HOME.
It took the Isle of Wight Council.
Economically this holiday island, like many another, is heavily reliant on the tourist industry for its survival. Parking charges are generally bloody, but I guess visitors are so accustomed to the avaricious money grubbing of councils that they expect the big stick wherever they go.
This year, however, legalized thievery reached new heights over here when popular carnival spots were deluged with parking tickets issued by council traffic wardens. Both the daytime and evening (Illuminated) carnivals were targeted. Needless to say the IW Council hotly denies accusations that its actions were monetarily motivated and claims that it only had safety in mind.
Is anybody seriously expected to believe that?
Do the patronising rogues care?
And do they give a toss how much goodwill and next year’s returning holidaymaker business they may have lost?
I sometimes think that when we stopped electing opportunistic jerry builders (who we knew were in it to fiddle council contracts from their funny handshake mates) and opted instead for career expenses claimants (who seem to be in it because they like the money and don’t like television) we took an enormous step backwards.
And it took the Scots.
When, in my last post, I ventured the opinion that sometimes we should simply tell our bullying American cousins to piss off, I had no idea the Scots would do it.
Should have known better.
They have always told the English where to go and the Romans built a bloody great wall across the north of England to avoid confrontation with them.
With a history like that did the pleasant President of America and his unpleasant Secretary of State (doing a televised good cop/bad cop routine) expect grovelling acquiescence to their clear indication that the man imprisoned for the Lockerbie deaths should remain incarcerated until he died?
How good or bad the evidence against him was, or whether the medical prognosis is at all questionable, I have no idea: so whether, given the choice, I would have released him I do not know.
But the Scottish Justice Minister did have the choice, decided enough was enough, and acted accordingly.
Though I still deeply distrust politicians, I must admit to the grudging belief that he may have done everybody a favour.
TELEVISION.
Proms on BBC4.
Just as I was decrying the dearth of my sort of music at the Proms along came the wonderful West-Eastern Divan Orchestra conducted by co-founder Daniel Barenboim to give us Liszt’s Les Preludes, the Prelude and Liebestod from Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde and Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, all hauntingly musical.
The orchestra was founded in 1998 by concert pianist Barenboim, an Israeli-Argentinian, and Edward Said, a Palestinian-American author.
In the words of the conductor it is “a project against ignorance.”
Whatever their off-stage differences, in performance this fine orchestra’s magical harmony is clearly born from its affection and respect for maestro Barenboim: feelings clearly reciprocated.
The following night, with an international cast of singers, they performed Beethoven’s Fidelio.
Long may they and their remaining founder thrive.
Cricket.
“England won The Ashes then,” I said to the cat Shadow.
“Yeah,” he said. “Did you watch it?”
“No, did you?”
“Nope.”
He thought for a moment: “Don’t matter. They wouldn’t have won if we had.”
FILM.
The Constant Gardener.
This intense, moving and well acted adaptation of the John le Carre novel was directed by Fernando Meirelles, produced by the late Simon Channing Williams and starred Ralph Fiennes and Rachel Weisz (who won a best supporting actress Oscar).
There was a lot of flashback, a twisting plot and the subtle absence of a feel-good finish.
Fascinating.
AND HOME AGAIN.
A great result.
Libby and Eamonn Lawless own a farm here on the Island and we have been friends for many years.
Back in the seventies Eamonn, a superb horseman, ran a riding school at the farm and our daughter Roz was one of his pupils. She would have been around ten years old.
They got on.
Neither of them suffers fools.
When he eventually forsook the saddle Eamonn began more seriously entering his dogs for sheepdog trials. On the 24th of August we received an email referring us to the International Sheep Dog Society website which at the time carried the news that Eamonn and his dog Bill had become English National Trials Champions 2009.
Well done, mate!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0AKf6mCNhk
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
132. Beware of Russian Arabs and Self-Importance
HOME.
It was a Russian Arab!
Report from our languages correspondent in Ventnor, Neil Barnden (nepotism - so what!) after I sent him an assumed Arabic email for which I had been unable to obtain an English translation from Google translate.
"It is Russian (the text refers to something costing 3900 rubles - probably Viagra!). But I can't get any translation from the text either. The names you copied into your blog were actually in Cyrillic script - which Google translate was happy to work with. So perhaps it's the fact that this text has been translated from Cyrillic Russian to 'Roman' Russian that's the problem."
Well thanks, Neil, now I need not fear al-Qaeda: just the KGB.
Hell, they don't target you for shunning their Viagra, do they?
Three lessons in self-importance.
Lesson 1.
I suppose it is not surprising what a touchy little politician American Secretary of State Hillary Clinton can be. She is, after all, still married to Bill. But her recent outburst in response to a question from an uncomprehending Congolese student was a classic in affronted dignity.
She is not alone of course. Self-importance in the political world is more common than fleas on a hedgehog.
It has even been mooted that Georgy, writer of the pro-Georgian blog Cyxymu, an outspoken critic of sadly misunderstood Vladimir Putin and his gentle cronies, so upset delicate Russian sensibilities that party line hackers swamped the web, interrupting Twitter and Facebook, in a concerted attempt to disable his blog.
Lesson 2.
Now we have the ludicrous example of America v. McKinnon, where a British hacker and Asperger syndrome sufferer named Gary McKinnon is to be extradited to the United States to face charges that he infiltrated American military websites, caused thousands of dollars in damage to their national security and badly dented their beribboned self-esteem.
What a pathetic bunch of incompetents they are.
If an eccentric Scot can so easily slide under the razor wire of their computer security is it inconceivable that Afghanistan, China, Iran, Russia, or even Monaco might be doing the same?
OK, so the man needs to have his wrist slapped for being a bloody nuisance, but by a court here, please, not by the US criminal justice system.
Sometimes we should simply tell our bullying American cousins to piss off.
Lesson 3.
On Wednesday our two daughters travelled to Italy for a well-earned holiday. The following is an extract from my diary after their arrival phone call to their mother.
The actor James Nesbitt and his family were at Gatwick and booked on the same flight as Jacqui and Roz. Seems he left his wife struggling with the luggage, the kids and all the arrangements, sailed to the head of the queue to be first to board the plane, and left nobody in any doubt that he considered himself much the VIP.
Consequently, Mo's: "How interesting..." reaction to the initial news that he was at the airport elicited a typically down-to-earth response from Roz:
"Not really. He's a tosser."
She's usually right.
See you, Jimmy.
TELEVISION.
BBC Proms 2009.
My interest in the Proms is desultory nowadays. I have never been able to understand the lure of Stravinsky, Shostakovich or any of the weirdly discordant modern composers so readily given a Proms platform in recent years. As time goes by I find it increasingly difficult to accept them. I play no instrument but I love melodic music.
Recently The National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain, conducted by Vasily Petrenko, performed Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No.1 in B flat minor. No matter how dismissive the pianoforte aficionados may be, you cannot write it off.
This performance, with the occasionally wild-eyed Stephen Hough as soloist, was somehow as new as its young orchestra.
Tuneful and exciting and great viewing.
Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.
Just shown here have been a couple of episodes when Christopher Meloni was away.
Mariska Hargitay managed brilliantly and serial policeman Richard Belzer, "Captain" Dann Florek and confident ice-T were first rate.
When ol' Chris did come back he found himself thrown straight into the deep end with a nasty case involving neo-Nazis and little children being shot by a sniper. The story had more twists and turns than a mountain road, a denouement that the writers of Murder She Wrote would have killed for, and a screen-stealing performance by Marcia Gay Harden as an undercover FBI agent.
Special Victims Unit becomes more special with each series.
FILM.
Grow Your Own.
This little film, directed by Richard Laxton, surfaced and sank in 2007 to mixed reviews, most of them rather poor.
I watched it on television on a night when the opposition was mostly repeats and I found it quite enjoyable.
There was a touch of gentle humour, a few sad truths, and nice underplaying by a multi-racial cast of modern day Brits.
I put it in The Full Monty/Hear My Song category so perhaps I am prejudiced.
I liked them, too.
READING.
The Endless Game.
Finally reached the end of Bryan Forbes's lengthy spy yarn to find that it really is the prelude to A Song at Twilight, published with it. He's good enough to make you persevere, so I shall.
I shall also be reading Corduroy Mansions by Alexander McCall Smith because it was a gift and is clearly a far cry from his No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency.
More anon.
CARS.
The Old For New Deal.
We are exchanging our ten year old, two door, 1.4 Seat Arosa (one careful owner) in a couple of months for a new, four door, 1.2 Hyundai i10 Comfort.
The exchange is being done under the scrappage scheme and, though I shall miss the Arosa's great little engine (it would do over ninety all day long on the motorway I have been told), we shall not be sorry to abandon the inconvenience of only two passenger doors.
Anyway, the one careful owner tag cuts no ice when it comes to depreciation.
I checked its trade-in price.
Hear the hollow laughter?
It was a Russian Arab!
Report from our languages correspondent in Ventnor, Neil Barnden (nepotism - so what!) after I sent him an assumed Arabic email for which I had been unable to obtain an English translation from Google translate.
"It is Russian (the text refers to something costing 3900 rubles - probably Viagra!). But I can't get any translation from the text either. The names you copied into your blog were actually in Cyrillic script - which Google translate was happy to work with. So perhaps it's the fact that this text has been translated from Cyrillic Russian to 'Roman' Russian that's the problem."
Well thanks, Neil, now I need not fear al-Qaeda: just the KGB.
Hell, they don't target you for shunning their Viagra, do they?
Three lessons in self-importance.
Lesson 1.
I suppose it is not surprising what a touchy little politician American Secretary of State Hillary Clinton can be. She is, after all, still married to Bill. But her recent outburst in response to a question from an uncomprehending Congolese student was a classic in affronted dignity.
She is not alone of course. Self-importance in the political world is more common than fleas on a hedgehog.
It has even been mooted that Georgy, writer of the pro-Georgian blog Cyxymu, an outspoken critic of sadly misunderstood Vladimir Putin and his gentle cronies, so upset delicate Russian sensibilities that party line hackers swamped the web, interrupting Twitter and Facebook, in a concerted attempt to disable his blog.
Lesson 2.
Now we have the ludicrous example of America v. McKinnon, where a British hacker and Asperger syndrome sufferer named Gary McKinnon is to be extradited to the United States to face charges that he infiltrated American military websites, caused thousands of dollars in damage to their national security and badly dented their beribboned self-esteem.
What a pathetic bunch of incompetents they are.
If an eccentric Scot can so easily slide under the razor wire of their computer security is it inconceivable that Afghanistan, China, Iran, Russia, or even Monaco might be doing the same?
OK, so the man needs to have his wrist slapped for being a bloody nuisance, but by a court here, please, not by the US criminal justice system.
Sometimes we should simply tell our bullying American cousins to piss off.
Lesson 3.
On Wednesday our two daughters travelled to Italy for a well-earned holiday. The following is an extract from my diary after their arrival phone call to their mother.
The actor James Nesbitt and his family were at Gatwick and booked on the same flight as Jacqui and Roz. Seems he left his wife struggling with the luggage, the kids and all the arrangements, sailed to the head of the queue to be first to board the plane, and left nobody in any doubt that he considered himself much the VIP.
Consequently, Mo's: "How interesting..." reaction to the initial news that he was at the airport elicited a typically down-to-earth response from Roz:
"Not really. He's a tosser."
She's usually right.
See you, Jimmy.
TELEVISION.
BBC Proms 2009.
My interest in the Proms is desultory nowadays. I have never been able to understand the lure of Stravinsky, Shostakovich or any of the weirdly discordant modern composers so readily given a Proms platform in recent years. As time goes by I find it increasingly difficult to accept them. I play no instrument but I love melodic music.
Recently The National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain, conducted by Vasily Petrenko, performed Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No.1 in B flat minor. No matter how dismissive the pianoforte aficionados may be, you cannot write it off.
This performance, with the occasionally wild-eyed Stephen Hough as soloist, was somehow as new as its young orchestra.
Tuneful and exciting and great viewing.
Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.
Just shown here have been a couple of episodes when Christopher Meloni was away.
Mariska Hargitay managed brilliantly and serial policeman Richard Belzer, "Captain" Dann Florek and confident ice-T were first rate.
When ol' Chris did come back he found himself thrown straight into the deep end with a nasty case involving neo-Nazis and little children being shot by a sniper. The story had more twists and turns than a mountain road, a denouement that the writers of Murder She Wrote would have killed for, and a screen-stealing performance by Marcia Gay Harden as an undercover FBI agent.
Special Victims Unit becomes more special with each series.
FILM.
Grow Your Own.
This little film, directed by Richard Laxton, surfaced and sank in 2007 to mixed reviews, most of them rather poor.
I watched it on television on a night when the opposition was mostly repeats and I found it quite enjoyable.
There was a touch of gentle humour, a few sad truths, and nice underplaying by a multi-racial cast of modern day Brits.
I put it in The Full Monty/Hear My Song category so perhaps I am prejudiced.
I liked them, too.
READING.
The Endless Game.
Finally reached the end of Bryan Forbes's lengthy spy yarn to find that it really is the prelude to A Song at Twilight, published with it. He's good enough to make you persevere, so I shall.
I shall also be reading Corduroy Mansions by Alexander McCall Smith because it was a gift and is clearly a far cry from his No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency.
More anon.
CARS.
The Old For New Deal.
We are exchanging our ten year old, two door, 1.4 Seat Arosa (one careful owner) in a couple of months for a new, four door, 1.2 Hyundai i10 Comfort.
The exchange is being done under the scrappage scheme and, though I shall miss the Arosa's great little engine (it would do over ninety all day long on the motorway I have been told), we shall not be sorry to abandon the inconvenience of only two passenger doors.
Anyway, the one careful owner tag cuts no ice when it comes to depreciation.
I checked its trade-in price.
Hear the hollow laughter?
Thursday, August 06, 2009
131. INDEX 1 - Posts 1 to 130
THE CAST - IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER.
