computer the following day to find a load of e-mails including pleasant comment about the last blog stuff from John (Anonymous) A.
Thanks again, John, you're such a nice change from all the invitations to buy stuff!

MATCH OF THE DAY LIVE - ENGLAND v GERMANY (BBC1)

Twenty minutes before the end, with England trailing 1 - 2, the cat Shadow stood pointedly by the front door.
It was an unnecessary question but I had to ask it: "You want to go out...now?"
"Why not?" he said. "There'll be nothing more to see here."
"But England could still manage a draw," I ventured, unconvincingly.
"Not them. They couldn't score if all the Germans were sent off."
"It's a friendly, though. Steve McClaren's still trying people out."
"It's never a friendly against Germany," he said. "They come here for an unfriendly. And as for trying people out, there are probably less than half a dozen worthwhile English strikers in the entire Premiership. Two of them, Owen and Rooney, spend more time on the physio's table than they do on the field. Be real, man, the current England team is relying on midfielders to score goals. It prays that Becks will do something special. If he doesn't, it doesn't. Tonight he didn't."
"Well that all sounds positively negative," I said.
"Sad but true. We're very good losers. We'll get nowhere until we became very bad losers."
"You really are a rotten sport," I growled.
"That's right," he said. "But I usually win. Now kindly open the bloody door."

ROBBIE COLTRANE: B-ROAD BRITAIN (ITV1)

This is another of those "extract the urine from a celebrity" documentary series in which the powers behind a television programme put a well-known and probably unsuspecting public figure through a series of mostly pointless, frequently undignified and often personally frightening experiences. For what? Because they imagine it to be good television?
Robbie Coltrane (the giant Hagrid in the Harry Potter films if you are an immigrant from outer space) drives around the B-roads in a fifties open-topped Jaguar. He is a big man who seems to have some difficulty getting about once he leaves the car. He remains affable and professional, however, whatever nonsense he is called upon to attempt.
I think he has suffered this particular nonsense for long enough now. He should take the Director and the Producer to one side and fall on them.

MIDSOMER MURDERS (ITV1)

Yesterday I was reminded again of daughter Roz's assertion that she would not set up home within fifty miles of Cabot Cove or Midsomer.
Midsomer Murders was back with a repeat of a programme entitled The Straw Woman. It contained the usual helping of far-fetched killings, religious weirdos, village bigots, the slightly breathless Tom Barnaby, a slightly lovesick DS Scott, and Doc Bullard played by Barry Jackson. For good measure, Keith Barron was in it, too.
Daft but still watchable.

83. The Usual Price of Fame

THINGS SHOULD LOOK UP AGAIN (EVEN IF I HAVE FINISHED THE LAST HARRY POTTER BOOK).

I know, just lately these posts have contained some irksome blogger niggles.
First there was my disillusionment with the NHS (not down to the majority of its staff who try like hell despite shadowy, frequently shitty, management); then there was my irritation at some of the blatantly uncharitable manoevres of an old established charity organization (well I do think they should know better) and finally there was my doubt that there exists such thing as a personhood of bloggers.
It reached the stage where our old friend John 'Anonymous' A. asked my leader: "Does he feel better now that he's got that lot off his chest?"
Oh dear.
Truth to tell, though, I do.
So things should look up again, even if I have finished the last Harry Potter book.
First thing I'll do is re-open the letters page to (preferably friendly) comment. Them as don't read me need not bother, nor need them as have decided not to like me (though they probably don't read me anyway).
A tiny Jess (aged about three) once said to my Leader (a pre 'Allo 'Allo Edith who had burst into song): "Stop it now."
They do get it right, don't they, kids...
I'll stop it now.

LAST WEEK IN VIEW.

Do you still buy a tele listings magazine? If you do, have you wondered why?
Last week my ultimate digital tv and radio guide informed me that on Thursday, 9th August, at 8 pm on BBC1, I could see the first of a new series of The Inspector Lynley Mysteries. Yes, "the much-loved detective drama" would be back.
Eager for a change from the usual diet of wheeler dealers, new home seekers, property developers, television cooks (chefs, huh!) and auctioneers, I was ten minutes into the new dim aristo Lynley and bright pleb Havers concoction before I realized I'd seen it all before. I looked at the Today's Choices page and found the series to be firmly unloved by the senior critic. Had the new stuff been dropped for that reason? Surely not. Were they worried about nine o'clock competition from Mock The Week? Well that's repeated on Fridays at 11.35 pm, so presumably not.
Big Brother was on at nine, too, but surely only the committed (or those who should be) watch that any more?
I retired baffled. Perhaps the infamous programme muddlers will trot out the new series next week and the ultimate digital tv and radio guide will list it as "brought over from last week."
Makes a bit of a farce out of keying those numbers into your video/DVD recorder though, doesn't it?
Never mind, earlier in the evening we had seen Top Wild Dives with Tanya Streeter. Ms. Streeter is the world champion freediver; a brave young woman who clearly loves the sea and most of the creatures it contains. She is also singularly graceful under water and very watchable. On Friday 10th we watched Ganges, River of Life, the second of a three part exploration. Fascinating stuff on BBC2.
On Saturday we saw Carry On Up The Khyber (Channel 4) for the umpteenth time and laughed aloud yet again at the wonderful dinner party where Peter Butterworth gives a master class in comic genius as a terrified missionary.
Later, on the same channel, we were all at sea again. Swimming With Sharks was the story of two divers who were swept away while exploring in the South Pacific off the Solomon Islands and found themselves undergoing a nightmare marathon swim in shark infested waters. It was a true story and, though told by the protagonists, kept you on edge for their well-being from start to finish.
If you add to the weekend Law & Order: Special Victims' Unit and Angela's Eyes (Saturday on Five) together with Vanished and Killer Instinct (Sunday), I reckon, all in all, you will have had reasonable square eyes entertainment..
What's more, football's with us again.
Last of the Summer Wine is back, too. Love it or hate it, it's got staying power. I love it, but I love anything written by the splendidly lugubrious Roy Clarke.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE FAMOUS?

"Would you..." demanded the cat Shadow suddenly, "like to be famous?"
I pondered. "Might have done when I was younger," I said eventually. "Not now unless it made me very rich."
"All those talented people you've seen over the years, though, they must have been famous."
"Some more than others, but most of them were, yes."
"So wouldn't you enjoy being instantly recognized and asked for your autograph and that?"
"Not really. When the sonwriters Betty Comden, Adolph Green and Julie Styne wrote Make Someone Happy they counselled ...Fame - if you win it/Comes and goes - in a minute...and they were right. It can be a very fleeting thing can fame."
"Bit like popularity?"
"Lot like popularity."
"I'm popular," he said immodestly. "On sunny days when I sit on the wall out front lots of people make a fuss of me."
"I know, I've seen them. Whole families: grannies, little children, the lot. It's very nice."
"If we'd lived in the right place I'd have been an actor," he said. "Then I'd have been really famous and on a roof in Coronation Street or something."
"I don't think soap stardom's all it's cracked up to be," I said. "Anyway, what do you know about Coronation Street? We never watch it."
"I see it at Manners's Manor sometimes," he said airily. "Mrs. Manners's Manor watches it all the time."
"No bloody wonder he's always round here," I said. "No, mate, you wouldn't want show business. You'd finish up being a manky old character part cat,"
"You can be very negative at your worst," he grumbled. "I think I'll go out."
"It's raining," I told him.
"Oh bugger," he said and I thought: how very Noel Coward.
He headed back to my Leader's vacant chair.
All he needed was the dressing gown and cigarette holder.

82. Don't Rely on a Personhood of Bloggers

COMMENT IF YOU MUST - BUT EXPECT NOTHING.