Abbot, Russ: 127 Abby (Scluto): 64,68,75,103,115 Ackland, Josh: 129 Adams, Douglas: 82 Adams, Tony: 118 Affleck, Ben: 29 Agyeman, Freema: 75,104 Alexander, Sasha: 35,46 al-Fayed, Mohamed: 98 Alibhai-Brown, Yasmin: 40,69,71,79,89,97,128 Allen, Dave: 115 Allen, Keith: 124 Alliss, Peter: 130 Allsopp, Kirstie: 116,125 Amis, Martin: 89 Amos, Emma: 71 Anderson, Bruce: 97 Anderson, Jon: 127 Andrews, Julie: 43 Annis, Francesca: 87 Anonymous John: 75,77,83,84,99,104,106,109,112,121 Ant & Dec: 122 Armstrong, Alun: 3,8,108,129,130 Armstrong, Jonas: 128,129 Arnott, Jake; 101 Ashdown, Simon: 64 Asher, Jane: 118 Ashman, Kevin: 68,73 Asriel, Lord: 88 Astaire, Fred: 114 Astin, Sean: 111 Atkins, Eileen: 92,97 Atkinson, Rowan: 53 Aunt Kate: 41 Ayres, Pam: 117,123 Bacchus, D.S. John: 111,124,125 Bailey, Bill: 125 Balding, Claire: 129 Ballesteros, Seve: 81 Banks, Leslie: 63,69 Bannen, Ian: 25 Barclay, D.S.I. Iain: 62 Barker, Sue: 78 Barlow, D.S. Charlie: 62 Barnaby, D.C.I. Tom: 16,27,84,97,115 Barnden, Dennis: 105,110 Barnden, Jacqui: 75,82,123,127 Barnden, Lilian: 100 Barnden, Neil: 28,29,51,55,70,82,84 Barnden, Pauline: 84,99 Barrett, Alan: 118 Barron, Keith: 84 Barrowman, John: 101 Bassey, Shirley: 78,96 Bean, Sean: 111 Becket, Thomas: 98 Beckham, David: 74,75,76,77,84,86 Beeching, Richard: 111 Beesley, Max: 101,115 Belfrage, Bruce: 112 Belzer, Richard: 16 Bening, Annette: 86 Bennett, Alan: 107,109,111,112,114 Bennett, D.I.George: 111 Bennett, Jan: 76,113 Benton, Mark: 102 Bergerac, Jim: 16,27 Berlin, Irving: 95 Bernstein, Leonard: 96 bin Laden, Osama: 102 Black, Jennifer: 93, Blair, Tony: 8,66,67,78 Blanc, Ernest: 127 Blessed, Brian: 61 Bloom, Orlando: 48 Blumenthal, Heston: 49 Bocelli, Andrea: 77 Bogart, Humphrey: 43 Bolam, James: 38,108,130 Bolton, Michael: 95 Bonasera. Stella: 126 Bond, James: 33 Bonneville, Hugh: 62 Boorman, Charlie: 92 Bowles, Lynn, 129 Bowlly, Al: 95 Bowman, Stuart: 64 Boyd, D.S. Peter: 62 Boyd, 'Barrowlands': 129 Boyd, William: 117 Boyle, Susan: 123,126 Brading, Amy: 105 Brambell, Wilfrid: 100 Branagh, Kenneth: 114 Brand, Russell: 112 Branning, Dot: 97 Braun, Lilian Jackson: 4. Brennan, Temperance: 124,125 Brett, Jeremy: 7 Brett, Simon: 7,8 Brimble, Nick: 61 Broadbent, Jim: 100 Brooks, D.S.Ronnie 122 Brown, Gordon, 8,66,73,78,108,123 Brown, Johnny Mack: 85,117 Brown, June: 97 Brown, Rosie: 119 Brown, Warrick: 116 Bruford, Bill: 127 Brydon, Sir Mark: 51 Buble, Michael: 87 Buchan, Andrew: 99 Buchan, John: 115 Buchanan, Colin: 72,73 Bucket, Hyacinth: 63 Bullard, Dr. George: 84 Burke, D.C.I. Matt: 57,104 Burnham, Andy: 112 Burroughs, Edgar Rice: 43 Burton-Hill, Clemency: 123 Bush, George: 67 Butler, Phil: 75 Butterworth, Peter: 83 Cadfael, Bro: 97 Caine, Horatio 11 Caitlin (Todd); 35,46 Callan, David: 33,99 Cameron, David: 73,124 Camilleri, Andrea: 114 Campbell, Menzies: 89 Campion, Albert: 7 Carroll, Lewis: 65 Carson, Willie: 129 Carter, Jim: 100 Caruso, David: 7,10,11,18,39,58,91,100 Caruso, Enrico: 96 Casement, Roger: 95 Cassandra: 85 Cassidy, Eva; 105 Cassidy, Hopalong: 117 Castle, Andrew: 126 Castle, John: 24 Cerdan, Marcel: 107 Chambers, Tom: 114 Chandler, Raymond: 43,114 Chapman, Beth Nielsen: 95 Charlatans, The: 128 Charteris, Leslie: 43,77,114 Christie, Agatha: 87,105 Churchill, Randolph: 82 Churchill, Winston: 74 Cink, Stewart: 130 Claire and Lara: 9,10,29,33,39,65 Clapp, Gordon: 61 Clarke, Oz: 49 Clarke, Roy: 83, 127 Clarke, D.S. Siobhan: 93. Clarke, Warren: 16,72,73 Clarkson, Jeremy: 107 Cleasby, Emma: 86 Clooney, George: 13 Close, Glenn: 110 Clunes, Martin: 87 Cocker, Joe: 127 Cole, George: 63 Cole, Brendan: 114 Cole, Kevin: 12 Collette, Toni: 125 Collins, Joan: 91 Coltraine, Robbie:27,31,84 Columbo, Lt: 130 Columbus, Chris: 80 Comden, Betty: 83 Connery, Jason: 128 Connery, Sean: 61 Connolly, Billy: 120 Constantine, Leary: 89 Cook Jnr,, Elisha: 46 Cooke, Christian: 118 Cookson, Catherine: 107 Cooper, Gary: 43 Cooper, Jilly: 86,95 Cooper, Tommy: 33,77 Coppell, Steve: 64,125 Corbett, Harry H. 100 Corden, James: 121 Corelli, Franco: 96 Cosmo, James: 21 Costello, Elvis: 46 Costner, Kevin: 61,86 Coward, Noel: 77,83,96,124 Crabbe, D.I. Henry: 7,121 Cracker: 27 Craig, Daniel: 90.95 Cranham, Kenneth: 74 Craven, John: 123 Crawford, Randy: 127 Creek, Jonathan: 44,111,115 Cremer, Bruno: 114 Cribbins, Bernard: 108 Crispin, Edmund: 122 Cromwell, Oliver: 115 Crosby, Bing: 95,96,115 Cruise, Tom: 120,130 Crushem, Will: 105,110 Cuaron, Alfonso: 80 Cunningham, Liam: 86 Curtis, Richard: 53 Dale, James Badge: 11 Dali, Salvador: 76 Dallaglio, Lawrence: 82 Dallerup, Camilla: 114 Daltrey, Roger: 71,72 Daly, Fred: 81 Dalziel, D.C.S. Andy: 16,72,73 Damon, Matt. 29 David, Ziva: 94,115 Davies, Alan: 111,115,117,121 Davies, Dangerous: 7,8,71 Davies, Deidre: 104 Davies, Rupert: 114 Davies, Russell T: 51,100,102,108 Davis, Bette: 43 Davis, Phil: 69,100,101 Davison, Peter: 7,8,71,87 Daws, Robert: 76 Dawson, Les: 123 Day, Doris: 95 Dayer, Roz: 60,84,95,123 De'ath, Charles: 71 Deed, Judge John: 69 deMooi, C.J: 68,73,107 Dench, Judi: 78 de Pablo, Cote: 94 Depp, Johnny: 95 Dexter (Morgan): 105,115,120 Dexter, Colin: 64,95,107,109,111 Diana, Princess: 76,117 Dickens, Charles: 109 Dimbleby, David: 108 Dinozzo, Anthony: 46,64,115 Dillow, Ian: 53 Diversity: 126 Doctor Who: 73,75,102,104,105,106,107,108 Donat, Robert: 115 Donna (Noble): 102,104,105 D'Onofrio, Vincent: 58 Doris (sister) 124 Douglas, Kirk: 43 Dourdon, Gary: 116 Dowland, James: 121 Driscoll, Sgt. Jack: 130 Duff, Blythe: 104 Duffy, Carol Anne: 126 Dumbledore, Albus: 56,86 Dunn, Carrie: 114 Durante, Jimmy: 96 Durr, Jason: 115 , Duvall, Robert: 86 Dyke, Greg: 112 Eagleton, Terry: 89 Earp, Wyatt: 94,95 Eastwood, Clint: 125 Elliot, John: 82,109 Elliott, Sam: 94 Ellis, grandson 'Boo': 42,53,60,64,75,93,109,111,114 Evans, Rupert: 98 Eve, Trevor: 62,101,102 Everett, Rupert: 33 Ewen, Jade: 126 Faldo, Nick: 81 Falk, Peter: 130 Farndon, Zoe: 127 Feast, Michael: 74 Federer, Roger: 79,108,130 Fen, Gervaise: 122 Ferguson, Alex: 49,59,64,126 Ferris, Pam: 105 Fields, Gracie: 96 Fillis, Brian: 100 Finch, Scout: 111 Fine, Sylvia: 95 Firth, Peter: 24,91 Fishburne, Laurence: 122 Fisher, Connie: 22,48 Fitz: 31 Fitzgerald, Tara: 38 Flemyng, Jason: 124 Fletcher, Cyril: 96 Fletcher, Dexter: 101 Fletcher, Jessica: 50,97,103 Fletcher, Justin: 100 Flynn, Barbara: 97,109 Flynn, Errol: 128 Flynn, Jerome: 33 Fogle, Ben: 98,117 Forbes, Bryan: 125,127 Forsyth, Bruce: 114 Fowke, Philip: 81 Fowler, Daphne: 68,73,107 Fox, James: 108 Fox, Laurence: 64 Foxx, James: 130 Foyle, D.C.S. Christopher: 7,62,63,103,104,109 Franz, Dennis: 11,61,63 Fraser, Hugh: 8 Fraser, D.C. Stuart: 57 Frazer, Liz: 63 Fred & Ginger: 43 Freeman, Morgan: 61 French, Dawn: 98,121 Friday, Sgt.Joe: 111 Front, Rebecca: 64,76 Frost, David: 68 Frost, D.I. Jack: 7 Fry, Stephen: 74,100,113,115,117,127 Fu Manchu, Dr. 100 Gallagher, (brothers): 115 Gallagher, Frank: 64 Gamble, P.C. 90 Gambon, Michael: 86,91,114 Gandhi: 128 Gandolfini, James: 65,90 Gardner, Freddie: 96 Gaunt, Marion: 105 Gedda, Nicolai: 127 Gens, Veronique: 10 Gently, D.I. George: 69,111,124,125 Gerrard, Steven: 75,106 Gershwin, George: 96 Gervais, Ricky: 37 Gibbs, Leroy 'Jethro' 22,35,46,58,64,68,75,92,93,94,95,103,115 Gielgud, John: 64 Gifford, Josh: 129 Gish, Sheila: 64 Glenister, Philip; 69,101,118 Gless, Sharon: 53 Gok, Wan: 109,126 Goody, Jade: 56 Goran, Det. Robert: 58 Gould, Elliott: 43 Graham, Julie: 115 Graham, Nicola (Royston-Parry): 105,106 Granger, Hermione: 50,80,130 Grant, Richard E: 72,73 Grappelli, Stephane: 96 Green, Adolph: 83 Green, Hughie: 101,102,123 Green, Robson: 24,28,33,37 Greer, Germaine: 113,123 Griffiths, Richard: 7,97 Grint, Rupert: 50 Grissom, Gil: 116 Gross, Andrew: 53 Grout, James: 64 Grump, Arthur: 115 Guetary, Georges: 96 Guinness, Alec: 90,128 Hagrid: 27,84 Haining, Peter: 77 Hallinan, Olivia: 98 Hamilton, Lewis: 89 Hammerback, Dr. Sid: 126 Hammond, Joan: 82,96 Hancock, Tony; 101 Hannah, John: 21,74 Hannay, Richard: 115 Harbinson, Patrick: 111 Hardwicke, Edward: 7 Hardy, Robert: 64 Harewood, David: 128 Hari, Johann: 79,97,128 Harmon, Mark: 16,22,31,35,58,64,68,75,92,93,94,100, Harper, Lee: 111 Harrington, Padraig: 81 Harris, Richard: 5 Hastings, Captain: 7,8,97,111 Hathaway, Det.Sgt: 64 Havers, D,S, Barbara: 2,83,106 Havers, Nigel: 41 Hawking, Stephen: 103 Hayman, David: 62,101 Haynes, Natalie: 125 Hayter, James: 128 Hayward, Louis: 43 Hazlewood, Charles: 12 Head, Anthony: 111 Helfgott, David: 22 Henman, Tim: 79 Henri, Thierry: 59 Henriksson, Krister: 114 Henshall, Douglas: 123,124 Henshall, Ruthie: 123 Henson, C.S. Laura: 104 Hepburn, Katherine: 43 Herman, Jerry: 96 Heymer, Dennis: 102 Hibberd, Stuart: 112 Hickson, Joan: 87 Hill, Harry: 100 Hinds, Ciaran: 115 Hislop, Ian: 37,62,111,123 Hitler, Adolf: 71 Hoffman, Philip Seymour: 120 Holliday, Doc: 95 Holman, Claire: 64 Holmes, Sherlock: 7,31,97,104 Hood, Robin: 61,122,129 Horowitz, Anthony: 103,104,109,125 Howard, Trevor: 96 Howe, Steve: 127 Howell, Anthony: 63,103 Howerd, Frankie: 101,102 Hubbard, Ron. L. 124 Hucknall, Mick: 127 Hughes, Chris: 68,73 Hughes, Gwyneth: 62 Hughes, Sean: 71 Humble, Kate: 74,127 Humphrys, John: 92 Hunt, D.C.I. Gene: 69,101 Hunter, Alan: 69 Hunter, Russell: 99 Hurt, John: 111 Ice Road Truckers: 99,116 Imrie, Celia: 120,127 Ingleby, Lee: 69.111,124 Innocent, Harold: 61 Isaacs, Jason: 49,51,53,100,101 Izzard, Eddie: 64 Jackson, Barry: 84 Jackson, Peter: 48,111 Jackson, Philip: 8,111 Jacobi, Derek: 97 Jacobs, Marc: 110 James, Clive: 36 James, P.D: 111 Jankovic, Jelena: 79 Japp, C.I. James: 7,8,97,111 Jardine, Douglas: 59 Jason, David: 7 Jehovah: 124 Jeffreys, Prof. Alec: 44 Johanssen, Scarlet: 111 John, Elton: 78 Johns, Stratford: 62 Johnson, Boris: 123 Johnson, Celia: 96 Johnson, Karl: 98 Johnson, Lyndon B. 57 Johnson, Samuel: 40 Johnston, Sue: 97 Jones, Martha: 104 Jones, Nicholas: 24 Jones, Suranne: 118 Joseph, Lesley: 117 Joy, Robert: 126 Judd, Ashley: 124 Kahn, Gus: 95 Kanakaredes, Melina: 11,126 Kaye, Danny: 51 Kearney, Martha: 125 Kendal, Felicity 105 Kennedy, Gordon: 76 Kennedy, Nigel: 120 Keppel, Judith: 68,73 Kerr, Deborah: 89 King Charles 1: 115 King, Justin: 128 King, Simon: 74,127 Kingdom, Peter: 127 Kingsley, Ben: 128 Kington, Miles: 97 Kipling, Rudyard: 69 Kitchen, Michael: 7,62,63,103,104 Kline, Kevin: 124 Kos: 57 Kuryakin, Ilya: 35 Lahbib, Simone: 24 Lamb, Amanda: 116 Lancaster, Burt: 43 Lane, Dorcas: 98,121 Lane, Lupino: 96 Langford, Bonny: 99 Lansbury, Angela: 50,51,120 LaPlante, Lynda: 111,115 Larwood, Harold: 59 Latham, Jody: 99 Laughland, Nick: 71 Laughton, Charles: 82 Law, Jude: 104 Lean, David: 96 le Carre, John: 90 Lee, Peggy: 127 Leigh, Janet: 130 Le Mesurier, Joan: 101 Le Mesurier, John: 101 Lemon, Miss: 8,97,111 Lewis, Damian: 128 Lewis, D.C.I. Janine: 44 Lewis, D.I. Robert: 64 Liddell, Alvar: 112 Lincoln, Andrew: 22,31 Lock, Sean: 117 Locke, Josef: 96 Lockhart, Sally: 107,109 Logan, Phyllis: 104 Long, Max: 109 Lovegood, Linda: 79 Luca, Giordano: 128 Luft, Lorna: 117 Lumley, Joanna: 51,53,121,125 Lusardi, Linda: 99 Lynley, D.I. Tommy: 2,83,106 Lyra: 95 Mack, Lee: 118 Maigret, Insp. Jules: 114 Makutsi, Mma: 121 Malfoy, Draco: 80 Malfoy, Lucius: 49,53 Mallard, Dr.'Ducky': 35,115 Mankell, Henning: 114 Mantle, Doreen: 97 Marcus Aurelius: 82 Margolyes, Miriam: 97 Marlowe, Philip: 43,114 Marnham, Patrick: 18 Marple, Jane (Miss): 87,97,98,101 Marples, Ernest: 111 Mastrantonio, Mary Elizabeth: 61 Matthews, Jessie: 41 Maugham, Somerset: 82 Maupin, Armistead: 124,125 May, James: 49 McBride, Damian: 123 McCain, John: 111 McCallum, David: 35 McClaren,Steve: 14,15,47,76,84,92 McCredie, Colin: 57 McCutcheon, Martine: 87 McDermid, Val: 111 McDonnell, Owen: 130 McEnroe, John: 81 McEwan, Geraldine: 61,87,97,98 McFly: 128 McGee, Timothy: 103,115 McGovern, Jimmy: 31 McGregor, Ewan; 92,109,111 McKellan, Ian: 111 McKenna, Charlene: 64 McKenzie, Julia: 76,97,98 McKidd, Kevin: 86 McLaughlin, Joseph: 96 McNeice, Ian: 100 McShane, Michael: 61 Medavoy, Greg: 61 Melua, Katie: 95,109 Menuhin, Yehudi: 96 Mercer, John: 99 Mercury, Freddie: 101 Merlin: 56,111 Merman, Ethel: 96 Merton, Paul: 37,76,107,113 Miles, Ben: 98 Milligan, Spike: 89 Mills, John: 63 Milner, Paul: 63,103 Minghella, Anthony: 100,104 Mirren, Helen: 38,78 Mitchell, David: 121 Mitchell, James: 99 Mitchum, Robert: 96 Mitty, Walter: 127 Mo, friend: 112 Molina, Alfred: 104 Monk: 97 Monroe, Marilyn: 43 Montalbano, Insp, Salvo: 114 Monteith, Kelly: 101 Montgomery, Robert: 43 Moore, Roger: 43 Moran, Pauline: 8 More, Kenneth: 115 Morse, D.I. Endeavour: 69,97,107 Motion, Andrew: 78 Mourinho, Jose: 87,126 Mower, Patrick: 99 Mullan, Peter: 99 Munch, John: 16 Murnaghan, Dermot: 68,73,86,107 Murray, Al: 69,97 Murray, Andy: 79 Murray, Jamie: 79 Murray, Sean: 103 Mynenko, Yuriy: 128 Nadal, Rafael: 108 Nettles, John: 16,27.58 Newell, Mike: 80 Newman, G.F. 101 Newman, Nanette: 125 Nighy, Bill: 100 Nilsson, Harry: 95 Norton, Alex: 57,104 Norton, Graham: 86,126 Novello.Ivor: 124 Obama, Barack: 111,117,124 Ochoa, Lorena: 82 Oddy, Bill: 74, 127 Ogden, John: 81,96 Ogilvy, Ian: 43 O'Grady, Paul: 41,91,115 Osbourne, Jack: 36 Osbourne, Sharon: 20 O'Shea, Tessie: 96 Osmond, Donny: 86 Outhwaite, Tamzin: 99,101 Owen, Michael: 84 Pack, Roger Lloyd: 35,118 Packham, Chris: 127 Padel, Ruth: 126 Palance, Jack: 46 Pallette, Eugene: 128 Palmer, Harry: 33 Paris, Charles: 7,8 Park, Nick: 115 Parker, Nathaniel: 106 Parker, Peter: 113 Parkinson, Michael: 117 Parton, Dolly: 96 Pascoe, D.I. Peter: 16,72,73 Paterson, Bill: 109,122 Patinkin, Mandy: 44,92 Patterson,James: 53 Paulin, Tom: 113,123,125 Pavarotti, Luciano: 85 Paxman, Jeremy: 92 Payne, John: 130 Peake, Maxine: 101 Penry-Jones, Rupert: 24,91,115 Perette, Pauley: 64,68,75 Pertwee, Sean: 86 Petersen, Willian. L: 15,26,44,51,122,123 Phillips, Sian: 38 Pigott-Smith, Tim: 72 Pixies: 128 Plater, Alan: 64 Poirot, Hercule: 7,31,97,103,111 Poliakoff, Stephen: 91 Poppins, Mary ; 94 Porter, Cole: 96,124 Porter, Linda: 124 Portillo, Michael: 123 Potter, Beatrix: 109 Potter, Dennis: 114 Potter, Harry: 4,5,9,12,27,39,45,50,63,77,78,79,80,82,83,88,100,106,111,114,120,124,130 Powell, Dick: 43,114 Powell, Robert: 115 Powers, Stefanie: 68 Prescott, John: 8,91 Presley, Elvis: 96 Preston, Duncan: 120 Preston, Robert: 96 Price, Claire: 93, Prince Philip: 98,106 Prodigy, The: 128 Pullman, Philip: 50,88,90,95,107,109 Queen Elizabeth 2: 80,91,100,102,106,121 Quentin, Caroline: 44 Quick, A.C. Bob: 114,123 Quilleran, Jim: 4 Rachmaninov, Sergei: 96 Rackham, Jane: 33 Radcliffe, Daniel: 50 Radd, Ronald: 99 Ramotswe, Precious: 100,121 Ramsay, Gordon: 37,115 Rankin, Ian: 21,109,111 Rathbone, Andy: 28 Rathbone, Basil: 61 Rathbone, Willie 34 Rattle, Simon: 10 Razorlight: 128 Rebus, D.I. John: 21,25,29,30,88,93. Red Arrows: 128 Redknapp, Harry: 70,105,112,118 Redman, Amanda: 38,108,130 Reichs, Kathy: 121,122,124,125 Reid, D.S. Jackie: 104 Reilly, Kelly: 115 Renwick, David: 111 Reynolds, Kevin: 61 Rhys-Davies, John: 48 Richard, Cliff: 34,78 Richard The Lionheart: 61 Richards, Ben: 99 Richards, Dakot Blue: 95 Richie, Shane: 35 Rickman, Alan: 5,29,30,53,61,104,120 Riseborough, Andrea: 115 Robb, Natalie: 64 Robeson, Paul: 89 Robinson, Tony: 108 Roddick, Andy: 130 Rodgers, Richard: 129 Rogers, Anton: 76 Rogers, Ginger: 114 Rohmer, Sax: 100 Ronaldo, Cristiano 67,108 Rooney, Wayne: 15,67,84,86 Rooper, Jemima: 111 Root, Henry: 87 Rose, Anika Noni: 121 Ross, Jonathan: 112,130 Rowling, J.K. 5,18,27,36,45,63,71,77,78,80,82,88,98,100,114,130 Rush, Geoffrey: 22 Sachar, Louis: 50 Sachs, Andrew: 112 Saint, The: 43,77,114 Sallis, Peter: 127 Sanders, George: 43,114 Saunders, Jennifer: 49,53,121 Savage, Lily: 115 Sawalha, Julia: 98,117,121 Sayers, Dorothy L: 28 Sayle, Alexei: 107 Schofield, Phillip: 99 Schweitzer, Albert: 111 Scoresby, Lee; 94 Scott, Jill: 121 Secombe, Harry: 96 Sellars, Peter: 22 Semprini, Albert: 95 Sessions, John: 121 Sewell, Brian: 76 Shahi, Sarah: 128 Shaps, Simon: 103 Sharp, Lesley: 22,31 Shaw, Martin: 69,124 Shcherbachenko,Ekaterina: 128 Shearer, Alan: 14, 15 Sheila,friend: 99,112,121 Shepherd, Jack: 62 Shore, Dinah: 95 Shrapnel, John: 71 Shunpike, Stan: 111 Silent Bob: 30 Sim, Alistair; 63 Simenon, Georges: 114 Simm, John: 115 Simon's Cat: 118 Sinatra, Frank: 36 Sinclair, Hugh: 43 Sinise, Gary: 11,126 Sipowicz, Andy: 61,63 Sjowall & Wahloo: 114 Skellern, Peter: 127 Skinner, Claire: 76 Slater, Christian: 61 Sleep, Wayne: 117 Sloan, Mark: 97 Small, Sharon: 106 Smiley, George; 90 Smith, Alexander McCall: 100 Smith, Andreas Whittam: 97 Smith, C.Aubrey: 69 Smith, Julian: 126 Smith, Kevin: 30 Smith, Liz: 45,98 Smith, Maggie: 97,111 Smith-Start, Brix: 126 Snape, Prof. Severus: 5,66 Snowdon, Liza: 114 Soprano, Tony: 65,90 Spall, Rafe: 102 Sparrow, Walter: 61 Spencer, Phil: 116 Spiderman: 113 Spielberg, Steven: 14 Squire, Chris: 127 Squire, William: 99 Staff, Kathy: 127 Standen, Clive: 128 Staunton, Imelda: 97 Steed, Maggie: 7,97 Stephen, Jaci: 72,73 Stereophonics: 128 Stettner, Patrick: 125 Stevens, Rachel: 114 Stevens, Toby: 124 Stewart, Sam: 63,103 Stott, Ken: 21,25,30,62,88,90,93,101, Strachan, Gordon: 49 Streep, Meryl: 110,125 Street-Porter, Janet: 121 Streeter, Tanya: 83 Stuart, Moira: 62 Styne, Julie: 83 Suchet, David: 7 Sutcliffe, Thomas: 108,121 Sutherland, Joan: 128 Swift, Clive: 118 Sykes, Melanie: 91 Tarrant, Chris: 87 Tarzan: 43,69 Tatchell, Peter: 112 Tate, Catherine: 102 Tate, Jeffrey: 120 Tauber, Richard: 96 Taylor, Mac: 11,100,126 Teale, Owen: 64 Templar, D.C.S. Gill: 93, Tennant, David: 102108 Tennyson, D.S. Jane: 38 Terry, John: 75,106 Thatcher, Margaret: 71,99,108,125 Thaw, John: 69 Thomas, Leslie: 71 Thomas, Matthew: 71 Thompson, Emma: 98,121 Thompson, Flora: 98 Timmins, Laura: 98,100 Titchmarsh, Alan: 86,102,126 Tofield, Simon: 118 TOGs: 3,5 Tolkein, J.R.R. 48 Tomkinson, Stephen: 127 Torode, John: 60 Torres, Fernando: 108 Townsend, Robert: 81 Townshend, Pete: 78,110 Toyah (Wilcox): 117 Tracy, Spencer: 43 Treacy, Philip: 110 Trelawney, Sybil: 98 TrippingOnWords: 9,21,29,33,39,51,53,58,65,75 Trotter, John Scott: 96 Troughton, David: 58,108,129 Troughton, Patrick; 108,129 Troughton, Sam: 129 Tuck, Friar: 128 Turnbull, Giles: 58,87,109 Turow, Scott: 124 Twain, Mark: 57 Umbridge, Dolores: 79 Valentine, Anthony: 71,99 Valjean, Jean: 27 Van Dyke, Dick: 94,117 Vane, Harriet: 28 Vegas, Johnny: 117 Venables, Terry: 92 Vickers, Roy: 38 Vogt, Lars: 10 Von Nida, Norman: 81 Wainwright, Hetty: 97 Wainwright, Rufus: 78,127 Wainwright, Sally: 118 Wakeman, Rick: 127 Walker, Johnny: 129 Walker, D.C.S. MIchael: 62,101 Wallace & Gromit: 115 Wallace, Gregg: 60 Wallander, Insp. Kurt: 114 Walliams, David: 101,102 Walsh, Bradley: 122 Walter, Harriet: 122 Walters, Julie: 106,118,120 Walters, Paul: 5,41 Warhol, Andy: 107 Wark, Kirsty: 123 Warnes, Jennifer: 127 Waterman, Dennis: 38,108,130 Watson, Doctor: 7 Watson, Emily: 109 Watson, Emma: 50,130 Watson, James: 89 Watson, Tom: 130 Waugh, Evelyn: 82 Weasley, Molly: 120 Weatherley, Michael: 46,64 Weaver, Sigourney: 120 Webber, Andrew Lloyd: 22,126 Weeks, Honeysuckle: 7,63,103 Weissmuller, Johnny: 43,69 Wells, H.G. 106 Wendy, friend: 112 Wenger, Arsene: 59,64 Wesley, Mary: 5,18,38,125 West, Samuel: 58 Wexford, C,I, Reg: 97 Whately, Kevin: 64,97 Wheeler, Jimmy: 113 White, Jessica: 20,47,50,60,76,83,84,95,105,110,113,123,128 White, T.H: 63,67,77 Whitehouse, Mary: 106 Whitehouse, Toby: 51 Whitfield, David: 96 Whitfield, June: 97,127 Who, The: 128 Widmark, Richard: 102 Wilde, Oscar: 77 Wilde, Brian: 127 Wilkinson, Colm: 27 Wilkinson, Johnny: 82 Williams, Iris: 96 Williams, Lee: 101 Williams, Robin: 125 Williams, Rowan: 98 Williams, Venus: 79 Willis, Bruce, 5 Wilson, Benji: 103 Wilson, Richard: 111 Wilson, (truth about): 85,117 Wimsey, Lord Peter: 28,31 Wincott, Michael: 61 Winkler, Irwin: 124 Winstone, Ray: 43,48 Wogan, Terry: 3,5,13,18,27,41,102,106,126,129 Wolf, Dick: 122 Wood, Elijah: 111 Wood, Victoria: 53,72,73,76,120 Woodman, George: 85 Woodman, Greta: 85 Woodward, Edward: 99 Woolgar, Fenella: 105 Wright, Clarissa Dixon: 109,111 Wycliffe, D.C.S. Charles: 62 Wynter, Danny Lee: 91 Yates, David: 80,100,130 Yates, Jess: 102 Yates, Paula: 102 Young, James: 64 Young, Neil: 128 Young, Will: 128 Zellweger,Renée: 109 Zingaretti, Luca: 114
Abbot, Russ: 127 Abby (Scluto): 64,68,75,103,115 Ackland, Josh: 129 Adams, Douglas: 82 Adams, Tony: 118 Affleck, Ben: 29 Agyeman, Freema: 75,104 Alexander, Sasha: 35,46 al-Fayed, Mohamed: 98 Alibhai-Brown, Yasmin: 40,69,71,79,89,97,128 Allen, Dave: 115 Allen, Keith: 124 Alliss, Peter: 130 Allsopp, Kirstie: 116,125 Amis, Martin: 89 Amos, Emma: 71 Anderson, Bruce: 97 Anderson, Jon: 127 Andrews, Julie: 43 Annis, Francesca: 87 Anonymous John: 75,77,83,84,99,104,106,109,112,121 Ant & Dec: 122 Armstrong, Alun: 3,8,108,129,130 Armstrong, Jonas: 128,129 Arnott, Jake; 101 Ashdown, Simon: 64 Asher, Jane: 118 Ashman, Kevin: 68,73 Asriel, Lord: 88 Astaire, Fred: 114 Astin, Sean: 111 Atkins, Eileen: 92,97 Atkinson, Rowan: 53 Aunt Kate: 41 Ayres, Pam: 117,123 Bacchus, D.S. John: 111,124,125 Bailey, Bill: 125 Balding, Claire: 129 Ballesteros, Seve: 81 Banks, Leslie: 63,69 Bannen, Ian: 25 Barclay, D.S.I. Iain: 62 Barker, Sue: 78 Barlow, D.S. Charlie: 62 Barnaby, D.C.I. Tom: 16,27,84,97,115 Barnden, Dennis: 105,110 Barnden, Jacqui: 75,82,123,127 Barnden, Lilian: 100 Barnden, Neil: 28,29,51,55,70,82,84 Barnden, Pauline: 84,99 Barrett, Alan: 118 Barron, Keith: 84 Barrowman, John: 101 Bassey, Shirley: 78,96 Bean, Sean: 111 Becket, Thomas: 98 Beckham, David: 74,75,76,77,84,86 Beeching, Richard: 111 Beesley, Max: 101,115 Belfrage, Bruce: 112 Belzer, Richard: 16 Bening, Annette: 86 Bennett, Alan: 107,109,111,112,114 Bennett, D.I.George: 111 Bennett, Jan: 76,113 Benton, Mark: 102 Bergerac, Jim: 16,27 Berlin, Irving: 95 Bernstein, Leonard: 96 bin Laden, Osama: 102 Black, Jennifer: 93, Blair, Tony: 8,66,67,78 Blanc, Ernest: 127 Blessed, Brian: 61 Bloom, Orlando: 48 Blumenthal, Heston: 49 Bocelli, Andrea: 77 Bogart, Humphrey: 43 Bolam, James: 38,108,130 Bolton, Michael: 95 Bonasera. Stella: 126 Bond, James: 33 Bonneville, Hugh: 62 Boorman, Charlie: 92 Bowles, Lynn, 129 Bowlly, Al: 95 Bowman, Stuart: 64 Boyd, D.S. Peter: 62 Boyd, 'Barrowlands': 129 Boyd, William: 117 Boyle, Susan: 123,126 Brading, Amy: 105 Brambell, Wilfrid: 100 Branagh, Kenneth: 114 Brand, Russell: 112 Branning, Dot: 97 Braun, Lilian Jackson: 4. Brennan, Temperance: 124,125 Brett, Jeremy: 7 Brett, Simon: 7,8 Brimble, Nick: 61 Broadbent, Jim: 100 Brooks, D.S.Ronnie 122 Brown, Gordon, 8,66,73,78,108,123 Brown, Johnny Mack: 85,117 Brown, June: 97 Brown, Rosie: 119 Brown, Warrick: 116 Bruford, Bill: 127 Brydon, Sir Mark: 51 Buble, Michael: 87 Buchan, Andrew: 99 Buchan, John: 115 Buchanan, Colin: 72,73 Bucket, Hyacinth: 63 Bullard, Dr. George: 84 Burke, D.C.I. Matt: 57,104 Burnham, Andy: 112 Burroughs, Edgar Rice: 43 Burton-Hill, Clemency: 123 Bush, George: 67 Butler, Phil: 75 Butterworth, Peter: 83 Cadfael, Bro: 97 Caine, Horatio 11 Caitlin (Todd); 35,46 Callan, David: 33,99 Cameron, David: 73,124 Camilleri, Andrea: 114 Campbell, Menzies: 89 Campion, Albert: 7 Carroll, Lewis: 65 Carson, Willie: 129 Carter, Jim: 100 Caruso, David: 7,10,11,18,39,58,91,100 Caruso, Enrico: 96 Casement, Roger: 95 Cassandra: 85 Cassidy, Eva; 105 Cassidy, Hopalong: 117 Castle, Andrew: 126 Castle, John: 24 Cerdan, Marcel: 107 Chambers, Tom: 114 Chandler, Raymond: 43,114 Chapman, Beth Nielsen: 95 Charlatans, The: 128 Charteris, Leslie: 43,77,114 Christie, Agatha: 87,105 Churchill, Randolph: 82 Churchill, Winston: 74 Cink, Stewart: 130 Claire and Lara: 9,10,29,33,39,65 Clapp, Gordon: 61 Clarke, Oz: 49 Clarke, Roy: 83, 127 Clarke, D.S. Siobhan: 93. Clarke, Warren: 16,72,73 Clarkson, Jeremy: 107 Cleasby, Emma: 86 Clooney, George: 13 Close, Glenn: 110 Clunes, Martin: 87 Cocker, Joe: 127 Cole, George: 63 Cole, Brendan: 114 Cole, Kevin: 12 Collette, Toni: 125 Collins, Joan: 91 Coltraine, Robbie:27,31,84 Columbo, Lt: 130 Columbus, Chris: 80 Comden, Betty: 83 Connery, Jason: 128 Connery, Sean: 61 Connolly, Billy: 120 Constantine, Leary: 89 Cook Jnr,, Elisha: 46 Cooke, Christian: 118 Cookson, Catherine: 107 Cooper, Gary: 43 Cooper, Jilly: 86,95 Cooper, Tommy: 33,77 Coppell, Steve: 64,125 Corbett, Harry H. 100 Corden, James: 121 Corelli, Franco: 96 Cosmo, James: 21 Costello, Elvis: 46 Costner, Kevin: 61,86 Coward, Noel: 77,83,96,124 Crabbe, D.I. Henry: 7,121 Cracker: 27 Craig, Daniel: 90.95 Cranham, Kenneth: 74 Craven, John: 123 Crawford, Randy: 127 Creek, Jonathan: 44,111,115 Cremer, Bruno: 114 Cribbins, Bernard: 108 Crispin, Edmund: 122 Cromwell, Oliver: 115 Crosby, Bing: 95,96,115 Cruise, Tom: 120,130 Crushem, Will: 105,110 Cuaron, Alfonso: 80 Cunningham, Liam: 86 Curtis, Richard: 53 Dale, James Badge: 11 Dali, Salvador: 76 Dallaglio, Lawrence: 82 Dallerup, Camilla: 114 Daltrey, Roger: 71,72 Daly, Fred: 81 Dalziel, D.C.S. Andy: 16,72,73 Damon, Matt. 29 David, Ziva: 94,115 Davies, Alan: 111,115,117,121 Davies, Dangerous: 7,8,71 Davies, Deidre: 104 Davies, Rupert: 114 Davies, Russell T: 51,100,102,108 Davis, Bette: 43 Davis, Phil: 69,100,101 Davison, Peter: 7,8,71,87 Daws, Robert: 76 Dawson, Les: 123 Day, Doris: 95 Dayer, Roz: 60,84,95,123 De'ath, Charles: 71 Deed, Judge John: 69 deMooi, C.J: 68,73,107 Dench, Judi: 78 de Pablo, Cote: 94 Depp, Johnny: 95 Dexter (Morgan): 105,115,120 Dexter, Colin: 64,95,107,109,111 Diana, Princess: 76,117 Dickens, Charles: 109 Dimbleby, David: 108 Dinozzo, Anthony: 46,64,115 Dillow, Ian: 53 Diversity: 126 Doctor Who: 73,75,102,104,105,106,107,108 Donat, Robert: 115 Donna (Noble): 102,104,105 D'Onofrio, Vincent: 58 Doris (sister) 124 Douglas, Kirk: 43 Dourdon, Gary: 116 Dowland, James: 121 Driscoll, Sgt. Jack: 130 Duff, Blythe: 104 Duffy, Carol Anne: 126 Dumbledore, Albus: 56,86 Dunn, Carrie: 114 Durante, Jimmy: 96 Durr, Jason: 115 , Duvall, Robert: 86 Dyke, Greg: 112 Eagleton, Terry: 89 Earp, Wyatt: 94,95 Eastwood, Clint: 125 Elliot, John: 82,109 Elliott, Sam: 94 Ellis, grandson 'Boo': 42,53,60,64,75,93,109,111,114 Evans, Rupert: 98 Eve, Trevor: 62,101,102 Everett, Rupert: 33 Ewen, Jade: 126 Faldo, Nick: 81 Falk, Peter: 130 Farndon, Zoe: 127 Feast, Michael: 74 Federer, Roger: 79,108,130 Fen, Gervaise: 122 Ferguson, Alex: 49,59,64,126 Ferris, Pam: 105 Fields, Gracie: 96 Fillis, Brian: 100 Finch, Scout: 111 Fine, Sylvia: 95 Firth, Peter: 24,91 Fishburne, Laurence: 122 Fisher, Connie: 22,48 Fitz: 31 Fitzgerald, Tara: 38 Flemyng, Jason: 124 Fletcher, Cyril: 96 Fletcher, Dexter: 101 Fletcher, Jessica: 50,97,103 Fletcher, Justin: 100 Flynn, Barbara: 97,109 Flynn, Errol: 128 Flynn, Jerome: 33 Fogle, Ben: 98,117 Forbes, Bryan: 125,127 Forsyth, Bruce: 114 Fowke, Philip: 81 Fowler, Daphne: 68,73,107 Fox, James: 108 Fox, Laurence: 64 Foxx, James: 130 Foyle, D.C.S. Christopher: 7,62,63,103,104,109 Franz, Dennis: 11,61,63 Fraser, Hugh: 8 Fraser, D.C. Stuart: 57 Frazer, Liz: 63 Fred & Ginger: 43 Freeman, Morgan: 61 French, Dawn: 98,121 Friday, Sgt.Joe: 111 Front, Rebecca: 64,76 Frost, David: 68 Frost, D.I. Jack: 7 Fry, Stephen: 74,100,113,115,117,127 Fu Manchu, Dr. 100 Gallagher, (brothers): 115 Gallagher, Frank: 64 Gamble, P.C. 90 Gambon, Michael: 86,91,114 Gandhi: 128 Gandolfini, James: 65,90 Gardner, Freddie: 96 Gaunt, Marion: 105 Gedda, Nicolai: 127 Gens, Veronique: 10 Gently, D.I. George: 69,111,124,125 Gerrard, Steven: 75,106 Gershwin, George: 96 Gervais, Ricky: 37 Gibbs, Leroy 'Jethro' 22,35,46,58,64,68,75,92,93,94,95,103,115 Gielgud, John: 64 Gifford, Josh: 129 Gish, Sheila: 64 Glenister, Philip; 69,101,118 Gless, Sharon: 53 Gok, Wan: 109,126 Goody, Jade: 56 Goran, Det. Robert: 58 Gould, Elliott: 43 Graham, Julie: 115 Graham, Nicola (Royston-Parry): 105,106 Granger, Hermione: 50,80,130 Grant, Richard E: 72,73 Grappelli, Stephane: 96 Green, Adolph: 83 Green, Hughie: 101,102,123 Green, Robson: 24,28,33,37 Greer, Germaine: 113,123 Griffiths, Richard: 7,97 Grint, Rupert: 50 Grissom, Gil: 116 Gross, Andrew: 53 Grout, James: 64 Grump, Arthur: 115 Guetary, Georges: 96 Guinness, Alec: 90,128 Hagrid: 27,84 Haining, Peter: 77 Hallinan, Olivia: 98 Hamilton, Lewis: 89 Hammerback, Dr. Sid: 126 Hammond, Joan: 82,96 Hancock, Tony; 101 Hannah, John: 21,74 Hannay, Richard: 115 Harbinson, Patrick: 111 Hardwicke, Edward: 7 Hardy, Robert: 64 Harewood, David: 128 Hari, Johann: 79,97,128 Harmon, Mark: 16,22,31,35,58,64,68,75,92,93,94,100, Harper, Lee: 111 Harrington, Padraig: 81 Harris, Richard: 5 Hastings, Captain: 7,8,97,111 Hathaway, Det.Sgt: 64 Havers, D,S, Barbara: 2,83,106 Havers, Nigel: 41 Hawking, Stephen: 103 Hayman, David: 62,101 Haynes, Natalie: 125 Hayter, James: 128 Hayward, Louis: 43 Hazlewood, Charles: 12 Head, Anthony: 111 Helfgott, David: 22 Henman, Tim: 79 Henri, Thierry: 59 Henriksson, Krister: 114 Henshall, Douglas: 123,124 Henshall, Ruthie: 123 Henson, C.S. Laura: 104 Hepburn, Katherine: 43 Herman, Jerry: 96 Heymer, Dennis: 102 Hibberd, Stuart: 112 Hickson, Joan: 87 Hill, Harry: 100 Hinds, Ciaran: 115 Hislop, Ian: 37,62,111,123 Hitler, Adolf: 71 Hoffman, Philip Seymour: 120 Holliday, Doc: 95 Holman, Claire: 64 Holmes, Sherlock: 7,31,97,104 Hood, Robin: 61,122,129 Horowitz, Anthony: 103,104,109,125 Howard, Trevor: 96 Howe, Steve: 127 Howell, Anthony: 63,103 Howerd, Frankie: 101,102 Hubbard, Ron. L. 124 Hucknall, Mick: 127 Hughes, Chris: 68,73 Hughes, Gwyneth: 62 Hughes, Sean: 71 Humble, Kate: 74,127 Humphrys, John: 92 Hunt, D.C.I. Gene: 69,101 Hunter, Alan: 69 Hunter, Russell: 99 Hurt, John: 111 Ice Road Truckers: 99,116 Imrie, Celia: 120,127 Ingleby, Lee: 69.111,124 Innocent, Harold: 61 Isaacs, Jason: 49,51,53,100,101 Izzard, Eddie: 64 Jackson, Barry: 84 Jackson, Peter: 48,111 Jackson, Philip: 8,111 Jacobi, Derek: 97 Jacobs, Marc: 110 James, Clive: 36 James, P.D: 111 Jankovic, Jelena: 79 Japp, C.I. James: 7,8,97,111 Jardine, Douglas: 59 Jason, David: 7 Jehovah: 124 Jeffreys, Prof. Alec: 44 Johanssen, Scarlet: 111 John, Elton: 78 Johns, Stratford: 62 Johnson, Boris: 123 Johnson, Celia: 96 Johnson, Karl: 98 Johnson, Lyndon B. 57 Johnson, Samuel: 40 Johnston, Sue: 97 Jones, Martha: 104 Jones, Nicholas: 24 Jones, Suranne: 118 Joseph, Lesley: 117 Joy, Robert: 126 Judd, Ashley: 124 Kahn, Gus: 95 Kanakaredes, Melina: 11,126 Kaye, Danny: 51 Kearney, Martha: 125 Kendal, Felicity 105 Kennedy, Gordon: 76 Kennedy, Nigel: 120 Keppel, Judith: 68,73 Kerr, Deborah: 89 King Charles 1: 115 King, Justin: 128 King, Simon: 74,127 Kingdom, Peter: 127 Kingsley, Ben: 128 Kington, Miles: 97 Kipling, Rudyard: 69 Kitchen, Michael: 7,62,63,103,104 Kline, Kevin: 124 Kos: 57 Kuryakin, Ilya: 35 Lahbib, Simone: 24 Lamb, Amanda: 116 Lancaster, Burt: 43 Lane, Dorcas: 98,121 Lane, Lupino: 96 Langford, Bonny: 99 Lansbury, Angela: 50,51,120 LaPlante, Lynda: 111,115 Larwood, Harold: 59 Latham, Jody: 99 Laughland, Nick: 71 Laughton, Charles: 82 Law, Jude: 104 Lean, David: 96 le Carre, John: 90 Lee, Peggy: 127 Leigh, Janet: 130 Le Mesurier, Joan: 101 Le Mesurier, John: 101 Lemon, Miss: 8,97,111 Lewis, Damian: 128 Lewis, D.C.I. Janine: 44 Lewis, D.I. Robert: 64 Liddell, Alvar: 112 Lincoln, Andrew: 22,31 Lock, Sean: 117 Locke, Josef: 96 Lockhart, Sally: 107,109 Logan, Phyllis: 104 Long, Max: 109 Lovegood, Linda: 79 Luca, Giordano: 128 Luft, Lorna: 117 Lumley, Joanna: 51,53,121,125 Lusardi, Linda: 99 Lynley, D.I. Tommy: 2,83,106 Lyra: 95 Mack, Lee: 118 Maigret, Insp. Jules: 114 Makutsi, Mma: 121 Malfoy, Draco: 80 Malfoy, Lucius: 49,53 Mallard, Dr.'Ducky': 35,115 Mankell, Henning: 114 Mantle, Doreen: 97 Marcus Aurelius: 82 Margolyes, Miriam: 97 Marlowe, Philip: 43,114 Marnham, Patrick: 18 Marple, Jane (Miss): 87,97,98,101 Marples, Ernest: 111 Mastrantonio, Mary Elizabeth: 61 Matthews, Jessie: 41 Maugham, Somerset: 82 Maupin, Armistead: 124,125 May, James: 49 McBride, Damian: 123 McCain, John: 111 McCallum, David: 35 McClaren,Steve: 14,15,47,76,84,92 McCredie, Colin: 57 McCutcheon, Martine: 87 McDermid, Val: 111 McDonnell, Owen: 130 McEnroe, John: 81 McEwan, Geraldine: 61,87,97,98 McFly: 128 McGee, Timothy: 103,115 McGovern, Jimmy: 31 McGregor, Ewan; 92,109,111 McKellan, Ian: 111 McKenna, Charlene: 64 McKenzie, Julia: 76,97,98 McKidd, Kevin: 86 McLaughlin, Joseph: 96 McNeice, Ian: 100 McShane, Michael: 61 Medavoy, Greg: 61 Melua, Katie: 95,109 Menuhin, Yehudi: 96 Mercer, John: 99 Mercury, Freddie: 101 Merlin: 56,111 Merman, Ethel: 96 Merton, Paul: 37,76,107,113 Miles, Ben: 98 Milligan, Spike: 89 Mills, John: 63 Milner, Paul: 63,103 Minghella, Anthony: 100,104 Mirren, Helen: 38,78 Mitchell, David: 121 Mitchell, James: 99 Mitchum, Robert: 96 Mitty, Walter: 127 Mo, friend: 112 Molina, Alfred: 104 Monk: 97 Monroe, Marilyn: 43 Montalbano, Insp, Salvo: 114 Monteith, Kelly: 101 Montgomery, Robert: 43 Moore, Roger: 43 Moran, Pauline: 8 More, Kenneth: 115 Morse, D.I. Endeavour: 69,97,107 Motion, Andrew: 78 Mourinho, Jose: 87,126 Mower, Patrick: 99 Mullan, Peter: 99 Munch, John: 16 Murnaghan, Dermot: 68,73,86,107 Murray, Al: 69,97 Murray, Andy: 79 Murray, Jamie: 79 Murray, Sean: 103 Mynenko, Yuriy: 128 Nadal, Rafael: 108 Nettles, John: 16,27.58 Newell, Mike: 80 Newman, G.F. 101 Newman, Nanette: 125 Nighy, Bill: 100 Nilsson, Harry: 95 Norton, Alex: 57,104 Norton, Graham: 86,126 Novello.Ivor: 124 Obama, Barack: 111,117,124 Ochoa, Lorena: 82 Oddy, Bill: 74, 127 Ogden, John: 81,96 Ogilvy, Ian: 43 O'Grady, Paul: 41,91,115 Osbourne, Jack: 36 Osbourne, Sharon: 20 O'Shea, Tessie: 96 Osmond, Donny: 86 Outhwaite, Tamzin: 99,101 Owen, Michael: 84 Pack, Roger Lloyd: 35,118 Packham, Chris: 127 Padel, Ruth: 126 Palance, Jack: 46 Pallette, Eugene: 128 Palmer, Harry: 33 Paris, Charles: 7,8 Park, Nick: 115 Parker, Nathaniel: 106 Parker, Peter: 113 Parkinson, Michael: 117 Parton, Dolly: 96 Pascoe, D.I. Peter: 16,72,73 Paterson, Bill: 109,122 Patinkin, Mandy: 44,92 Patterson,James: 53 Paulin, Tom: 113,123,125 Pavarotti, Luciano: 85 Paxman, Jeremy: 92 Payne, John: 130 Peake, Maxine: 101 Penry-Jones, Rupert: 24,91,115 Perette, Pauley: 64,68,75 Pertwee, Sean: 86 Petersen, Willian. L: 15,26,44,51,122,123 Phillips, Sian: 38 Pigott-Smith, Tim: 72 Pixies: 128 Plater, Alan: 64 Poirot, Hercule: 7,31,97,103,111 Poliakoff, Stephen: 91 Poppins, Mary ; 94 Porter, Cole: 96,124 Porter, Linda: 124 Portillo, Michael: 123 Potter, Beatrix: 109 Potter, Dennis: 114 Potter, Harry: 4,5,9,12,27,39,45,50,63,77,78,79,80,82,83,88,100,106,111,114,120,124,130 Powell, Dick: 43,114 Powell, Robert: 115 Powers, Stefanie: 68 Prescott, John: 8,91 Presley, Elvis: 96 Preston, Duncan: 120 Preston, Robert: 96 Price, Claire: 93, Prince Philip: 98,106 Prodigy, The: 128 Pullman, Philip: 50,88,90,95,107,109 Queen Elizabeth 2: 80,91,100,102,106,121 Quentin, Caroline: 44 Quick, A.C. Bob: 114,123 Quilleran, Jim: 4 Rachmaninov, Sergei: 96 Rackham, Jane: 33 Radcliffe, Daniel: 50 Radd, Ronald: 99 Ramotswe, Precious: 100,121 Ramsay, Gordon: 37,115 Rankin, Ian: 21,109,111 Rathbone, Andy: 28 Rathbone, Basil: 61 Rathbone, Willie 34 Rattle, Simon: 10 Razorlight: 128 Rebus, D.I. John: 21,25,29,30,88,93. Red Arrows: 128 Redknapp, Harry: 70,105,112,118 Redman, Amanda: 38,108,130 Reichs, Kathy: 121,122,124,125 Reid, D.S. Jackie: 104 Reilly, Kelly: 115 Renwick, David: 111 Reynolds, Kevin: 61 Rhys-Davies, John: 48 Richard, Cliff: 34,78 Richard The Lionheart: 61 Richards, Ben: 99 Richards, Dakot Blue: 95 Richie, Shane: 35 Rickman, Alan: 5,29,30,53,61,104,120 Riseborough, Andrea: 115 Robb, Natalie: 64 Robeson, Paul: 89 Robinson, Tony: 108 Roddick, Andy: 130 Rodgers, Richard: 129 Rogers, Anton: 76 Rogers, Ginger: 114 Rohmer, Sax: 100 Ronaldo, Cristiano 67,108 Rooney, Wayne: 15,67,84,86 Rooper, Jemima: 111 Root, Henry: 87 Rose, Anika Noni: 121 Ross, Jonathan: 112,130 Rowling, J.K. 5,18,27,36,45,63,71,77,78,80,82,88,98,100,114,130 Rush, Geoffrey: 22 Sachar, Louis: 50 Sachs, Andrew: 112 