I was talking to son Neil on the webcam last week and he expressed regret that my year of blogging seems to have attracted little by way of comment.
But, y'know, I am not sure that either the proffering or the receiving of comment is necessarily a welcome addition to anybody's blog. (See my post Not Everybody Will Like You.) The first thing to bear in mind is that there is no brotherhood/sisterhood/personhood (curse all that bloody P.C. stuff) that will guarantee a favourable response should you approach another blogger.
If, for example, your one hobby is patchwork quilting it is unlikely that you will find much in common with a football fanatic or a jazz fiend or a train spotter. If you don't know your website from your blogsite you are unlikely to obtain anything but instant deletion from a computer buff. If you are an old guy who plays all the Harry Potter PC games and reads J.K. Rowling you will probably be regarded as retarded by the younger blogger who plays chess and reads Marcus Aurelius.
From the little I have gleaned in the last year, bloggers are understandably suspicious of any encroachment upon their blog space. If a complete stranger crossed the road and sought to enter your life, that stranger would probably be advised to depart and multiply; so why should you react differently to an unexpected arrival at your blogsite?
Bloggers see most unsolicited approaches as attempts to gain oblique advertising.
And even if you appear to have everything in common with one of them, don't be fooled.
Bloggers are writers - well, some of 'em are - and you should never judge a writer by his writing. Some very accomplished writers have been far from likeable human beings (think of Somerset Maugham, Evelyn Waugh and Randolph Churchill for a start), so I would neither expect, nor necessarily give, a hail-fellow-well-met response to blog comment, no matter how well meaning. That having been said, I have made the mistake once or twice.
But I constantly bear in mind the words of the playwright John Eliot in his book MOGUL, The Making Of A Myth (1970). "Writers...live in shells, sucking nourishment from the world and only giving out squirts of ink. They brood. They harbour grievances. They are subject to fits of depression; and are tortuous and difficult to know. They are cast down by criticism and elated by praise, but secretly, and it goes into their work."
After one of the films in which he appeared it was remarked of the actor Charles Laughton that he stood around the edge of the set waiting to be offended.
In my experience, quite a lot of writers are like that, too.
I don't intend to be one of them.
Can't speak for you.

A CERTAIN AGE.

On the 26th July it was our daughter Jac's birthday. On the 31st July J.K.Rowling reached the same age. According to Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, each of them on that particular day became The Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything.
Jac is a teacher at a primary school and Jo is an internationally famous author. I think Mr. Adams was right on both counts.
Oh, neither of them looks anything like their age, either, but I won't say so for fear of being labelled smarmy.

THERE ARE FEW THINGS MORE CERTAIN.

In this life there are few certainties.
I can think of but three:
If you have gone up to the attic there will be a knock at the front door.
If you are using the lavatory the phone will ring and
If you have finally broken your links with your car insurers...
It was obvious that I was not going to receive my No Claims Bonus details from Age Concern's motor insurance people once I had told them I had found another insurer. I sent a SAE with the request which they returned with a note telling me in so many words that they'd deal with the matter when they got around to it. My letter to them went on 24th June, my new insurance started on 6th July. It is now August 5th.
Not so much as a kiss my...
Am I surprised? No.
I'm sure I'll manage without them.

MORE SPORTING WORDS WITH THE CAT.

"That was a helluva result for England, 62 - 5 against Wales at Twickenham," I said to the cat Shadow.
He was in dozing mode on my lap.
"I think you'll find it was the Welsh second team," he said. "But yeah, it was a helluva result."
"Good to see names like Lawrence Dallaglio and Jonny Wilkinson back in the England side, too."
"Be better still when you feel they can win without names like Dallaglio and Wilkinson in the side," he said.
"Did you go round to one of your mates to watch it on Sky?" I asked
"Na-a-ah. I stayed here for the Women's British Open at St. Andrews. I sleep much sounder with the golf. Mexican girl, Lorena Ochoa was in the lead when I dropped off. She was looking good." He grinned his cat grin. "Playing well, too."
"A lot of them look good now," I said. "I think the days of statuesque golfers like Dame Joan Hammond are long gone."
"Didn't you once say she was a singer?"
"Yeah, she was. Healthiest looking Mimi I ever saw on stage."
"Good was she?"
"Bloody marvellous. Her One Fine Day from Madame Butterfly could last me all week."
"Can't see any of today's bunch being that versatile," he said. "You've seen some remarkably talented people over the years, haven't you?"
I have indeed. He didn't need a reply.
I sighed contentedly and he went back to sleep.

81. A bit of a C.V.

THINGS NOT TO DO IN RETIREMENT.

At the end of March 1989, faced with yet another unnecessary change in the structure of the National Health Service, I retired. I was fifty eight and had been in the business for thirty two years. I was glad to see the back of it.
Since 1974 there had been several pointless major changes, clearly politically motivated and obviously designed to give bigger empires to ambitious little creeps in the civil service. None of the changes had ever benefited the patient.
The NHS was a mess and still is.
As soon as politicians sense the political gain to be made from mindlessly meddling with a public service you can be sure they will turn it into an administrative nightmare. Currently the NHS is controlled by bunches of faceless, unelected yes-persons called Trusts. I wouldn't trust any of them to control off-peak traffic in a remote village.
Anyway, there was I, retired and still young enough to do something other than go out and sit on a park bench or stay in and watch television.
"Lots of retired blokes play golf," I said to my Leader. "Perhaps I should learn to play golf."
She dismissed the notion instantly.
"I don't think so. You would very soon find that you were not going to become another Faldo or Ballesteros. You'd be in a permanently bad temper and your blood pressure would suffer."
I knew she was right. Always erratic at games, I've never been much of an outdoor type.
I needed an indoor hobby.
"How about the piano then? I had a couple of lessons when I was little. I can still play Drink To Me Only with both hands."
"But you'd never get to play Rachmaninov 2 like John Ogden or the Grieg like Philip Fowke. Think how frustrating that would be for you."
I sighed: I knew she was right.
"Why not try art classes or something?" she prompted. "Or maybe get a little part-time job."
So I obtained - worked at for three years, then took my second and final retirement from - a little part time job.
The job was with Age Concern, a registered charity.

CHARITY IS A SHREWD BUSINESS.

One of the first things you have to understand as an employee new to a national charity is that you are not working for a benign benefactor you are working for a shrewd business.
Charities have honed their collecting techniques over the years and there are now few lucrative avenues left for them to explore. They have become landlords, shopkeepers and insurance brokers. Their manipulation of self-serving politicians is experienced and clever. The vast office blocks from which most of them operate and the plethora of high street charity shops and local administrative offices under their control are not subject to normal business council tax.
They appeal to the well-meaning and are an irresistable draw to publicity conscious celebrities.
I was the district organizer (known here as The Secretary) of Age Concern, Isle of Wight. I worked weekday mornings, was on a small honorarium which barely covered my travel to and from the office, parking and the telephone calls which I frequently made from home in the afternoon. But I was happy enough.
As time went by I came to meet district organizers from across the water; a bloke from Hampshire who I soon learned not to take at face value - either of them - and a nice chap in Portsmouth who had once been a Catholic Monsignor or something and had abandoned his calling to get married. I liked him. I found that they (and hundreds more like them within the organization) were full-timers on very decent salaries. Nothing wrong with that. They were, after all, working for a sacred cow.
I think it was Robert Townsend in his book Up The Organization who maintained that three years was enough time for a manager who gives fully to his job: the rascal should then go gracefully or be carried out kicking and screaming.
I decided it was time to depart.
I wrote a letter to my Chairperson recommending the direction in which Age Concern, Isle of Wight, should head: it included the appointment of a full-time Organizer (which, I stipulated, would not be me) a move from the coastal town of Ryde to the capital town of Newport and the setting up of an Island A.C. shop which at that time it did not have.
I had done all I could. I departed gracefully.
My only connection with Age Concern from then on was through the car insurance which I took out with them in the early nineties and, because I paid monthly by direct debit, was too apathetic to change.
Recently I became disenchanted with their insurance branch. It had developed cunning plans for levying additional revenue. These included turning over the customer's direct debit to a credit company (which, of course, charged interest) and exacting a payment (usually £10) whenever any change was made to the customer's computer details.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't completely dismiss Age Concern. I just started to take their concern for the aged cum grano salis.
So this year I found a far better car insurance deal on the internet.
It pleases me to report that all my recommendations for A.C. Isle of Wight were later implemented.
I wonder who took the credit for them?