Saint, The: 43,77,114 Sallis, Peter: 127 Sanders, George: 43,114 Saunders, Jennifer: 49,53,121 Savage, Lily: 115 Sawalha, Julia: 98,117,121 Sayers, Dorothy L: 28 Sayle, Alexei: 107 Schofield, Phillip: 99 Schweitzer, Albert: 111 Scoresby, Lee; 94 Scott, Jill: 121 Secombe, Harry: 96 Sellars, Peter: 22 Semprini, Albert: 95 Sessions, John: 121 Sewell, Brian: 76 Shahi, Sarah: 128 Shaps, Simon: 103 Sharp, Lesley: 22,31 Shaw, Martin: 69,124 Shcherbachenko,Ekaterina: 128 Shearer, Alan: 14, 15 Sheila,friend: 99,112,121 Shepherd, Jack: 62 Shore, Dinah: 95 Shrapnel, John: 71 Shunpike, Stan: 111 Silent Bob: 30 Sim, Alistair; 63 Simenon, Georges: 114 Simm, John: 115 Simon's Cat: 118 Sinatra, Frank: 36 Sinclair, Hugh: 43 Sinise, Gary: 11,126 Sipowicz, Andy: 61,63 Sjowall & Wahloo: 114 Skellern, Peter: 127 Skinner, Claire: 76 Slater, Christian: 61 Sleep, Wayne: 117 Sloan, Mark: 97 Small, Sharon: 106 Smiley, George; 90 Smith, Alexander McCall: 100 Smith, Andreas Whittam: 97 Smith, C.Aubrey: 69 Smith, Julian: 126 Smith, Kevin: 30 Smith, Liz: 45,98 Smith, Maggie: 97,111 Smith-Start, Brix: 126 Snape, Prof. Severus: 5,66 Snowdon, Liza: 114 Soprano, Tony: 65,90 Spall, Rafe: 102 Sparrow, Walter: 61 Spencer, Phil: 116 Spiderman: 113 Spielberg, Steven: 14 Squire, Chris: 127 Squire, William: 99 Staff, Kathy: 127 Standen, Clive: 128 Staunton, Imelda: 97 Steed, Maggie: 7,97 Stephen, Jaci: 72,73 Stereophonics: 128 Stettner, Patrick: 125 Stevens, Rachel: 114 Stevens, Toby: 124 Stewart, Sam: 63,103 Stott, Ken: 21,25,30,62,88,90,93,101, Strachan, Gordon: 49 Streep, Meryl: 110,125 Street-Porter, Janet: 121 Streeter, Tanya: 83 Stuart, Moira: 62 Styne, Julie: 83 Suchet, David: 7 Sutcliffe, Thomas: 108,121 Sutherland, Joan: 128 Swift, Clive: 118 Sykes, Melanie: 91 Tarrant, Chris: 87 Tarzan: 43,69 Tatchell, Peter: 112 Tate, Catherine: 102 Tate, Jeffrey: 120 Tauber, Richard: 96 Taylor, Mac: 11,100,126 Teale, Owen: 64 Templar, D.C.S. Gill: 93, Tennant, David: 102108 Tennyson, D.S. Jane: 38 Terry, John: 75,106 Thatcher, Margaret: 71,99,108,125 Thaw, John: 69 Thomas, Leslie: 71 Thomas, Matthew: 71 Thompson, Emma: 98,121 Thompson, Flora: 98 Timmins, Laura: 98,100 Titchmarsh, Alan: 86,102,126 Tofield, Simon: 118 TOGs: 3,5 Tolkein, J.R.R. 48 Tomkinson, Stephen: 127 Torode, John: 60 Torres, Fernando: 108 Townsend, Robert: 81 Townshend, Pete: 78,110 Toyah (Wilcox): 117 Tracy, Spencer: 43 Treacy, Philip: 110 Trelawney, Sybil: 98 TrippingOnWords: 9,21,29,33,39,51,53,58,65,75 Trotter, John Scott: 96 Troughton, David: 58,108,129 Troughton, Patrick; 108,129 Troughton, Sam: 129 Tuck, Friar: 128 Turnbull, Giles: 58,87,109 Turow, Scott: 124 Twain, Mark: 57 Umbridge, Dolores: 79 Valentine, Anthony: 71,99 Valjean, Jean: 27 Van Dyke, Dick: 94,117 Vane, Harriet: 28 Vegas, Johnny: 117 Venables, Terry: 92 Vickers, Roy: 38 Vogt, Lars: 10 Von Nida, Norman: 81 Wainwright, Hetty: 97 Wainwright, Rufus: 78,127 Wainwright, Sally: 118 Wakeman, Rick: 127 Walker, Johnny: 129 Walker, D.C.S. MIchael: 62,101 Wallace & Gromit: 115 Wallace, Gregg: 60 Wallander, Insp. Kurt: 114 Walliams, David: 101,102 Walsh, Bradley: 122 Walter, Harriet: 122 Walters, Julie: 106,118,120 Walters, Paul: 5,41 Warhol, Andy: 107 Wark, Kirsty: 123 Warnes, Jennifer: 127 Waterman, Dennis: 38,108,130 Watson, Doctor: 7 Watson, Emily: 109 Watson, Emma: 50,130 Watson, James: 89 Watson, Tom: 130 Waugh, Evelyn: 82 Weasley, Molly: 120 Weatherley, Michael: 46,64 Weaver, Sigourney: 120 Webber, Andrew Lloyd: 22,126 Weeks, Honeysuckle: 7,63,103 Weissmuller, Johnny: 43,69 Wells, H.G. 106 Wendy, friend: 112 Wenger, Arsene: 59,64 Wesley, Mary: 5,18,38,125 West, Samuel: 58 Wexford, C,I, Reg: 97 Whately, Kevin: 64,97 Wheeler, Jimmy: 113 White, Jessica: 20,47,50,60,76,83,84,95,105,110,113,123,128 White, T.H: 63,67,77 Whitehouse, Mary: 106 Whitehouse, Toby: 51 Whitfield, David: 96 Whitfield, June: 97,127 Who, The: 128 Widmark, Richard: 102 Wilde, Oscar: 77 Wilde, Brian: 127 Wilkinson, Colm: 27 Wilkinson, Johnny: 82 Williams, Iris: 96 Williams, Lee: 101 Williams, Robin: 125 Williams, Rowan: 98 Williams, Venus: 79 Willis, Bruce, 5 Wilson, Benji: 103 Wilson, Richard: 111 Wilson, (truth about): 85,117 Wimsey, Lord Peter: 28,31 Wincott, Michael: 61 Winkler, Irwin: 124 Winstone, Ray: 43,48 Wogan, Terry: 3,5,13,18,27,41,102,106,126,129 Wolf, Dick: 122 Wood, Elijah: 111 Wood, Victoria: 53,72,73,76,120 Woodman, George: 85 Woodman, Greta: 85 Woodward, Edward: 99 Woolgar, Fenella: 105 Wright, Clarissa Dixon: 109,111 Wycliffe, D.C.S. Charles: 62 Wynter, Danny Lee: 91 Yates, David: 80,100,130 Yates, Jess: 102 Yates, Paula: 102 Young, James: 64 Young, Neil: 128 Young, Will: 128 Zellweger,Renée: 109 Zingaretti, Luca: 114
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
130. From Magic to Mystery via Misery
FILMS
Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince.
Most of the usual cast are back for the sixth - and darkest to date - episode of this popular film series.
Five of us went to see it: four enjoyed it, the other one went to sleep.
Well...it ain't a film for a four year old.
My enjoyment was slightly tempered by some glaring departures from the J.K. Rowling original.
Slimy accountants apart, why did film director David Yates choose to make substantial alterations to a bestselling author's work?
I would put it down to him being an arrogant bugger, but I believe he speaks highly of me.
A couple of weeks ago the often irksome Jonathan Ross interviewed Emma Watson (Hermione Granger) and behaved himself sufficiently not to ask too many lewd questions about her private life.
She has changed little over the Potter years, is still brightly intelligent, blessed with innate common sense - the two don't always go together - and seems destined for a succesful life long after the curtain has fallen on the final Potter film.
Meantime, with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows being imaginatively split into Part 1 and Part 2, we should be seeing her on screen until at least 2011: later than that if Warner Brothers play the same daft release game they played with The Half-Blood Prince.
Collateral.
I like Tom Cruise (no matter what weird religion he may espouse) and this 2004 film proved again what a fine actor he is. Good guy or villain he delivers the works.
Here he is the villain; Vincent, a contract killer. The hero is cab driver Max, perfectly played by James Foxx, who is forced to take part in the killer's plan to make several hits around L.A. in one night.
The result is a thriller on a par with The Long Kiss Goodnight.
Thoroughly enjoyed it.
TELEVISION.
New Tricks.
The same reliable crew (Redman, Armstrong, Bolam and Waterman) are halfway through series six and show no sign of flagging. So far we have had stories about a murderous monk, a duplicitous American airforce chief and a cunning control-freak husband.
All have been totally watchable .
Shows what can be done with regular airing, reasonable story lines and fine actors.
Wimbledon.
I found the cat Shadow asleep and when I woke him he was devoid of poem.
"That's not like you," I said. "Once the heavy servers and the ball boys...girls...children...whatever...have done their stuff you're usually full of rhyme."
"Well it was Federer again, wasn't it," he grumbled. "OK, so there was the big serving much improved Andy Roddick and a final that went on forever, but in the end Federer won and he doesn't rhyme with anything.
"I talked it over with the boys on the roof: none of us could find a rhyme for Federer or Roddick."
"Didn't the Centre Court's new retractable roof come to mind?" I asked.
"Nothing rhymes with roof, either, other than goof, hoof and poof," he said sourly. "Anyway, I lost the muse."
I might have commiserated had he not immediately gone back to sleep.
Golf.
He seemed to be sleeping again when the British Open finished at Turnberry.
Eventually Tom Watson was beaten by Stewart Cink.
(Praise be, not one newspaper carried the headline Cink Sinks Watson.)
Suddenly I became aware that a Shadow eye had opened.
"Ol' Tom didn't manage it then," he said.
"I thought you were asleep," I said.
He stretched: "Na-a-ah, I was just giving me eyes a rest. I heard Peter Alliss and the rest of 'em rabbiting on."
He thought for a few seconds. "How old are you?" he asked.
"Seventy eight, " I replied.
"Just think," he said, "If you'd been a professional golfer the whole bloody world would have been told that a thousand times between the 16th and the 19th of July."
He really had been awake.
Columbo.
When it comes to a thousand times, I'm sure Peter Falk's Columbo repeats must well exceed that number. Today it was Janet Leigh and John Payne in the 1975 episode Forgotten Lady. She played Grace Wheeler Willis, a former star of musicals, much admired by Columbo's wife.
According to Columbo, in their early days together Mrs. Columbo dragged him to see all of Grace's films.
Halfway through, the thought struck me that Mrs. Columbo must hate her husband with a passion.
Everybody she admires he eventually arrests for murder.
No wonder she refuses to be seen with him.
Single-Handed.
A new police kid on the block, this time a Garda one, Sgt. Jack Driscoll (Owen McDonnell) working in western Ireland.
Last night we saw the first of a three parter and it was uncomfortable viewing.
I was reminded of a friend of mine who, some years ago, was offered a police job on one of the Channel Islands: he declined when it turned out that outside the holiday season he would be expected to turn a blind eye to certain (locally regarded as minor) law infringements.
Jack Driscoll finds himself in something of the same predicament. He has taken up the post of senior police officer in the area where he was brought up.
His conscientious approach to the job is hampered by the fact that his father, the popular previous holder of the post, was an 'us and them' copper quite prepared to ignore anything that might embarrass his cronies.
There is a disturbingly insular and faintly incestuous atmosphere about it all.
Damned good television though.
HOME.
A reasonable reason for a late post.
At the beginning of the second week in July I was stricken with the squits; easier to spell than diarrhoea.
I know it sounds like an old bloke's attempt to outdo the advert where a red-haired woman with strange eyes tells her mates she's passing hard lumps - (Could that be why she has strange eyes, d'you think? No matter.) - but this attack put me in bed for a couple of days, took a couple of weeks to clear and was caused by the food poisoning bacteria Campylobacter.
Don't know how I came by it. Could have been from a portion of fish and chips. Never will know now. Didn't care to gather evidence.
One thing is for sure: I have never had it before and I never want it again.
ps. At the risk of an indelicate reply, where is that advert coming from?
Unsolicited e-mails.
Lately my Inbox has been the casual target of people writing in Arabic. At least, I assume it's Arabic. No idea what they want.
They could be trying to sell me a carpet.
They could be attempting to recruit me into al Qaeda.
They could even be proclaiming a fatwa against me.
Normally I just delete such stuff and empty the deleted items folder, but two have appeared again this morning and for the first time I have opened them.
As you may have gathered, they didn't explode.
One was a short message from Святослав Панфилов which I did not keep and the other was from Новикова Лида which I thought I might publish but the attempt went haywire.
(Monitored by that contradiction in terms, an Intelligence Agency?)
Needless to say I have not the slightest idea what any of it is about.
I would rather not be responsible for somebody in the Middle East having their hands, head, or unmentionables chopped off but, what the hell, how many fundamentalists read this?
So if anybody else out there gets unsolicited Aladdin, Ali Baba, Sinbad messages and can translate them into English, even if it's very rude, please let me know what they say.
Oh, if the senders are seeking support for the young woman who could be flogged for wearing trousers, they need look no further. I am on her side.
Religious bigotry is crap and its perpetrators are crap artists.
Whatever their religion.
Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince.
Most of the usual cast are back for the sixth - and darkest to date - episode of this popular film series.
Five of us went to see it: four enjoyed it, the other one went to sleep.
Well...it ain't a film for a four year old.
My enjoyment was slightly tempered by some glaring departures from the J.K. Rowling original.
Slimy accountants apart, why did film director David Yates choose to make substantial alterations to a bestselling author's work?
I would put it down to him being an arrogant bugger, but I believe he speaks highly of me.
A couple of weeks ago the often irksome Jonathan Ross interviewed Emma Watson (Hermione Granger) and behaved himself sufficiently not to ask too many lewd questions about her private life.
She has changed little over the Potter years, is still brightly intelligent, blessed with innate common sense - the two don't always go together - and seems destined for a succesful life long after the curtain has fallen on the final Potter film.
Meantime, with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows being imaginatively split into Part 1 and Part 2, we should be seeing her on screen until at least 2011: later than that if Warner Brothers play the same daft release game they played with The Half-Blood Prince.
Collateral.
I like Tom Cruise (no matter what weird religion he may espouse) and this 2004 film proved again what a fine actor he is. Good guy or villain he delivers the works.
Here he is the villain; Vincent, a contract killer. The hero is cab driver Max, perfectly played by James Foxx, who is forced to take part in the killer's plan to make several hits around L.A. in one night.
The result is a thriller on a par with The Long Kiss Goodnight.
Thoroughly enjoyed it.
TELEVISION.
New Tricks.
The same reliable crew (Redman, Armstrong, Bolam and Waterman) are halfway through series six and show no sign of flagging. So far we have had stories about a murderous monk, a duplicitous American airforce chief and a cunning control-freak husband.
All have been totally watchable .
Shows what can be done with regular airing, reasonable story lines and fine actors.
Wimbledon.
I found the cat Shadow asleep and when I woke him he was devoid of poem.
"That's not like you," I said. "Once the heavy servers and the ball boys...girls...children...whatever...have done their stuff you're usually full of rhyme."
"Well it was Federer again, wasn't it," he grumbled. "OK, so there was the big serving much improved Andy Roddick and a final that went on forever, but in the end Federer won and he doesn't rhyme with anything.
"I talked it over with the boys on the roof: none of us could find a rhyme for Federer or Roddick."
"Didn't the Centre Court's new retractable roof come to mind?" I asked.
"Nothing rhymes with roof, either, other than goof, hoof and poof," he said sourly. "Anyway, I lost the muse."
I might have commiserated had he not immediately gone back to sleep.
Golf.
He seemed to be sleeping again when the British Open finished at Turnberry.
Eventually Tom Watson was beaten by Stewart Cink.
(Praise be, not one newspaper carried the headline Cink Sinks Watson.)
Suddenly I became aware that a Shadow eye had opened.
"Ol' Tom didn't manage it then," he said.
"I thought you were asleep," I said.
He stretched: "Na-a-ah, I was just giving me eyes a rest. I heard Peter Alliss and the rest of 'em rabbiting on."
He thought for a few seconds. "How old are you?" he asked.
"Seventy eight, " I replied.
"Just think," he said, "If you'd been a professional golfer the whole bloody world would have been told that a thousand times between the 16th and the 19th of July."
He really had been awake.
Columbo.
When it comes to a thousand times, I'm sure Peter Falk's Columbo repeats must well exceed that number. Today it was Janet Leigh and John Payne in the 1975 episode Forgotten Lady. She played Grace Wheeler Willis, a former star of musicals, much admired by Columbo's wife.
According to Columbo, in their early days together Mrs. Columbo dragged him to see all of Grace's films.
Halfway through, the thought struck me that Mrs. Columbo must hate her husband with a passion.
Everybody she admires he eventually arrests for murder.
No wonder she refuses to be seen with him.
Single-Handed.
A new police kid on the block, this time a Garda one, Sgt. Jack Driscoll (Owen McDonnell) working in western Ireland.
Last night we saw the first of a three parter and it was uncomfortable viewing.
I was reminded of a friend of mine who, some years ago, was offered a police job on one of the Channel Islands: he declined when it turned out that outside the holiday season he would be expected to turn a blind eye to certain (locally regarded as minor) law infringements.
Jack Driscoll finds himself in something of the same predicament. He has taken up the post of senior police officer in the area where he was brought up.
His conscientious approach to the job is hampered by the fact that his father, the popular previous holder of the post, was an 'us and them' copper quite prepared to ignore anything that might embarrass his cronies.
There is a disturbingly insular and faintly incestuous atmosphere about it all.