BRIEF CHAT WITH A SLEEPY CAT.

"Bit dire without the golf," the cat Shadow ventured, snug and half asleep in my Leader's chair.
"Good, wasn't it, Padraig Harrington winning the Open?" I said. "Nice to have an Irishman as champion again."
"Were you alive when the last one won it?"
"1947, Fred Daly. He was the only other Irishman. Yeah, I was alive."
"Did you follow it?"
"No, all I can remember about golf then was Norman Von Nida throwing his clubs over hedges."
"South African was he?"
"Australian: I think they named a tournament after him."
"Funny how they always honour the bad tempered buggers," he said. "I'm surprised they've not renamed Wimbledon McEnroe Fortnight and had the finalists competing for the You Cannot Be Serious Cup."
I pointed out that ol' Mac has mellowed a lot over the years and that Norman, who died in May this year aged 93, was probably a lovely bloke away from the golf course...
Then I heard a faint snore mixed with the purr and it was clear that he had dropped off again.
His conversations can be quite brief.

80. A week of Pottering

POTTER IS STILL WORTH THE WATCHING...

We made it to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on the day after the opening. Five of us went and four enjoyed it. Well, I reckon if you manage to please 80% of your audience you've not done badly.
I thought it was like the other films, good so long as you didn't expect a replica of the book: I enjoyed it. Mind you, I did not believe it to be that much better or worse than the previous four Potter outings. True there is an increasing darkness in the narrative, but that only reflects the mood of the books.
I cannot see why some critics have chosen to unfavourably compare Chris Columbus's direction of Philosopher's Stone and Chamber of Secrets with the later offerings of other directors. Not only had he the task of transforming a bunch of inexperienced children into actors but he had also to set the standard for later productions. I think he did a splendid job.
My apologies now if you have not seen any of the films. Currently there are some good DVD offers on the internet.
Probably my favourite of the series so far has been The Prisoner of Azkaban. Just how much director Alfonso Cuaron had to do with it I don't know, but the recounting of J.K.s clever idea about Hermione using a Time-Turner to transport her and Harry back to where they thought Buckbeak had been executed and thence to the lakeside where Sirius had been magically saved from the Dementors was excellent, as was the earlier scene where Hermione, much to the amazement and admiration of Harry and Ron, punched Draco Malfoy on the nose.
I thought The Goblet of Fire was a bit truncated but it was quite a long book so I suppose director Mike Newell, faced with obvious time constraints, had to resort to some massive scene and character cutting.
This also applied to The Order of the Phoenix which is but a shadow of the book. The director, David Yates, has also been chosen to direct The Half Blood Prince and shooting should commence in September.
It is thought that Deathly Hallows should be out around 2010.
That's my eightieth year but I don't mind waiting.