Damned good television though.
HOME.
A reasonable reason for a late post.
At the beginning of the second week in July I was stricken with the squits; easier to spell than diarrhoea.
I know it sounds like an old bloke's attempt to outdo the advert where a red-haired woman with strange eyes tells her mates she's passing hard lumps - (Could that be why she has strange eyes, d'you think? No matter.) - but this attack put me in bed for a couple of days, took a couple of weeks to clear and was caused by the food poisoning bacteria Campylobacter.
Don't know how I came by it. Could have been from a portion of fish and chips. Never will know now. Didn't care to gather evidence.
One thing is for sure: I have never had it before and I never want it again.
ps. At the risk of an indelicate reply, where is that advert coming from?
Unsolicited e-mails.
Lately my Inbox has been the casual target of people writing in Arabic. At least, I assume it's Arabic. No idea what they want.
They could be trying to sell me a carpet.
They could be attempting to recruit me into al Qaeda.
They could even be proclaiming a fatwa against me.
Normally I just delete such stuff and empty the deleted items folder, but two have appeared again this morning and for the first time I have opened them.
As you may have gathered, they didn't explode.
One was a short message from Святослав Панфилов which I did not keep and the other was from Новикова Лида which I thought I might publish but the attempt went haywire.
(Monitored by that contradiction in terms, an Intelligence Agency?)
Needless to say I have not the slightest idea what any of it is about.
I would rather not be responsible for somebody in the Middle East having their hands, head, or unmentionables chopped off but, what the hell, how many fundamentalists read this?
So if anybody else out there gets unsolicited Aladdin, Ali Baba, Sinbad messages and can translate them into English, even if it's very rude, please let me know what they say.
Oh, if the senders are seeking support for the young woman who could be flogged for wearing trousers, they need look no further. I am on her side.
Religious bigotry is crap and its perpetrators are crap artists.
Whatever their religion.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
129. After Ascot a few more departures.
HOME.
Hmm - Hmm.
The cat Shadow was hovering.
"You're hovering," I remarked. "What is it, food again?"
"Do try to curb the negative attitude," he said. "As a matter of fact it's Royal Ascot." He struck his poetic pose and my heart sank.
"Don't tell me: you have a poem."
"Too right, mate, listen to this..."
And before I could so much as close the stable door he was emoting to a tune reasonably close to the Richard Rodgers classic My Favourite Things:
"Most Favoured Mascot."
Girls in posh dresses and millinery monstrosities,
Blokes in grey toppers and hired suit pomposities.
Look at me, I am a right royal mascot
Perched on the back of a posh coach at Ascot.
Hmm - Hmm
Owners and trainers and horses in blinkers,
Brightly clad jockeys and tipsters and tinkers
Odds on the favourite's not going to win
Best back a horse owned by a Sheik Yadust Bin.
Hmm - Hmm
Race talking Claire Balding has got all the patter,
She can talk the hind leg off a horse that don't matter.
But the prize little waffler, no doubt about that
Is little Willie Carson in a bloody great hat.
When the chosen horse
Does just half the course
When I'm blowing a gasket
I simply imagine I'm perched on a posh coach,
The most favoured royal mascot.
[Repeat all verses]
"That's it," he said. "Repeat all verses."
I smiled: "Maybe later."
"D'you think they'd like it?" he asked after a while. "Rodgers and Hammerstein?"
"If they weren't dead I think it'd kill 'em," I said.
He thought about that for a moment.
"You're having a josh with me," he said.
"Sure," I replied. "But more Gifford than Ackland."
BBC Radio 2.
I still listen every weekday morning to Wake Up To Wogan, [On line, on digital and on 88 to 91 FM.]
I shake my head as he talks over the beginning or the end (sometimes both) of every track he plays to make sure nobody will illegally record it: I mutter when he forgets to credit the performer and when he inexplicably drops his voice at crucial moments: I smile indulgently when he wheezes with laughter at the least funny Janet and John sketch and I growl impatiently as he introduces yet another contribution from the TOG repertory company led by its tiresome retired actor manager.
I love it.
The unscripted banter of the broadcasters, the way Traffic Totty Lynn Bowles talks about "north bahnd and sahth bahnd" traffic and once even announced that there were "hold ups to sahth bahnd traffic at the rahnd abaht."
I like Deadly and Johnny and Charlie and the seldom-heard-never-seen Barrowlands Boyd.
I wouldn't change a minute of it. It's not the same with anyone else, not even Johnny Walker, who I also like.
It's just not a normal morning without ol' Tel.
This week he's away on a holiday break. It will probably last no more than a fortnight and it happens every three or four weeks.
Sure there's more important things than snorkers and broadcasting.
Like what?
Like golf.
And grouting.
TELEVISION (CONTAINS SPOILERS).
Robin Hood.
Robin (Jonas Armstrong) bade a fitting farewell to Nottingham by blowing his enemies and half the town to smithereens.
He then succumbed to the poison on a dagger wielded by Gisborne's sister.
Well. at least there is the nucleus of a cast left for the next series.
One interest in series three has been the casting of Alun Armstrong's son Joe as Alan a Dale (bumped off last week) and of David Troughton's son, Sam, as Much.
(Grandfather Patrick Troughton was in the first television series of Robin Hood.)
Fascinating family likenesses.
CSI: NY.
The end of series five was a master class in actor management.
Faced by the inevitable clamour from actors' agents for their clients' salaries to increase in proportion to the increased popularity of a show, the cunning executive will gather the entire cast together in a bar and quietly ease a black sedan into position outside.
A window will roll down...a machine gun will appear...
Care to guess who will still be around for series six?
Hmm - Hmm.
The cat Shadow was hovering.
"You're hovering," I remarked. "What is it, food again?"
"Do try to curb the negative attitude," he said. "As a matter of fact it's Royal Ascot." He struck his poetic pose and my heart sank.
"Don't tell me: you have a poem."
"Too right, mate, listen to this..."
And before I could so much as close the stable door he was emoting to a tune reasonably close to the Richard Rodgers classic My Favourite Things:
"Most Favoured Mascot."
Girls in posh dresses and millinery monstrosities,
Blokes in grey toppers and hired suit pomposities.
Look at me, I am a right royal mascot
Perched on the back of a posh coach at Ascot.
Hmm - Hmm
Owners and trainers and horses in blinkers,
Brightly clad jockeys and tipsters and tinkers
Odds on the favourite's not going to win
Best back a horse owned by a Sheik Yadust Bin.
Hmm - Hmm
Race talking Claire Balding has got all the patter,
She can talk the hind leg off a horse that don't matter.
But the prize little waffler, no doubt about that
Is little Willie Carson in a bloody great hat.
When the chosen horse
Does just half the course
When I'm blowing a gasket
I simply imagine I'm perched on a posh coach,
The most favoured royal mascot.
[Repeat all verses]
"That's it," he said. "Repeat all verses."
I smiled: "Maybe later."
"D'you think they'd like it?" he asked after a while. "Rodgers and Hammerstein?"
"If they weren't dead I think it'd kill 'em," I said.
He thought about that for a moment.
"You're having a josh with me," he said.
"Sure," I replied. "But more Gifford than Ackland."
BBC Radio 2.
I still listen every weekday morning to Wake Up To Wogan, [On line, on digital and on 88 to 91 FM.]
I shake my head as he talks over the beginning or the end (sometimes both) of every track he plays to make sure nobody will illegally record it: I mutter when he forgets to credit the performer and when he inexplicably drops his voice at crucial moments: I smile indulgently when he wheezes with laughter at the least funny Janet and John sketch and I growl impatiently as he introduces yet another contribution from the TOG repertory company led by its tiresome retired actor manager.
I love it.
The unscripted banter of the broadcasters, the way Traffic Totty Lynn Bowles talks about "north bahnd and sahth bahnd" traffic and once even announced that there were "hold ups to sahth bahnd traffic at the rahnd abaht."
I like Deadly and Johnny and Charlie and the seldom-heard-never-seen Barrowlands Boyd.
I wouldn't change a minute of it. It's not the same with anyone else, not even Johnny Walker, who I also like.
It's just not a normal morning without ol' Tel.
This week he's away on a holiday break. It will probably last no more than a fortnight and it happens every three or four weeks.
Sure there's more important things than snorkers and broadcasting.
Like what?
Like golf.
And grouting.
TELEVISION (CONTAINS SPOILERS).
Robin Hood.
Robin (Jonas Armstrong) bade a fitting farewell to Nottingham by blowing his enemies and half the town to smithereens.
He then succumbed to the poison on a dagger wielded by Gisborne's sister.
Well. at least there is the nucleus of a cast left for the next series.
One interest in series three has been the casting of Alun Armstrong's son Joe as Alan a Dale (bumped off last week) and of David Troughton's son, Sam, as Much.
(Grandfather Patrick Troughton was in the first television series of Robin Hood.)
Fascinating family likenesses.
CSI: NY.
The end of series five was a master class in actor management.
Faced by the inevitable clamour from actors' agents for their clients' salaries to increase in proportion to the increased popularity of a show, the cunning executive will gather the entire cast together in a bar and quietly ease a black sedan into position outside.
A window will roll down...a machine gun will appear...
Care to guess who will still be around for series six?
Sunday, June 14, 2009
128. From I o W to Cardiff - music all ways.
HOME.
Isle of Wight Festival.
Yeah, it's that time again. Granddaughter Jess has gone with one of her friends and the requisite adult accompaniment to be entertained by a host of assorted musical talent at the 8th IW Festival.
Who is appearing?
No, not The Who, that was last year.
Among those I recognise are The Charlatans, Neil Young, Stereophonics, McFly, Razorlight and Will Young.
Then there are groups like The Prodigy and Pixies of whom I know little and, finally, there will be a host of bands with names like The Bitch, The Botch, The Kitsch and The Crotch of whom I know nothing.
They will all be very loud and very good after ten cans of lager.
Yesterday those of us in the area who have not joined the festival audience were able to stand outside our houses and watch The Red Arrows give another fantastic display over the site.
My Leader and I must have seen them half a dozen times in the past few years.
They are sheer magic.
Long may they reign.
READING
The Independent.
Perhaps surprisingly for a retired old bloke I scarcely found time to read much last week.
On Monday I managed a look at Yasmin Alibhai-Brown's column.
She was decrying women who flee the political battlefield: at least, I think that's what it was, I could be wrong, a week is a long time in political journalism.
Then, on Friday, Johann Hari warned that we are filling space with trash, much of it orbiting earth at thousands of miles an hour.
That really was dire news.
I always thought all the trash in space was beamed back by satellite to become reality television.
Both of these journalists are fine writers.
I bet they cheer up sometimes, too.
TELEVISION
I'm Running Sainsbury's (C4).
At a time of economic downturn the chief executive of Sainsbury's, Justin King, one of those charming blokes born to sail through interviews, had the brilliant idea - well, lays claim to the brilliant idea - that shop floor workers (now called colleagues would you believe?) should be invited to submit their proposals for the better running of the company.
The idea is not entirely new: every sharp company in the country must have experimented with a staff suggestion box from which it hoped to garner a few good ideas for as little money as possible.
But the Sainsbury's idea had a twist: four of the proposals would be taken up for a trial period in selected stores under the direction of the proposer.
Of the first two, one suffered setbacks and has not worked out - sad, because it was a nice idea - and the other has been given an extended trial in twenty shops.
When I go into a supermarket only two things really concern me:-
(1) why have they shifted every-goddam-thing around again? and:-
(2) how long is the queue at the checkout going to be?
I have loathed and avoided standing in queues ever since the war: still remember ration books and people lining up outside the butcher's shop.
So far as my involvement in the process of shopping is concerned, I do not try the free samples offered by free sample offerers, I do not bother with anything said over the Tannoy and I do expect to lose my wife inside twenty minutes somewhere between wines and spirits and pet food.
For the next half hour she ceases to be my Leader and becomes: "Where the hell is Maureen?"
What?
Well of course it's my fault.
Life (ITV3).
That pleasant English actor Damian Lewis is back for what is apparently the last series of this amiable American cop drama. Sarah Shahi co-stars as his likeable, down-to-earth partner.
It is a well scripted, well acted, easy to follow show; which means - in televison production terms - it is absolutely right for the axe.
I shall be sorry to see it go.
Robin Hood (BBC1).
Talk is that Jonas Armstrong, arguably the best Robin in this load of supreme tosh since Jason Connery, is to be replaced by an Errol Flynn lookalike called Clive Standen who has suddenly appeared in the role of Archer, half-brother of Robin and Gisborne (don't ask).
We are close to the end of series three which started off with the casting department choosing David Harewood (an actor for whom I have the utmost respect) as a black Friar Tuck.
This chap blithely wanders into Nottingham and York unnoticed by the colour-blind townsfolk.
Well, with abject apologies to Yasmin A-B, neither my imagination nor my political correctness stretches quite that far.
Friar Tuck was Eugene Pallette (1938) and James Hayter (1952).
He was a fat old white bloke, not a well-built young black bloke.
Still, looking back I was opposed to the casting of Ben Kingsley as Gandhi and of Alec Guinness as Indian mystic Godbole and Arab leader Prince Feisal, too.
Does that make me a racist?
Do I care?
BBC Cardiff Singer of The World 2009.
A great week and a wonderful final from which the Russian soprano Ekaterina Shcherbachenko emerged a deserved winner.
(Dame Joan Sutherland, frail but indomitable, presented the trophy.)
The popular People's Favourite prize went to tenor Giordano Luca from Italy and the toughest competitor to beat in the competiton, undoubtedly, was an amazing countertenor, Yuriy Mynenko, from the Ukraine.
Well done the BBC and well done Wales!
Isle of Wight Festival.
Yeah, it's that time again. Granddaughter Jess has gone with one of her friends and the requisite adult accompaniment to be entertained by a host of assorted musical talent at the 8th IW Festival.
Who is appearing?
No, not The Who, that was last year.
Among those I recognise are The Charlatans, Neil Young, Stereophonics, McFly, Razorlight and Will Young.
Then there are groups like The Prodigy and Pixies of whom I know little and, finally, there will be a host of bands with names like The Bitch, The Botch, The Kitsch and The Crotch of whom I know nothing.
They will all be very loud and very good after ten cans of lager.
Yesterday those of us in the area who have not joined the festival audience were able to stand outside our houses and watch The Red Arrows give another fantastic display over the site.
My Leader and I must have seen them half a dozen times in the past few years.
They are sheer magic.
Long may they reign.
READING
The Independent.
Perhaps surprisingly for a retired old bloke I scarcely found time to read much last week.
On Monday I managed a look at Yasmin Alibhai-Brown's column.
She was decrying women who flee the political battlefield: at least, I think that's what it was, I could be wrong, a week is a long time in political journalism.
Then, on Friday, Johann Hari warned that we are filling space with trash, much of it orbiting earth at thousands of miles an hour.
That really was dire news.
I always thought all the trash in space was beamed back by satellite to become reality television.
Both of these journalists are fine writers.
I bet they cheer up sometimes, too.
TELEVISION
I'm Running Sainsbury's (C4).
At a time of economic downturn the chief executive of Sainsbury's, Justin King, one of those charming blokes born to sail through interviews, had the brilliant idea - well, lays claim to the brilliant idea - that shop floor workers (now called colleagues would you believe?) should be invited to submit their proposals for the better running of the company.
The idea is not entirely new: every sharp company in the country must have experimented with a staff suggestion box from which it hoped to garner a few good ideas for as little money as possible.
But the Sainsbury's idea had a twist: four of the proposals would be taken up for a trial period in selected stores under the direction of the proposer.
Of the first two, one suffered setbacks and has not worked out - sad, because it was a nice idea - and the other has been given an extended trial in twenty shops.
When I go into a supermarket only two things really concern me:-
(1) why have they shifted every-goddam-thing around again? and:-
(2) how long is the queue at the checkout going to be?
I have loathed and avoided standing in queues ever since the war: still remember ration books and people lining up outside the butcher's shop.
So far as my involvement in the process of shopping is concerned, I do not try the free samples offered by free sample offerers, I do not bother with anything said over the Tannoy and I do expect to lose my wife inside twenty minutes somewhere between wines and spirits and pet food.
For the next half hour she ceases to be my Leader and becomes: "Where the hell is Maureen?"
What?
Well of course it's my fault.
Life (ITV3).
That pleasant English actor Damian Lewis is back for what is apparently the last series of this amiable American cop drama. Sarah Shahi co-stars as his likeable, down-to-earth partner.
It is a well scripted, well acted, easy to follow show; which means - in televison production terms - it is absolutely right for the axe.
I shall be sorry to see it go.
Robin Hood (BBC1).
Talk is that Jonas Armstrong, arguably the best Robin in this load of supreme tosh since Jason Connery, is to be replaced by an Errol Flynn lookalike called Clive Standen who has suddenly appeared in the role of Archer, half-brother of Robin and Gisborne (don't ask).
We are close to the end of series three which started off with the casting department choosing David Harewood (an actor for whom I have the utmost respect) as a black Friar Tuck.
This chap blithely wanders into Nottingham and York unnoticed by the colour-blind townsfolk.
Well, with abject apologies to Yasmin A-B, neither my imagination nor my political correctness stretches quite that far.
Friar Tuck was Eugene Pallette (1938) and James Hayter (1952).
He was a fat old white bloke, not a well-built young black bloke.
Still, looking back I was opposed to the casting of Ben Kingsley as Gandhi and of Alec Guinness as Indian mystic Godbole and Arab leader Prince Feisal, too.
Does that make me a racist?
Do I care?
BBC Cardiff Singer of The World 2009.
A great week and a wonderful final from which the Russian soprano Ekaterina Shcherbachenko emerged a deserved winner.
(Dame Joan Sutherland, frail but indomitable, presented the trophy.)
The popular People's Favourite prize went to tenor Giordano Luca from Italy and the toughest competitor to beat in the competiton, undoubtedly, was an amazing countertenor, Yuriy Mynenko, from the Ukraine.
Well done the BBC and well done Wales!
Monday, June 08, 2009
127. Home and Away - with music.
HOME.
Music.
The weather has been glorious so I have been sitting here doing less than I should and not giving a tinker's cuss.
In the background my old aiwa digital audio system (posh description for an inexpensive stereo) is helping lull me from the slog of extemporaneous composition.
Randy Crawford is halfway through the fascinating One Day I'll Fly Away; Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes will shortly be telling me that they are Up Where We Belong, then it will be Still Magic with Peter Skellern and then still more magic with Peggy Lee's You Can Sing A Rainbow: Mick Hucknall will follow to remind me how he feels Every Time We Say Goodbye and after that the duet from The Pearl Fishers will be sung in French by Nicolai Gedda and Ernest Blanc.
It's one of my personal choice tapes: put it together some years ago and still enjoy every one of the more than thirty tracks on it.
Good job I shall never be invited to choose eight Desert Island Discs.
How do those who get the invitation make up their minds?
Yesterday, in similar tranquil mood, I listened to the Yes album Fragile and marvelled again at the superb musicianship of Bill Bruford, Steve Howe, Chris Squire and Rick Wakeman and at Jon Anderson's terrific rendition of Heart of the Sunrise.
Well they'd never have time for that on your radio desert island, would they?
Na-a-h, I couldn't select just eight tunes.
I'd be forever hankering after the stuff I'd left out.
Reading.
I continue at a leisurely pace with Bryan Forbes' The Endless Game.
Could go faster but for incessant interruptions and a couple of months backlog of DVDs demanding attention.
So far ol' Bryan has been such darned good value that whatever DVD I have on at the same time as I read needs constant rewinding (or whatever you call it on a DVD) because I become so immersed in the book I lose the plot on the box.
Well, to be honest, losing the plot is not something I find difficult to do nowadays.
Once did a complete three year correspondence course with my radio playing in the background, but that was more than fifty years ago and you didn't have to watch radio.
Come to think of it, I sometimes wonder why I am watching...
Television.
And Springwatch again.
Kate Humble, Simon King and Chris Packham are doing the honours.
Bill Oddie should be missed, sadly or happily according to whether you were or were not a fan, but I don't see any signs of the team falling apart since his departure so I guess that says it all for programme presenters.
They're as necessary as they are popular and as popular as last week's show.
Kingdom is back on Sunday evenings.
Ol' Stephen Fry playing the kindly country solicitor Peter Kingdom.
Lovely start of week tosh with a great cast including a lady particularly popular in this part of the world, Celia Imrie.
I think she has a home here somewhere.
Everybody likes her.
In the first episode, the guest stars were June Whitfield and Peter Sallis, both on the run from
Last of the Summer Wine.
Since the demise of Kathy Staff somebody (tell me not Roy Clarke?) has decided that Russ Abbot, as Hobbo, should replace the late Brian Wilde's Foggy as the token Walter Mitty character.
Hobbo is not a success, the series is sadly limping, and I do not blame June Whitfield and Peter Sallis if they are AWOL.
At the moment they are better off with Stephen than with Russ and far better off with either than with the other Stephen on
Stephen Tomkinson's African Balloon Adventure.
Always liked the idea of travelling by hot air balloon, but this is a trip too far.
What goes up must come down and when I came down it would have to be somewhere flat, convenient for rescue and clear of hazards.
It would not have to be in the middle of impenetrable scrubland or herds of startled wild animals.
I'm sure Stephen Tompkinson and camera crew survived the three episodes - we'd have heard, wouldn't we? - and well done them.
But beautiful though the scenery clearly is, the thought of where we could land next would have precluded participation on my part.
Against my religion.
Devout coward.
AWAY.
Manchester International Festival, Manchester, UK, 2009.
In July our daughter Jac and her friend Zoe Farndon are going to see the singer/songwriter Rufus Wainwright's new opera Prima Donna.
I don't know how Zoe is with languages; Jac is fluent in German and can manage a smattering of Italian: the opera is in French.
Doesn't matter.
Hell, I speak nothing but Isle of Wight English with a side-helping of Invective but that never stopped me enjoying opera in Italian.
Che Gelida Manina is melodic in a way that Your Tiny Hand is Frozen just ain't.
I hope Prima Donna will be a magical first for Rufus and a total treat for all those faithful fans who make it to Manchester.
That particularly goes for Jackie and Zoe.
Enjoy every minute my dears.
Music.
The weather has been glorious so I have been sitting here doing less than I should and not giving a tinker's cuss.
In the background my old aiwa digital audio system (posh description for an inexpensive stereo) is helping lull me from the slog of extemporaneous composition.
Randy Crawford is halfway through the fascinating One Day I'll Fly Away; Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes will shortly be telling me that they are Up Where We Belong, then it will be Still Magic with Peter Skellern and then still more magic with Peggy Lee's You Can Sing A Rainbow: Mick Hucknall will follow to remind me how he feels Every Time We Say Goodbye and after that the duet from The Pearl Fishers will be sung in French by Nicolai Gedda and Ernest Blanc.
It's one of my personal choice tapes: put it together some years ago and still enjoy every one of the more than thirty tracks on it.
Good job I shall never be invited to choose eight Desert Island Discs.
How do those who get the invitation make up their minds?
Yesterday, in similar tranquil mood, I listened to the Yes album Fragile and marvelled again at the superb musicianship of Bill Bruford, Steve Howe, Chris Squire and Rick Wakeman and at Jon Anderson's terrific rendition of Heart of the Sunrise.
Well they'd never have time for that on your radio desert island, would they?
Na-a-h, I couldn't select just eight tunes.
I'd be forever hankering after the stuff I'd left out.
Reading.
I continue at a leisurely pace with Bryan Forbes' The Endless Game.
Could go faster but for incessant interruptions and a couple of months backlog of DVDs demanding attention.
So far ol' Bryan has been such darned good value that whatever DVD I have on at the same time as I read needs constant rewinding (or whatever you call it on a DVD) because I become so immersed in the book I lose the plot on the box.
Well, to be honest, losing the plot is not something I find difficult to do nowadays.
Once did a complete three year correspondence course with my radio playing in the background, but that was more than fifty years ago and you didn't have to watch radio.
Come to think of it, I sometimes wonder why I am watching...
Television.
And Springwatch again.
Kate Humble, Simon King and Chris Packham are doing the honours.
Bill Oddie should be missed, sadly or happily according to whether you were or were not a fan, but I don't see any signs of the team falling apart since his departure so I guess that says it all for programme presenters.
They're as necessary as they are popular and as popular as last week's show.
Kingdom is back on Sunday evenings.
Ol' Stephen Fry playing the kindly country solicitor Peter Kingdom.
Lovely start of week tosh with a great cast including a lady particularly popular in this part of the world, Celia Imrie.
I think she has a home here somewhere.
Everybody likes her.
In the first episode, the guest stars were June Whitfield and Peter Sallis, both on the run from
Last of the Summer Wine.
Since the demise of Kathy Staff somebody (tell me not Roy Clarke?) has decided that Russ Abbot, as Hobbo, should replace the late Brian Wilde's Foggy as the token Walter Mitty character.
Hobbo is not a success, the series is sadly limping, and I do not blame June Whitfield and Peter Sallis if they are AWOL.
At the moment they are better off with Stephen than with Russ and far better off with either than with the other Stephen on
Stephen Tomkinson's African Balloon Adventure.
Always liked the idea of travelling by hot air balloon, but this is a trip too far.
What goes up must come down and when I came down it would have to be somewhere flat, convenient for rescue and clear of hazards.
It would not have to be in the middle of impenetrable scrubland or herds of startled wild animals.
I'm sure Stephen Tompkinson and camera crew survived the three episodes - we'd have heard, wouldn't we? - and well done them.
But beautiful though the scenery clearly is, the thought of where we could land next would have precluded participation on my part.
Against my religion.
Devout coward.
AWAY.
Manchester International Festival, Manchester, UK, 2009.
In July our daughter Jac and her friend Zoe Farndon are going to see the singer/songwriter Rufus Wainwright's new opera Prima Donna.
I don't know how Zoe is with languages; Jac is fluent in German and can manage a smattering of Italian: the opera is in French.
Doesn't matter.
Hell, I speak nothing but Isle of Wight English with a side-helping of Invective but that never stopped me enjoying opera in Italian.
Che Gelida Manina is melodic in a way that Your Tiny Hand is Frozen just ain't.
I hope Prima Donna will be a magical first for Rufus and a total treat for all those faithful fans who make it to Manchester.
That particularly goes for Jackie and Zoe.
Enjoy every minute my dears.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
126. It's poetry week or month or something.
HOME.
Poetry time again.
The cat Shadow appeared as he does and, to my surprise, did not demand food.
"Something wrong?" I asked.
"Not at all," he said. "The Boot-Kicking Scot's team got beaten in the Champion's League Final and the departed Portuguese-in-the-posh-overcoat's team won the F.A. Cup. There is a God."
"I know you're not a Ferguson fan, but since when did you support Chelsea?" I demanded.
"I don't," he said. "But it does y'good to see them win something in the wake of Mourinho."
"Oh, does it?" I said.
"It does," he said, "but that's not why I'm here."
I was intrigued. "All right then, why are you here?"
"Because it's poetry week or month or something, mate, " he declared triunphantly, "and I have a poem for you."
I eyed him with customary suspicion: "Go on then."
He struck his poetic pose and announced:
"A Stroll With A Musing Moggy."
Along this wall and that flat roof
I'm seeking nightly for the truth
Of what I am: of who I be
A muse while scratching for a flea
And marking off my boundary
By spraying up the same old tree.
Foursquare, fourscore, foreshore, forsooth,
I'm getting longer in the tooth
No more accepting I'm perverse
For bandying with nonsense verse
Nor heeding those who cannot see
The innate graciousness in me.
Humans allergic to my touch
Them as just can't bear me much
Worried gal and aggressive chap
Who'd like to see me off the map
Onto their lap I'll surely pitch
And stay until they've got the itch.
Goodbye, auf Wiedersehen, farewell
The curfew tolls the flippin' knell
Of any climbing, rhyming cat
Who aspires to Poet Laureate
The post has gone to Carol Anne Duffy
Feminine if not female fluffy.
So atop this wall and that flat roof
Seeking nightly for the truth
Hiding under hedge and van
A Jehovah Witness in the Vatican
I know, too, I shall never be
The Oxford Professor of Poetry.
Let's face it, I'm too cool a cooky
To draw attention to another's nooky
Honi soit qui mal y pense
Ruth Padel should have more sense.
You're not forgiven when you win a fight
Not when you are the one who's right!
He had a quick wash and eyed me expectantly.
"Did the guys on the roof help you with that?" I queried.
"Not this time," he said proudly.
"It shows," I said.
"How kind of you," he said.
I chose not to correct him.
TELEVISION.
CSI NY (Five).
A short time ago I saw an interview in which Gary Sinise, who plays Mac Taylor in CSI NY, talked about the early days of the show.
Seems the regularly featured players were encouraged to personalize their characters and this somewhat inhibited expression until they had finally developed the role.
Back then I joked that he had but two acting expressions.
Apologies being all the rage, I shan't apologize.
He is certainly much more expressive now.
Even his eyebrows sometimes get in on the act.
Truth to tell, one of my favourite acting moments came in a CSI NY episode.
Stella Bonasera, who had been cut by a piece of glass removed from an HIV positive victim, gave life-saving CPR to Dr. Sid Hammerback: she later had to convey to the doctor her fear that she could have infected him with AIDS.
Massively contrived though it may have been, the scene where Stella (Melina Kanakaredes) broke the brittle news to a wonderfully fatalistic Sid (Robert Joy) was mesmerising.
Gok's Fashion Fix (C4).
In Post 109 I was a trifle sniffy about fancily priced fashion and I now regret that.
Bleating on blogs will not save the third world.
Acceptance that vast riches will attract, (and succumb to) vastly inflated prices is just common sense.
Gok is close to the end of another series and it has been great fun.
Weekly he re-outfits a fashion misfit, re-garbs a star, tests items of female apparel on a heavyweight group of lasses from Rotherham and dresses his fashion models in High Street clothes to compete on a catwalk with costly designer outfits chosen by Brix Smith-Start.
In the latter he has to date emerged the joyful winner five times and the generous loser twice.
My Leader and I watch and wonder and laugh.
It's hard not to like Gok Wan.
Eurovision Song Contest (BBC1).
There was a bit more Brit interest this year following the departure of ol' Tel Wogan and the introduction of a Lloyd Webber song entitled (over optimistically) It's My Time.
Andrew L.W. and singer Jade Ewen were reported to have blitzed Europe trying to sell the song in advance, so nobody could accuse them of not taking a crap competition seriously.
Graham Norton, an arch version of his predecessor, came across as equally unimpressed by it all.
Gawd bless 'im for that.
Divided (ITV1)
Talking of crap, we have here a quiz produced by sadistic shits hellbent on proving that it is not only Members of Parliament who are avaricious arseholes.
I have watched it a couple of times and on both occasions, sadly, the producers' case has been proven.
It is presented by Andrew Castle and to any nice person going to become a contestant I would offer the following advice: in the unlikely event that you look like winning, take a note with you to read out when you are asked to say what your share of the prize money should be; have it go along the lines of: I shall accept Share A but only on the clear understanding that I require the Share A prize money to be divided into three equal parts - one part to go to me and one part to each of my fellow contestants - and that my two fellow contestants (being Share B - pointing to one of them - you: and Share C - pointing to the other - you) agree to their shares also being divided equally between the three of us.
Let Andrew Castle, the studio crew and the entire viewing public take note that we three contestants have agreed to take equal shares of the total prize money we have won on Divided today.'
Then gently point out to the other contestants that they can either do it your way or get nothing because you will veto anything else until the kitty runs dry.
I don't know if it will work and I don't really care.
It is something else I shall not be watching again.
The Classical Brit Awards (ITV1).
Watched this: did you? Classic mutual admiration. I think Classic FM has got a lot to answer for.
Britain's Got Talent (ITV1).
Watched this: didn't everyone? I think Diversity, Susan Boyle and Julian Smith were the right choices in the right order, even if the news of their success was marred by the usual stupid...agonizing... long...drawn...out...wait...which the daft bastards who run these programmes think adds to the excitement.
The final was good old-fashioned music hall.
Don't know about the preliminaries.
Didn't watch them.
RHS Chelsea Flower Show (BBC).
Watched this on and off. This year there seemed to be less of the exhibits than there was of Alan Titchmarsh who has started to dress as though he's expecting a knighthood.
Who knows?
I may even yet refer to him as Sir Titchy.
Poetry time again.
The cat Shadow appeared as he does and, to my surprise, did not demand food.
"Something wrong?" I asked.
"Not at all," he said. "The Boot-Kicking Scot's team got beaten in the Champion's League Final and the departed Portuguese-in-the-posh-overcoat's team won the F.A. Cup. There is a God."
"I know you're not a Ferguson fan, but since when did you support Chelsea?" I demanded.
"I don't," he said. "But it does y'good to see them win something in the wake of Mourinho."
"Oh, does it?" I said.
"It does," he said, "but that's not why I'm here."
I was intrigued. "All right then, why are you here?"
"Because it's poetry week or month or something, mate, " he declared triunphantly, "and I have a poem for you."
I eyed him with customary suspicion: "Go on then."
He struck his poetic pose and announced:
"A Stroll With A Musing Moggy."
Along this wall and that flat roof
I'm seeking nightly for the truth
Of what I am: of who I be
A muse while scratching for a flea
And marking off my boundary
By spraying up the same old tree.
Foursquare, fourscore, foreshore, forsooth,
I'm getting longer in the tooth
No more accepting I'm perverse
For bandying with nonsense verse
Nor heeding those who cannot see
The innate graciousness in me.
Humans allergic to my touch
Them as just can't bear me much
Worried gal and aggressive chap
Who'd like to see me off the map
Onto their lap I'll surely pitch
And stay until they've got the itch.
Goodbye, auf Wiedersehen, farewell
The curfew tolls the flippin' knell
Of any climbing, rhyming cat
Who aspires to Poet Laureate
The post has gone to Carol Anne Duffy
Feminine if not female fluffy.
So atop this wall and that flat roof
Seeking nightly for the truth
Hiding under hedge and van
A Jehovah Witness in the Vatican
I know, too, I shall never be
The Oxford Professor of Poetry.
Let's face it, I'm too cool a cooky
To draw attention to another's nooky
Honi soit qui mal y pense
Ruth Padel should have more sense.
You're not forgiven when you win a fight
Not when you are the one who's right!
He had a quick wash and eyed me expectantly.
"Did the guys on the roof help you with that?" I queried.
"Not this time," he said proudly.
"It shows," I said.
"How kind of you," he said.
I chose not to correct him.
TELEVISION.
CSI NY (Five).
A short time ago I saw an interview in which Gary Sinise, who plays Mac Taylor in CSI NY, talked about the early days of the show.
Seems the regularly featured players were encouraged to personalize their characters and this somewhat inhibited expression until they had finally developed the role.
Back then I joked that he had but two acting expressions.
Apologies being all the rage, I shan't apologize.
He is certainly much more expressive now.
Even his eyebrows sometimes get in on the act.
Truth to tell, one of my favourite acting moments came in a CSI NY episode.
Stella Bonasera, who had been cut by a piece of glass removed from an HIV positive victim, gave life-saving CPR to Dr. Sid Hammerback: she later had to convey to the doctor her fear that she could have infected him with AIDS.
Massively contrived though it may have been, the scene where Stella (Melina Kanakaredes) broke the brittle news to a wonderfully fatalistic Sid (Robert Joy) was mesmerising.
Gok's Fashion Fix (C4).
In Post 109 I was a trifle sniffy about fancily priced fashion and I now regret that.
Bleating on blogs will not save the third world.
Acceptance that vast riches will attract, (and succumb to) vastly inflated prices is just common sense.
Gok is close to the end of another series and it has been great fun.
Weekly he re-outfits a fashion misfit, re-garbs a star, tests items of female apparel on a heavyweight group of lasses from Rotherham and dresses his fashion models in High Street clothes to compete on a catwalk with costly designer outfits chosen by Brix Smith-Start.
In the latter he has to date emerged the joyful winner five times and the generous loser twice.
My Leader and I watch and wonder and laugh.
It's hard not to like Gok Wan.
Eurovision Song Contest (BBC1).
There was a bit more Brit interest this year following the departure of ol' Tel Wogan and the introduction of a Lloyd Webber song entitled (over optimistically) It's My Time.
Andrew L.W. and singer Jade Ewen were reported to have blitzed Europe trying to sell the song in advance, so nobody could accuse them of not taking a crap competition seriously.
Graham Norton, an arch version of his predecessor, came across as equally unimpressed by it all.
Gawd bless 'im for that.
Divided (ITV1)
Talking of crap, we have here a quiz produced by sadistic shits hellbent on proving that it is not only Members of Parliament who are avaricious arseholes.
I have watched it a couple of times and on both occasions, sadly, the producers' case has been proven.
It is presented by Andrew Castle and to any nice person going to become a contestant I would offer the following advice: in the unlikely event that you look like winning, take a note with you to read out when you are asked to say what your share of the prize money should be; have it go along the lines of: I shall accept Share A but only on the clear understanding that I require the Share A prize money to be divided into three equal parts - one part to go to me and one part to each of my fellow contestants - and that my two fellow contestants (being Share B - pointing to one of them - you: and Share C - pointing to the other - you) agree to their shares also being divided equally between the three of us.
Let Andrew Castle, the studio crew and the entire viewing public take note that we three contestants have agreed to take equal shares of the total prize money we have won on Divided today.'
Then gently point out to the other contestants that they can either do it your way or get nothing because you will veto anything else until the kitty runs dry.
I don't know if it will work and I don't really care.
It is something else I shall not be watching again.
The Classical Brit Awards (ITV1).
Watched this: did you? Classic mutual admiration. I think Classic FM has got a lot to answer for.
Britain's Got Talent (ITV1).
Watched this: didn't everyone? I think Diversity, Susan Boyle and Julian Smith were the right choices in the right order, even if the news of their success was marred by the usual stupid...agonizing... long...drawn...out...wait...which the daft bastards who run these programmes think adds to the excitement.
The final was good old-fashioned music hall.
Don't know about the preliminaries.
Didn't watch them.
RHS Chelsea Flower Show (BBC).
Watched this on and off. This year there seemed to be less of the exhibits than there was of Alan Titchmarsh who has started to dress as though he's expecting a knighthood.
Who knows?
I may even yet refer to him as Sir Titchy.
Friday, May 15, 2009
125. Here's a bit of scandal
IN THE NEWS.
The Gurkhas. What a furore about whether or not Gurkhas should become permanent residents here.
The little blokes have fought in countless wars on our side and I'd rather they were for us than against.
So what is all the fuss about?
Are the Powers-That-Be worried lest, a generation or two on, Gurkha soldiers living here will become civilians uninterested in going to war? Do they think martial Nepalese may that quickly transform into pacifist Brits?
Would it matter if they did?
Joanna Lumley's Joan of Arc presence on their behalf has served to further her iconic status, remind us again that she is a consummate actress (many times during her M.P. belittling campaign she gave us her Margaret Thatcher browbeating the boys audition piece) and has provided a tasty hors d'oeuvre to the prize scandal of the week...
MPs Expenses. "What I did was within the rules" will surely go down as the poorest excuse for mishandling public money that has ever been trotted out by elected representatives to a suddenly aware electorate.
The fact that they and their benighted advisers compiled dodgy rules to legalize their actions screams of sharp practice.
If you or I had been discovered doing anything of the kind, whatever our employment, we would have been taken to court, fined and sacked.
So far as their reaction to being caught with their hands in the till is concerned, the apologies of party leaders have been more acceptable than the defiant bluster of the jumped up little Speaker of the House, but only just!
We are surrounded by acquisitive scoundrels and, as usual, the honourable few (that's very few) will suffer for their rascally associates.
Football. Surprisingly, when it comes to the honourable, a football manager has just shown the way.
Steve Coppell, faced with the realization that his Reading side, beaten by Burnley, would not gain the promotion he sought, has resigned.
Somebody badly needs him.
Pompey? The Saints? The House of Commons?
TELEVISION.
Kirstie's Home-Made Home (C4). This little series was a gem. Kirstie Allsopp ('er who's always after knockin' down walls on Location Location) showed MPs how to make money out of second home renovations without bending any rules.
You just film the whole bang shoot and flog it to commercial television.
It was a five parter which finished last night and if she decides she can make a few quid more by bringing it out on DVD we will buy it.
Newsnight Review (BBC 2). I was well pleased to see the quiet assassin Tom Paulin, accompanied by Anthony Horowitz and Natalie Haynes, doing battle with popular culture again last Friday: Martha Kearney chaired impeccably.
When I looked on the website later it became apparent that Dr. Paulin was not everyone's favourite academic that night.
A "beam me up" bunch of Trekkies was ray gunning for him.
Well, he has survived bigger and better spaced-out showers than them.
Mr Horowitz was not their most popular author, either; they regarded him as a mere writer of children's fiction, presumably unable to comprehend the mind blowing complexity of pointed ears and daring to boldly go where no man has gone before.
This to the man who wrote Foyle's War, one episode of which was worth any ten roller coaster sets of tumbling Enterprise crew members.
Ah well, to each his own.
Inspector George Gently (BBC 1). At the risk of spoiling it for someone, the crimes took something of a back seat in Gently in the Night when our hero challenged his assistant, Sergeant Bacchus, to step into the boxing ring with him for charity.
Young John was full of youthful confidence, but the outcome of the bout probably rested on one word dropped at the time of the challenge.
Suggesting that his superior officer was getting on a bit for fisticuffs, the young man said: "I know you did a bit of boxing in the army..."
and received the timely correction: "For the army."
Nice touch, that.
Bill Bailey's Remarkable Guide to the Orchestra (BBC2). A combination of Peter and The Wolf, The Young Person's Guide and (never mind The Buzzcocks) some glorious music hall zaniness.
We recorded it.
We shall keep it.
BOOKS.
Bryan Forbes. I have started reading The Endless Game (published, together with A Song At Twilight, by Arrow in 1998) and am reminded that over the years Bryan Forbes has proven to be a very smart all rounder.
Not only did he act, write scripts and direct films, but he turned out a number of very decent thrillers.
And he married Nanette Newman.
Who says you can't have it all?
Kathy Reichs. Following my comments about Death Du Jour, I have acquired (courtesy of my Leader) two more Dr. Temperence Brennan stories Grave Secrets and Break No Bones.
I'll just have to speed up my reading.
Well, at my age...
FILMS.
The Bridges of Madison County. Directed by and starring Clint Eastwood and co-starring Meryl Streep.
I did not see this 1995 film when it was first released; would never have done so had it not been shown on television earlier this year and, even then, have kept it languishing on the recorder for a few months.
Need not have feared.
Mushiness is not on the cards: not with Eastwood directing.
Meryl Streep, using one of her foreign American/American foreign accents, plays an Italian war bride, Francesca Johnson, who has an affair with much travelled photographer Robert Kincaid.
I watched it last night and rather enjoyed it.
Have always liked Meryl Streep, whatever her accent, and Clint Eastwood is totally reliable.
Nice change to see him packing a camera instead of a .44 Magnum, too.
The Night Listener. By coincidence this was screened on television a short time after I wrote about Armistead Maupin's novel in my last post.
It was directed by Patrick Stettner, starred Robin Williams and Toni Collette and sadly, even with Maupin as one of the screenwriters, lacked the suspense and surprise of the book.