AND THE READING

I have just finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: allegedly the last book in the Potter saga.
It is a combination of rip-roaring action and stultifying inaction.
My son, fearful of spoilers, read it over the weekend. The action, he opined, was written with a canny eye to the film adaptation. The inaction (my opinion) was either a deliberate ploy to influence the mood of the reader at that point in the narrative or an example of J.K. treading water whilst she determined in which direction to swim next. He thinks definitely the latter.
We are agreed that publishers Bloomsbury need not worry too much about the permanent departure of their famous son. Even if Harry does not come back, Hogwarts will.
Incidentally, without spoiling anything, I knew right away by whom the silver doe Patronus had been sent. Long ago guessed the sender's secret, too. It was a lovely notion and it has kept me a bit smugly know-all since the very first book.
Heck, Jo, I've been reading whodunnits since I was nine years old.
On the lightest of notes, it has rained throughout most of my reading time. When I left the house for the shops the other day I realized that I could remember neither Hermione's spell, finite incantatum, nor Arthur Weasley's meteolojinx recanto (both rain stoppers, courtesy of J.K.) so I pointed my umbrella skywards and formed my own incantation, rainomoroverus, which I terminated suddenly when it dawned on me that I could get back home to find I had brought to an abrupt end the reign of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly woman who has done me no harm).
Joanne Rowling, if by magic you should ever read this, you remain high on my list of favourite writers. Even in the talent blind world of publishing somebody would have had to find you. I'm glad they did it in my lifetime.

79. Floods, fanatics and a film.

FLOODS AND LETHAL FREAKS.

What a week. First of all the floods which left thousands of people in desperate straits, then the attempts at mass murder by religious maniacs.
The floods are proof of just how wicked nature can be and the terrorists' activities are a reminder of the depths to which depraved humanity can descend.
Only time, a massive effort by the social services, a determination by government at all levels to spend more of the taxpayer's money on the needs of the taxpayer and less on unnecessary wars, quangos and pointless consultancies, will enable us to overcome similar or worse flooding in the future. The cure will be up to the politicians
They will doubtles appoint a quango to report and teams of consultants to advise...
I fear there is no cure for the mind of the twisted fanatic, either.
On Tuesday it became clear that the majority of those intent on indiscriminate killing were - and in some cases still are - employees of the National Health Service.
Doctors, would you believe?
In my time in the NHS all doctors took the Hippocratic oath which bound them to a code of medical ethics. I thought the standards of some of them tended more towards hypocritical than Hippocratic but I seldom experienced any evil in the medical profession. Minor larceny, lechery, arrogance, indifference and political connivance, yes; evil, no.
So what the hell has driven some apparently intelligent professional people to become monsters?
Who knows?
When it comes to analysing lethal freaks in pursuit of a divine mission I defer to the experts. Writing in The Independent, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown and Johann Hari gave reasoned opinions as to what had motivated the abortive bomb attacks in London and Glasgow.
I carefully digested their views and I am trying to be level-headed.
But my conclusion is that the bomb happy bastards are mad.

FAREWELL WIMBLEDON

The cat Shadow stirred on my lap, lifted a sleepy head, inquired: "Is it over?"
"Yes. And you're getting very heavy. Want your dinner?"
He stretched languidly, got to the floor, scratched behind an ear, said: "Who won?"
He is convinced that tennis was invented as an armchair cure for insomnia.
"The women's was won by Venus Williams, an American," I related patiently. "The men's was won by a Swiss called Roger Federer."
"Just as well Andy Murray couldn't make it," he said. "He's too young, anyway. He'd have finished up like Tim Henman."
"Murray's older brother, Jamie, did very well," I informed him. "He and a Serb called Jelena Jankovic won the mixed doubles."
"Get away. Really?"
"Really. They were wild cards and they won 6-4, 3-6, 6-1 against a Swede and an Australian who were No. 5 seeds."
"Great." He started towards the kitchen: "Dinner."
I followed him.
"A Scot amongst the winners, eh?" he said. "Someone else to be described as British by the media."
I forbore the usual trite cliche about sarcasm.
He's right.
I gave him an extra helping of his most expensive cat food.

HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX

The film opens here on the 12th. We shall not book seats for that day. We'll let the over-priced sweets and drinks brigade fill the place with excitement and litter and wait to hear how much they enjoyed it. We'll go at a later date in a slightly quieter atmosphere. We'll sit back in comfort and make up our own minds.
Ah-h-h, my mind is made up already. I'm going to hate Dolores Umbridge, adore Linda Lovegood and revel in the rest of the superb cast playing roles they have made their own.
So that makes me childish?
Of course it does.
So what.