No fault of the actors.
Some authors, Maupin and Mary Wesley among them, are just difficult to adapt to the screen.
A FINAL WORD ON THEM.
Trouble is, we could do worse!
I have heard it said already. "Next election we'll vote them all out!"
People are seething and their mood might well be reflected at the polls.
But before we all go off half-cocked I hope common sense will kick in.
We have seen what happens here when riot police are given free rein.
Do we want a reproduction of 1933 Germany?
A National Socialist British Workers' Party, by whatever name and under whatever leadership, would be a disaster.
I think we'd be better off just kicking this lots' arses and sticking to the status quo.
Trouble is, we really could do worse!
The Gurkhas. What a furore about whether or not Gurkhas should become permanent residents here.
The little blokes have fought in countless wars on our side and I'd rather they were for us than against.
So what is all the fuss about?
Are the Powers-That-Be worried lest, a generation or two on, Gurkha soldiers living here will become civilians uninterested in going to war? Do they think martial Nepalese may that quickly transform into pacifist Brits?
Would it matter if they did?
Joanna Lumley's Joan of Arc presence on their behalf has served to further her iconic status, remind us again that she is a consummate actress (many times during her M.P. belittling campaign she gave us her Margaret Thatcher browbeating the boys audition piece) and has provided a tasty hors d'oeuvre to the prize scandal of the week...
MPs Expenses. "What I did was within the rules" will surely go down as the poorest excuse for mishandling public money that has ever been trotted out by elected representatives to a suddenly aware electorate.
The fact that they and their benighted advisers compiled dodgy rules to legalize their actions screams of sharp practice.
If you or I had been discovered doing anything of the kind, whatever our employment, we would have been taken to court, fined and sacked.
So far as their reaction to being caught with their hands in the till is concerned, the apologies of party leaders have been more acceptable than the defiant bluster of the jumped up little Speaker of the House, but only just!
We are surrounded by acquisitive scoundrels and, as usual, the honourable few (that's very few) will suffer for their rascally associates.
Football. Surprisingly, when it comes to the honourable, a football manager has just shown the way.
Steve Coppell, faced with the realization that his Reading side, beaten by Burnley, would not gain the promotion he sought, has resigned.
Somebody badly needs him.
Pompey? The Saints? The House of Commons?
TELEVISION.
Kirstie's Home-Made Home (C4). This little series was a gem. Kirstie Allsopp ('er who's always after knockin' down walls on Location Location) showed MPs how to make money out of second home renovations without bending any rules.
You just film the whole bang shoot and flog it to commercial television.
It was a five parter which finished last night and if she decides she can make a few quid more by bringing it out on DVD we will buy it.
Newsnight Review (BBC 2). I was well pleased to see the quiet assassin Tom Paulin, accompanied by Anthony Horowitz and Natalie Haynes, doing battle with popular culture again last Friday: Martha Kearney chaired impeccably.
When I looked on the website later it became apparent that Dr. Paulin was not everyone's favourite academic that night.
A "beam me up" bunch of Trekkies was ray gunning for him.
Well, he has survived bigger and better spaced-out showers than them.
Mr Horowitz was not their most popular author, either; they regarded him as a mere writer of children's fiction, presumably unable to comprehend the mind blowing complexity of pointed ears and daring to boldly go where no man has gone before.
This to the man who wrote Foyle's War, one episode of which was worth any ten roller coaster sets of tumbling Enterprise crew members.
Ah well, to each his own.
Inspector George Gently (BBC 1). At the risk of spoiling it for someone, the crimes took something of a back seat in Gently in the Night when our hero challenged his assistant, Sergeant Bacchus, to step into the boxing ring with him for charity.
Young John was full of youthful confidence, but the outcome of the bout probably rested on one word dropped at the time of the challenge.
Suggesting that his superior officer was getting on a bit for fisticuffs, the young man said: "I know you did a bit of boxing in the army..."
and received the timely correction: "For the army."
Nice touch, that.
Bill Bailey's Remarkable Guide to the Orchestra (BBC2). A combination of Peter and The Wolf, The Young Person's Guide and (never mind The Buzzcocks) some glorious music hall zaniness.
We recorded it.
We shall keep it.
BOOKS.
Bryan Forbes. I have started reading The Endless Game (published, together with A Song At Twilight, by Arrow in 1998) and am reminded that over the years Bryan Forbes has proven to be a very smart all rounder.
Not only did he act, write scripts and direct films, but he turned out a number of very decent thrillers.
And he married Nanette Newman.
Who says you can't have it all?
Kathy Reichs. Following my comments about Death Du Jour, I have acquired (courtesy of my Leader) two more Dr. Temperence Brennan stories Grave Secrets and Break No Bones.
I'll just have to speed up my reading.
Well, at my age...
FILMS.
The Bridges of Madison County. Directed by and starring Clint Eastwood and co-starring Meryl Streep.
I did not see this 1995 film when it was first released; would never have done so had it not been shown on television earlier this year and, even then, have kept it languishing on the recorder for a few months.
Need not have feared.
Mushiness is not on the cards: not with Eastwood directing.
Meryl Streep, using one of her foreign American/American foreign accents, plays an Italian war bride, Francesca Johnson, who has an affair with much travelled photographer Robert Kincaid.
I watched it last night and rather enjoyed it.
Have always liked Meryl Streep, whatever her accent, and Clint Eastwood is totally reliable.
Nice change to see him packing a camera instead of a .44 Magnum, too.
The Night Listener. By coincidence this was screened on television a short time after I wrote about Armistead Maupin's novel in my last post.
It was directed by Patrick Stettner, starred Robin Williams and Toni Collette and sadly, even with Maupin as one of the screenwriters, lacked the suspense and surprise of the book.
No fault of the actors.
Some authors, Maupin and Mary Wesley among them, are just difficult to adapt to the screen.
A FINAL WORD ON THEM.
Trouble is, we could do worse!
I have heard it said already. "Next election we'll vote them all out!"
People are seething and their mood might well be reflected at the polls.
But before we all go off half-cocked I hope common sense will kick in.
We have seen what happens here when riot police are given free rein.
Do we want a reproduction of 1933 Germany?
A National Socialist British Workers' Party, by whatever name and under whatever leadership, would be a disaster.
I think we'd be better off just kicking this lots' arses and sticking to the status quo.
Trouble is, we really could do worse!
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
124. And yet more of the usual.
BOOKS.
Kathy Reichs. I have recently finished Kathy Reichs' death du jour.
Ms. Reichs is forensic anthropologist at the Labatoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale for the province of Quebec. Her heroine, Temperance Brennan, is also a forensic anthropologist.
Fact and fiction merge so well in her stories that it is difficult to see the join.
I have the utmost respect for those talented people who succeed in transforming the subject of their working lives into award winning fiction. (Scott Turow, a practicing lawyer, has the same wonderful gift, though it comes as less of a surprise that a legal man should be able to spin a yarn.)
A forensic anthropologist clearly requires physical and mental toughness, patience, dedication and one helluva brain.
Kathy Reichs is good value.
Armistead Maupin. I read The Night Listener in less than a week: something of a record for me nowadays.
It is vintage Maupin: fascinating characters, absorbing plot and the sort of page turner one would expect from the man who wrote Tales of the City.
In a world beyond my comprehension Mr. Maupin, too, is good value.
TELEVISION.
De-Lovely. (ITV1) One good thing about television programme padding is the opportunity it gives to see films you missed when they were released.
This 2004 musical biography, directed by Irwin Winkler and based on the life and work of Cole Porter, starred Kevin Kline and Ashley Judd as the composer and his wife, Linda.
My Leader and I enjoyed it immensely.
Like all good musicals it bore no relationship whatsoever to real life.
Cole Porter was a gifted tunesmith and superb lyricist who, apart from his marriage, had much in common with Noel Coward and Ivor Novello: they were talented composers and they were homosexuals.
Now they're dead.
Best remember them for their music.
Inspector George Gently (BBC1). He's back then: good old Martin Shaw in Fabian of the Yard mode, all gruff-voiced authoritarianism and unflinching rectitude.
Lee Ingleby, playing the hasty, ambitious know-all D.S. John Bacchus, is still with him.
Excellent stuff.
Primeval (ITV1). Jason Flemyng has taken over from Douglas Henshall.
It's still as daft as ever.
Robin Hood (BBC 1). Toby Stevens, playing Prince John, is replacing Keith Allen's Sheriff of Nottingham for a couple of weeks.
Never fear, it's still as daft as ever.
HOME.
Sister Doris. In between the moves into sheltered accommodation and into care of two of my wife's sisters, another sister, Doris, was admitted to hospital where she died suddenly.
She was 84 and a Jehovah's Witness.
Her funeral service, held at Portchester Crematorium, was well attended by family members - religious and irreligious - and by a good turnout of brother and sister Witnesses.
It was a Witness service.
At the customary gathering afterwards the Watch Tower tribe turned out to be a pleasant enough bunch, bless 'em.
I regard them as cranks rather less sinister than Scientologists, but I do wonder what accident they witnessed. At worst they suffer from an unquestioning belief in their religion, but there's an awful lot of that about.
I remain blissfully irreligious.
Don't care who it is, Jehovah or L. Ron Hubbard: I'd as soon believe in Harry Potter.
Council Elections. Leaflets through the letterbox: the Blair clone Cameron running around the country exhorting people to "vote for change" in the forthcoming local elections (figure it worked for President Obama do they?) and, very soon, the smiling faces of people you do not know and do not want to know, people who have neither known nor particularly wanted to know you, will invite you to vote for them.
Well, we've currently got the Tories and they're rubbish. Before them we had the Liberals and they were ditto. Labour stands not a chance here but, as experienced nationally, who would bank on them?
Whoever gets in here will continue to be manipulated by the suits they are supposed to be employing.
Costs will escalate and services will depreciate.
It has been going on for years.
Don't talk about bloody change to me.
Kathy Reichs. I have recently finished Kathy Reichs' death du jour.
Ms. Reichs is forensic anthropologist at the Labatoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale for the province of Quebec. Her heroine, Temperance Brennan, is also a forensic anthropologist.
Fact and fiction merge so well in her stories that it is difficult to see the join.
I have the utmost respect for those talented people who succeed in transforming the subject of their working lives into award winning fiction. (Scott Turow, a practicing lawyer, has the same wonderful gift, though it comes as less of a surprise that a legal man should be able to spin a yarn.)
A forensic anthropologist clearly requires physical and mental toughness, patience, dedication and one helluva brain.
Kathy Reichs is good value.
Armistead Maupin. I read The Night Listener in less than a week: something of a record for me nowadays.
It is vintage Maupin: fascinating characters, absorbing plot and the sort of page turner one would expect from the man who wrote Tales of the City.
In a world beyond my comprehension Mr. Maupin, too, is good value.
TELEVISION.
De-Lovely. (ITV1) One good thing about television programme padding is the opportunity it gives to see films you missed when they were released.
This 2004 musical biography, directed by Irwin Winkler and based on the life and work of Cole Porter, starred Kevin Kline and Ashley Judd as the composer and his wife, Linda.
My Leader and I enjoyed it immensely.
Like all good musicals it bore no relationship whatsoever to real life.
Cole Porter was a gifted tunesmith and superb lyricist who, apart from his marriage, had much in common with Noel Coward and Ivor Novello: they were talented composers and they were homosexuals.
Now they're dead.
Best remember them for their music.
Inspector George Gently (BBC1). He's back then: good old Martin Shaw in Fabian of the Yard mode, all gruff-voiced authoritarianism and unflinching rectitude.
Lee Ingleby, playing the hasty, ambitious know-all D.S. John Bacchus, is still with him.
Excellent stuff.
Primeval (ITV1). Jason Flemyng has taken over from Douglas Henshall.
It's still as daft as ever.
Robin Hood (BBC 1). Toby Stevens, playing Prince John, is replacing Keith Allen's Sheriff of Nottingham for a couple of weeks.
Never fear, it's still as daft as ever.
HOME.
Sister Doris. In between the moves into sheltered accommodation and into care of two of my wife's sisters, another sister, Doris, was admitted to hospital where she died suddenly.
She was 84 and a Jehovah's Witness.
Her funeral service, held at Portchester Crematorium, was well attended by family members - religious and irreligious - and by a good turnout of brother and sister Witnesses.
It was a Witness service.
At the customary gathering afterwards the Watch Tower tribe turned out to be a pleasant enough bunch, bless 'em.
I regard them as cranks rather less sinister than Scientologists, but I do wonder what accident they witnessed. At worst they suffer from an unquestioning belief in their religion, but there's an awful lot of that about.
I remain blissfully irreligious.
Don't care who it is, Jehovah or L. Ron Hubbard: I'd as soon believe in Harry Potter.
Council Elections. Leaflets through the letterbox: the Blair clone Cameron running around the country exhorting people to "vote for change" in the forthcoming local elections (figure it worked for President Obama do they?) and, very soon, the smiling faces of people you do not know and do not want to know, people who have neither known nor particularly wanted to know you, will invite you to vote for them.
Well, we've currently got the Tories and they're rubbish. Before them we had the Liberals and they were ditto. Labour stands not a chance here but, as experienced nationally, who would bank on them?
Whoever gets in here will continue to be manipulated by the suits they are supposed to be employing.
Costs will escalate and services will depreciate.
It has been going on for years.
Don't talk about bloody change to me.
Monday, April 20, 2009
123. Mostly one mess after another...
IN THE NEWS.
Quick revenge. No matter what Boris Johnson actually said, "Revenge is a dish best served cold" would have been by far the most appropriate comment he could have made as, carefully denying a witch-hunt, he hurried to announce the resignation of Assistant Commissioner Bob Quick and the appointment of his counter-terrorism successor.
A.C. Quick was clearly careless not to have considered the shits with cameras before he climbed from a car carrying undisguised secret material for all to see. It was a dream come true for the thin-skinned parliamentary creeps thirsting to be rid of a man who had recently caused them considerable political embarrassment.
In his shoes my deepest regret would be that I once made the mistake of apologizing for something I had said about them.
High-flyers' wives. To the forefront in the media muckrake over Bob Quick's actions was the revelation that his wife ran a luxury car hire firm from their home. Since the firm was not funded by the taxpayer I'm not sure how discreditable this was supposed to be.
It did remind me, though, that not only has the salary of high-flyers risen hugely over the years but, in local government especially, the partners of high flyers seem to possess a magic password that somehow obtains them a sinecure in social services or suchlike to coincide with their other half's appointment: I presume this little extra to be, like everything in the high flyer's salary deal, an irritating but inevitable consequence of letting public servants take themselves too seriously and our money too easily.
The maxim "if you pay peanuts you get monkeys" cuts no ice with me: so far as I'm concerned, if you up the ante you just get greedy monkeys.
Another playground squabble. And another pointless apology. Yep, this time from the jaw-dropping Scot, no less.
In his begrudging apology Gordon Brown accepted responsibility for the shameful scheme (see crocodile tears) to slate Tories on the internet and, in the same breath, said that was why the person responsible had been removed from office.
So McBride minor has been sent home with a note and another playground squabble has been settled. Hurrah!
Enter the mealy-mouthpiece. This morning a high ranking police spokesman firmly defended their policing of demonstrations.
Well, no matter how wrong an organization may be it will always find a mealy-moutnpiece to insist that it is right. This one is defending kettling and talking of how lucky the protesters in this country are (compared, presumably, to China). It appears not to have dawned on him and his colleagues that even the most peaceful protester is going to become infuriated at being roughhoused by unidentifiable thugs in uniform.
Last week a totally innocent man was killed. He was attacked in full view of millions watching television, His attacker was clearly a former school bully who had found his calling as a riot policeman and was now a baton-happy bastard.
No mealy-mouthpiece can talk that away. There have been too many instances of official bullying since the crushing of the miners.
Now there is modern technology. No good just switching off the CCTV cameras and hiding your faces. Thousands of citizens have mobile photographic recording devices.
You too, officer bully boy, are being watched,
TELEVISION.
A Question of Genius (BBC2). Yet another general knowledge quiz. This is presented by Kirsty Wark.
The questions are difficult and the prize money is poor: it is the good old Beeb at its parsimonious best and it concludes with Kirsty badgering the last person standing with questions about what their final answer may be, appearing to squeeze the answer from them against their will and then waiting...waiting...waiting...waiting to say whether or not they have answered correctly.
By the time she tells them I have usually gone to make a cup of tea: one of these days a finalist will keel over: but it's good tele, innit?
No, it bloody isn't.
It is boring and patronizing to competitor and viewer alike.
Newsnight Review (BBC 2). When Kirsty Wark originally presented this programme Tom Paulin and Germaine Greer were regular panellists.
Never know who is going to be on it now.
Last Friday night Ian Hislop and Michael Portillo gently crossed swords. There was also a pleasant young woman, Clemency Burton-Hill, who did her best to prevent open warfare.
Kirsty appeared not to notice the atmosphere of mutual dislike enveloping the two men. Well, she has experienced it all before, Greer and Paulin didn't always hit it off, either.
I made Hislop a points winner, but that may be because I have never liked Portillo.
Britain's Got Talent (ITV1). The success of Susan Boyle. Amateur talent nights stopped being my idea of entertainment way back in the days when Hughie Green, exuding smarminess, presented Opportunity Knocks.
His show, like this modern version of it, did find the occasional gem (e.g. Pam Ayres and Les Dawson) but relied in the main on a stream of sadly talentless hopefuls who should never have listened to the blandishments of relatives and pub mates before venturing into the lions' den.
I tend to think in terms of the gormless being judged by the giftless.
One should never be too dismissive, however.
Yesterday daughter Roz and granddaughter Jess drew our attention, via YouTube, to Susan Boyle, a Scottish spinster who sang her way to a standing ovation on the first round of the third series of Britain's Got Talent.
Much has been made of her homely appearance and, though she has the voice, she is certainly no Ruthie Henshall.
But I am old enough to remember when you judged singers by their voices, not their looks.
Anyway, Ms. Boyle instantly became a worlwide success: and she's a cat lover.
Good luck to her.
Primeval (ITV1). Mention of Ruthie Henshall reminded me that Douglas Henshall (no relation so far as I know) has left this crazy Saturday night caper where prehistoric creatures as big as houses visit shopping malls and eat the occasional shopper without attracting public attention.
Like Bill Petersen in CIS, ol' Dougie is sadly missed: which is more than can be said for the assembly line of monster fodder not even remembered for their terrified screams.
Comes as no surprise to me.
The British public expects anything to happen in shopping malls.
When daughter Jac lived in Wandsworth she was firmly convinced that mothers only took their children to the Arndale Centre to smack them.
She did not hang around there.
Once, as she was striding through on her way to Sainsbury, a man with a clipboard stepped out and said: "Excuse me madam, have you had an accident in the last three years?"
"No," she replied, without pausing in her stride, "I always walk like this."
Countryfile (BBC1). Come on then. Own up. Which ...king genius thought it a good idea to downsize dear ol' John Craven, move his excellent Sunday morning programme to seven o'clock in the evening and put it in the hands of a bunch of unknown (albeit likeable) juniors?
Sunday morning has always been the right time to discuss cows contracting consumption, badgers being culled and pigs being de-knackered.
I can do without it over my dinner, thanks.
Last of the Summer Wine (BBC1). And is that the same ...king genius who moved this new series from its traditional seven o'clock on a Sunday evening spot to six o'clock so that old guys like me miss the first episode because six o'clock is the traditional time for not-much-with-Aled?
Yes I do buy a television guide.
A very expensive one.
But I should not need to consult a television guide for some programmes: some programmes should be sacrosanct.
If you can't see that, you ...king genius, you're a ...king plank!
SOCCER.
The F.A. Cup. (Semi-final) I woke the cat Shadow and told him that Everton had despatched Man.United on a penalty shoot-out.
"I suppose Man.U. fielded a weak side," he said.
"Don't think it was their full first team," I replied, "How did you know?"
"Just seemed likely. They're in line to win almost everything but they want their best players fit to go for the most prestigious things. National trophies are no longer that important."
"I think that's sad," I mused. "What do you think? "
"I think it's called progress, mate," he said.
HOME.
When is a mess not a mess? A little pile of clean nightwear sat on the first stair leading to Jess's top floor bedroom.
After she had retired to bed it was still there.
In the morning when her grandmother tackled her about it she laughingly admitted to having felt too lazy to move it.
I gave her an old-fashioned look.
"Well I hope you will," I admonished her. "I don't want that mess there forever."
"It's not a mess, Pops," she replied sweetly. "It's creativity."
Collapse (in helpless mirth) of stout party.
Quick revenge. No matter what Boris Johnson actually said, "Revenge is a dish best served cold" would have been by far the most appropriate comment he could have made as, carefully denying a witch-hunt, he hurried to announce the resignation of Assistant Commissioner Bob Quick and the appointment of his counter-terrorism successor.
A.C. Quick was clearly careless not to have considered the shits with cameras before he climbed from a car carrying undisguised secret material for all to see. It was a dream come true for the thin-skinned parliamentary creeps thirsting to be rid of a man who had recently caused them considerable political embarrassment.
In his shoes my deepest regret would be that I once made the mistake of apologizing for something I had said about them.
High-flyers' wives. To the forefront in the media muckrake over Bob Quick's actions was the revelation that his wife ran a luxury car hire firm from their home. Since the firm was not funded by the taxpayer I'm not sure how discreditable this was supposed to be.
It did remind me, though, that not only has the salary of high-flyers risen hugely over the years but, in local government especially, the partners of high flyers seem to possess a magic password that somehow obtains them a sinecure in social services or suchlike to coincide with their other half's appointment: I presume this little extra to be, like everything in the high flyer's salary deal, an irritating but inevitable consequence of letting public servants take themselves too seriously and our money too easily.
The maxim "if you pay peanuts you get monkeys" cuts no ice with me: so far as I'm concerned, if you up the ante you just get greedy monkeys.
Another playground squabble. And another pointless apology. Yep, this time from the jaw-dropping Scot, no less.
In his begrudging apology Gordon Brown accepted responsibility for the shameful scheme (see crocodile tears) to slate Tories on the internet and, in the same breath, said that was why the person responsible had been removed from office.
So McBride minor has been sent home with a note and another playground squabble has been settled. Hurrah!
Enter the mealy-mouthpiece. This morning a high ranking police spokesman firmly defended their policing of demonstrations.
Well, no matter how wrong an organization may be it will always find a mealy-moutnpiece to insist that it is right. This one is defending kettling and talking of how lucky the protesters in this country are (compared, presumably, to China). It appears not to have dawned on him and his colleagues that even the most peaceful protester is going to become infuriated at being roughhoused by unidentifiable thugs in uniform.
Last week a totally innocent man was killed. He was attacked in full view of millions watching television, His attacker was clearly a former school bully who had found his calling as a riot policeman and was now a baton-happy bastard.
No mealy-mouthpiece can talk that away. There have been too many instances of official bullying since the crushing of the miners.
Now there is modern technology. No good just switching off the CCTV cameras and hiding your faces. Thousands of citizens have mobile photographic recording devices.
You too, officer bully boy, are being watched,
TELEVISION.
A Question of Genius (BBC2). Yet another general knowledge quiz. This is presented by Kirsty Wark.
The questions are difficult and the prize money is poor: it is the good old Beeb at its parsimonious best and it concludes with Kirsty badgering the last person standing with questions about what their final answer may be, appearing to squeeze the answer from them against their will and then waiting...waiting...waiting...waiting to say whether or not they have answered correctly.
By the time she tells them I have usually gone to make a cup of tea: one of these days a finalist will keel over: but it's good tele, innit?
No, it bloody isn't.
It is boring and patronizing to competitor and viewer alike.
Newsnight Review (BBC 2). When Kirsty Wark originally presented this programme Tom Paulin and Germaine Greer were regular panellists.
Never know who is going to be on it now.
Last Friday night Ian Hislop and Michael Portillo gently crossed swords. There was also a pleasant young woman, Clemency Burton-Hill, who did her best to prevent open warfare.
Kirsty appeared not to notice the atmosphere of mutual dislike enveloping the two men. Well, she has experienced it all before, Greer and Paulin didn't always hit it off, either.
I made Hislop a points winner, but that may be because I have never liked Portillo.
Britain's Got Talent (ITV1). The success of Susan Boyle. Amateur talent nights stopped being my idea of entertainment way back in the days when Hughie Green, exuding smarminess, presented Opportunity Knocks.
His show, like this modern version of it, did find the occasional gem (e.g. Pam Ayres and Les Dawson) but relied in the main on a stream of sadly talentless hopefuls who should never have listened to the blandishments of relatives and pub mates before venturing into the lions' den.
I tend to think in terms of the gormless being judged by the giftless.
One should never be too dismissive, however.
Yesterday daughter Roz and granddaughter Jess drew our attention, via YouTube, to Susan Boyle, a Scottish spinster who sang her way to a standing ovation on the first round of the third series of Britain's Got Talent.
Much has been made of her homely appearance and, though she has the voice, she is certainly no Ruthie Henshall.
But I am old enough to remember when you judged singers by their voices, not their looks.
Anyway, Ms. Boyle instantly became a worlwide success: and she's a cat lover.
Good luck to her.
Primeval (ITV1). Mention of Ruthie Henshall reminded me that Douglas Henshall (no relation so far as I know) has left this crazy Saturday night caper where prehistoric creatures as big as houses visit shopping malls and eat the occasional shopper without attracting public attention.
Like Bill Petersen in CIS, ol' Dougie is sadly missed: which is more than can be said for the assembly line of monster fodder not even remembered for their terrified screams.
Comes as no surprise to me.
The British public expects anything to happen in shopping malls.
When daughter Jac lived in Wandsworth she was firmly convinced that mothers only took their children to the Arndale Centre to smack them.
She did not hang around there.
Once, as she was striding through on her way to Sainsbury, a man with a clipboard stepped out and said: "Excuse me madam, have you had an accident in the last three years?"
"No," she replied, without pausing in her stride, "I always walk like this."
Countryfile (BBC1). Come on then. Own up. Which ...king genius thought it a good idea to downsize dear ol' John Craven, move his excellent Sunday morning programme to seven o'clock in the evening and put it in the hands of a bunch of unknown (albeit likeable) juniors?
Sunday morning has always been the right time to discuss cows contracting consumption, badgers being culled and pigs being de-knackered.
I can do without it over my dinner, thanks.
Last of the Summer Wine (BBC1). And is that the same ...king genius who moved this new series from its traditional seven o'clock on a Sunday evening spot to six o'clock so that old guys like me miss the first episode because six o'clock is the traditional time for not-much-with-Aled?
Yes I do buy a television guide.
A very expensive one.
But I should not need to consult a television guide for some programmes: some programmes should be sacrosanct.
If you can't see that, you ...king genius, you're a ...king plank!
SOCCER.
The F.A. Cup. (Semi-final) I woke the cat Shadow and told him that Everton had despatched Man.United on a penalty shoot-out.
"I suppose Man.U. fielded a weak side," he said.
"Don't think it was their full first team," I replied, "How did you know?"
"Just seemed likely. They're in line to win almost everything but they want their best players fit to go for the most prestigious things. National trophies are no longer that important."
"I think that's sad," I mused. "What do you think? "
"I think it's called progress, mate," he said.
HOME.
When is a mess not a mess? A little pile of clean nightwear sat on the first stair leading to Jess's top floor bedroom.
After she had retired to bed it was still there.
In the morning when her grandmother tackled her about it she laughingly admitted to having felt too lazy to move it.
I gave her an old-fashioned look.
"Well I hope you will," I admonished her. "I don't want that mess there forever."
"It's not a mess, Pops," she replied sweetly. "It's creativity."
Collapse (in helpless mirth) of stout party.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
122. From cat chat to Fen country
HOME.
More cat chat.The cat Shadow was to all intents asleep in the chair beside me when of a sudden he asked: "Why d'you keep tippety-tappin' on that computer keyboard?"
At first I thought the gentle rattle of the keys must have irked him, but he did not sound querulous and he has never complained before.
I had to think on my seat.
"It keeps me off the streets."
He yawned.
"Whatever. You'll not change anything. All the television programmes you detest have gained in popularity since you started decrying them."
I sensed an unwinnable conversation coming on and tried to head him off.
"Why do governments keep effiin' about with the time?" I grumbled. "Every six months we have to put an hour on the clock, or take off an hour; my body clock takes ages to re-adjust."
He made it clear that he was not to be distracted.
"Truth is, mate, when it comes to tele you're swimming against the popular tide. People love all that phone in and join in stuff. They feel involved: like it's their television."
I snorted. Sod the popular tide. Today's loved is tomorrow's loathed.
"There's still too much cookery, property and reality on the box," I said. "Too many auctions and phone-ins and long...long waits for some smarmy git to reveal who will or won't be back next week. And there's far too many masochists just waiting to let a cretinous cook curse them or a mouthy little millionaire in need of a shave tell them they're fired. I don't care how popular it all is, it's crap."
"Well that's stymied your chances of appearing in anybody's kitchen or on The Apprentice," he mused. "Speaking as your personal adviser I must warn that you're running out of options."
"Just don't volunteer me for Big Brother or anything to do with Ant and Dec," I said.
He blinked his cat smile.
"How about Lloyd and Webber?"
A long twenty years. It has recently been reported that a third of army families are discontented with the accommodation allocated to them.
A MoD spokesman says it will take twenty years to upgrade the offending homes.
But military families were making similar complaints, to my knowledge, when I joined the army in 1945.
Rather a long twenty years that.
TELEVISION.
Live International Football (ITV1). Shadow's Soccer: he woke up ten minutes after the England v. Ukraine game ended.
"England won 2 -1," I told him. "They weren't bad in the first half but struggled a bit in the second. Barry and Johnson and Becks were yellow carded."
My Leader's customary subsequent engagement having kept her from the game, he had enjoyed the comfort of her chair for the evening.
Now he dropped down and stretched.
"Time for supper, ain't it?" he enquired.
I struggled to my feet.
"Sometimes I wonder what your last servant died of. And how come you were awake right through the Slovakia game and slept right through this one?"
"Don't be a blonde," he said. "The Slovakia game was a good one. Try to remember the last time England played two good games in a row."
Law & Order: UK (ITV1). In post 120 I expressed uncertainty about this Dick Wolf inspired addition to the many cops and robbers shows already to be seen on our screens. I should have known better.
The likes of Bill Paterson and Harriet Walter are always good value and Bradley Walsh is excellent as senior DS Ronnie Brooks.
With this cast, Law and Order: UK, like the American original, could run and run.
CSI Crime Scene Investigation (Five). Ol' Bill Petersen, wearing a silly hat and an uncomplimentary beard, took off to find the love of his life in Pategonia or somewhere.
His departure left a huge empty space that not even the imperturbable Laurence Fishburne has so far managed to fill.
Robin Hood (BBC1) and Primeval (ITV1). Two new series for Saturday night viewing. Watched them. Look foward to the return of Merlin.
READING.
Kathy Reichs. I should by now have finished reading her death du jour and probably would have had I not become sidetracked by re-reading Edmund Crispin's Fen Country: twenty six stories featuring Gervaise Fen. The first detective story omnibus I owned contained The Moving Toyshop by Crispin, and I very much enjoyed it. Fen Country has merely served as a reminder that short story writing is difficult and dates quickly.
Must get back to Ms.Reichs.
More cat chat.The cat Shadow was to all intents asleep in the chair beside me when of a sudden he asked: "Why d'you keep tippety-tappin' on that computer keyboard?"
At first I thought the gentle rattle of the keys must have irked him, but he did not sound querulous and he has never complained before.
I had to think on my seat.
"It keeps me off the streets."
He yawned.
"Whatever. You'll not change anything. All the television programmes you detest have gained in popularity since you started decrying them."
I sensed an unwinnable conversation coming on and tried to head him off.
"Why do governments keep effiin' about with the time?" I grumbled. "Every six months we have to put an hour on the clock, or take off an hour; my body clock takes ages to re-adjust."
He made it clear that he was not to be distracted.
"Truth is, mate, when it comes to tele you're swimming against the popular tide. People love all that phone in and join in stuff. They feel involved: like it's their television."
I snorted. Sod the popular tide. Today's loved is tomorrow's loathed.
"There's still too much cookery, property and reality on the box," I said. "Too many auctions and phone-ins and long...long waits for some smarmy git to reveal who will or won't be back next week. And there's far too many masochists just waiting to let a cretinous cook curse them or a mouthy little millionaire in need of a shave tell them they're fired. I don't care how popular it all is, it's crap."
"Well that's stymied your chances of appearing in anybody's kitchen or on The Apprentice," he mused. "Speaking as your personal adviser I must warn that you're running out of options."
"Just don't volunteer me for Big Brother or anything to do with Ant and Dec," I said.
He blinked his cat smile.
"How about Lloyd and Webber?"
A long twenty years. It has recently been reported that a third of army families are discontented with the accommodation allocated to them.
A MoD spokesman says it will take twenty years to upgrade the offending homes.
But military families were making similar complaints, to my knowledge, when I joined the army in 1945.
Rather a long twenty years that.
TELEVISION.
Live International Football (ITV1). Shadow's Soccer: he woke up ten minutes after the England v. Ukraine game ended.
"England won 2 -1," I told him. "They weren't bad in the first half but struggled a bit in the second. Barry and Johnson and Becks were yellow carded."
My Leader's customary subsequent engagement having kept her from the game, he had enjoyed the comfort of her chair for the evening.
Now he dropped down and stretched.
"Time for supper, ain't it?" he enquired.
I struggled to my feet.
"Sometimes I wonder what your last servant died of. And how come you were awake right through the Slovakia game and slept right through this one?"
"Don't be a blonde," he said. "The Slovakia game was a good one. Try to remember the last time England played two good games in a row."
Law & Order: UK (ITV1). In post 120 I expressed uncertainty about this Dick Wolf inspired addition to the many cops and robbers shows already to be seen on our screens. I should have known better.
The likes of Bill Paterson and Harriet Walter are always good value and Bradley Walsh is excellent as senior DS Ronnie Brooks.
With this cast, Law and Order: UK, like the American original, could run and run.
CSI Crime Scene Investigation (Five). Ol' Bill Petersen, wearing a silly hat and an uncomplimentary beard, took off to find the love of his life in Pategonia or somewhere.
His departure left a huge empty space that not even the imperturbable Laurence Fishburne has so far managed to fill.
Robin Hood (BBC1) and Primeval (ITV1). Two new series for Saturday night viewing. Watched them. Look foward to the return of Merlin.
READING.
Kathy Reichs. I should by now have finished reading her death du jour and probably would have had I not become sidetracked by re-reading Edmund Crispin's Fen Country: twenty six stories featuring Gervaise Fen. The first detective story omnibus I owned contained The Moving Toyshop by Crispin, and I very much enjoyed it. Fen Country has merely served as a reminder that short story writing is difficult and dates quickly.
Must get back to Ms.Reichs.
Friday, March 20, 2009
121. From red noses to a man's cough
TELEVISION.
QI. This programme provided a red letter day for Alan Davies who actually managed to win.
I put it down to the company he was keeping.
Faced with clever Emma Thompson, clever David Mitchell and clever John Sessions, he abandoned his customary habit of jumping in with the obvious - invariably incorrect - answer and simply left it to whichever of them felt lucky.
When they did, they weren't, he was: clever Alan.
Comic Relief: Funny for Money. In The Independent last week Janet Street-Porter saw red over red noses.
Under the heading I'll be relieved when this charade ends she wrote that she was not impressed with entertainers who "bravely take a few days out of their busy schedule to visit Africa and be photographed with grateful orphans" and declared that "the whole ego trip of such exercises is thoroughly nauseating."
My concern was less with the motives of the entertainers than with the accuracy of the title. With the exception of the French, Saunders, Lumley Mama Mia and the climax of Corden's pep talk I thought 'funny for money' was stretching it a bit.
Occasionally funny...slightly funny...downright unfunny...or even relying on your charitable goodwill to accept as funny...would have been more accurate descriptions.
Truth to tell, much of the show is self-indulgent twaddle.
If you think I'm an old curmudgeon, you're leaning on an open door.
I also have qualms about the obsequious claptrap presented at Royal Command shows: generally finish up thinking this shouldn't befall a bloody politician, let alone H.M. Queen Elizabeth II (an elderly woman who has done me no harm).
Small wonder she turns out less and less nowadays.
I wouldn't bother at all.
Lark Rise to Candleford. Series two finished last Sunday. Twelve episodes and farewell to ruraltania until next year.
I shall miss it, but there comes a time when the mar-ing and par-ing has to stop. Anyway, I'm pleased that Dorcas Lane, played by Julia Sawalha (my one weakness) has acquired a little man. Suits her. Shall worry slightly about the abandoned hotel, though. Won't it get terribly damp and musty while James Dowland is away seeking another fortune?
He's such a twirp. I knew he shouldn't have given everything to that female former partner.
The No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency. The first of a new six part series and I enjoyed it.
My Leader was uncertain and gave it a miss; she has not said why, but one senses that she, in common with the respected television critic Tom Sutcliffe, is concerned that its naivety may be a trifle condescending and doubts it will stand the test of time. I just sat back and allowed the believable Jill Scott and Anika Noni Rose, as Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, to free me for an hour from the customary African output.
It's not that I don't care, it is that I feel there is more to the country than prey being killed by beasts of prey and humans being killed by disease, neglect and political corruption. The lady detectives are no more fanciful than Crabbe's Pie in the Sky and Africa is clearly a fascinating place, so I shall accept No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency in the same lighthearted spirit that it is offered.
Life's too short...
READING.
Kathy Reichs. I have started on death du jour and get the feeling one needs to be a forensic anthropologist to properly appreciate it.
Ne'er mind, I'll keep reading. After all, I never miss a CSI.
HOME.
Moving on.Two of my Leader's sisters, widows in their eighties, have recently had to move from their houses. One has gone into a care home and the other to sheltered accommodation. The upheaval experienced by the elderly when this happens is equalled only by the strain visited upon those charged with making the change as easy as possible for them. There is invariably a mountain of surplus-to-requirements belongings to be sorted and disposed of (much of it of nostalgic value and mysteriously required at a later date) and there is often property to be sold and legal things like Power of Attorney to be considered involving solicitors and estate agents and pretty much everyone else with a licence to print money.
Then finally, when all is done and dusted and the bills have been paid, the recriminations start to come from those who now feel they have been unnecessarily deprived of their independence and have consequently become denizens of God's waiting room.
As the youngest of six (originally eight) sisters, my Leader's help is usually sought whenever there is a family crisis. This is both flattering and very tiring. This week she has been involved with moving her oldest sister who lives on the Island. Next week she will be on the mainland, helping deal with the aftermath of the other sister's move. I don't think there will be much negative output from either of them. Well, not in Maureen's direction there won't. She may be the youngest but she is the one who most resembles their late mother.
Funny the effect that can have.
Anonymous John. News from friend Sheila (via my Leader) that our old friend Anonymous John is labouring with the dreaded man's cough. (I know that one, it's much worse than the discreet hack into a handkerchief cough suffered by secretary girls with shorthand notebooks on their knees.)
It's no joke to you, John, so keep warm, take such medicine as you are allowed, and get back to fighting fit very soon.
QI. This programme provided a red letter day for Alan Davies who actually managed to win.
I put it down to the company he was keeping.
Faced with clever Emma Thompson, clever David Mitchell and clever John Sessions, he abandoned his customary habit of jumping in with the obvious - invariably incorrect - answer and simply left it to whichever of them felt lucky.
When they did, they weren't, he was: clever Alan.
Comic Relief: Funny for Money. In The Independent last week Janet Street-Porter saw red over red noses.
Under the heading I'll be relieved when this charade ends she wrote that she was not impressed with entertainers who "bravely take a few days out of their busy schedule to visit Africa and be photographed with grateful orphans" and declared that "the whole ego trip of such exercises is thoroughly nauseating."
My concern was less with the motives of the entertainers than with the accuracy of the title. With the exception of the French, Saunders, Lumley Mama Mia and the climax of Corden's pep talk I thought 'funny for money' was stretching it a bit.
Occasionally funny...slightly funny...downright unfunny...or even relying on your charitable goodwill to accept as funny...would have been more accurate descriptions.
Truth to tell, much of the show is self-indulgent twaddle.
If you think I'm an old curmudgeon, you're leaning on an open door.
I also have qualms about the obsequious claptrap presented at Royal Command shows: generally finish up thinking this shouldn't befall a bloody politician, let alone H.M. Queen Elizabeth II (an elderly woman who has done me no harm).
Small wonder she turns out less and less nowadays.
I wouldn't bother at all.
Lark Rise to Candleford. Series two finished last Sunday. Twelve episodes and farewell to ruraltania until next year.
I shall miss it, but there comes a time when the mar-ing and par-ing has to stop. Anyway, I'm pleased that Dorcas Lane, played by Julia Sawalha (my one weakness) has acquired a little man. Suits her. Shall worry slightly about the abandoned hotel, though. Won't it get terribly damp and musty while James Dowland is away seeking another fortune?
He's such a twirp. I knew he shouldn't have given everything to that female former partner.
The No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency. The first of a new six part series and I enjoyed it.
My Leader was uncertain and gave it a miss; she has not said why, but one senses that she, in common with the respected television critic Tom Sutcliffe, is concerned that its naivety may be a trifle condescending and doubts it will stand the test of time. I just sat back and allowed the believable Jill Scott and Anika Noni Rose, as Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, to free me for an hour from the customary African output.
It's not that I don't care, it is that I feel there is more to the country than prey being killed by beasts of prey and humans being killed by disease, neglect and political corruption. The lady detectives are no more fanciful than Crabbe's Pie in the Sky and Africa is clearly a fascinating place, so I shall accept No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency in the same lighthearted spirit that it is offered.
Life's too short...
READING.
Kathy Reichs. I have started on death du jour and get the feeling one needs to be a forensic anthropologist to properly appreciate it.
Ne'er mind, I'll keep reading. After all, I never miss a CSI.
HOME.
Moving on.Two of my Leader's sisters, widows in their eighties, have recently had to move from their houses. One has gone into a care home and the other to sheltered accommodation. The upheaval experienced by the elderly when this happens is equalled only by the strain visited upon those charged with making the change as easy as possible for them. There is invariably a mountain of surplus-to-requirements belongings to be sorted and disposed of (much of it of nostalgic value and mysteriously required at a later date) and there is often property to be sold and legal things like Power of Attorney to be considered involving solicitors and estate agents and pretty much everyone else with a licence to print money.
Then finally, when all is done and dusted and the bills have been paid, the recriminations start to come from those who now feel they have been unnecessarily deprived of their independence and have consequently become denizens of God's waiting room.
As the youngest of six (originally eight) sisters, my Leader's help is usually sought whenever there is a family crisis. This is both flattering and very tiring. This week she has been involved with moving her oldest sister who lives on the Island. Next week she will be on the mainland, helping deal with the aftermath of the other sister's move. I don't think there will be much negative output from either of them. Well, not in Maureen's direction there won't. She may be the youngest but she is the one who most resembles their late mother.
Funny the effect that can have.
Anonymous John. News from friend Sheila (via my Leader) that our old friend Anonymous John is labouring with the dreaded man's cough. (I know that one, it's much worse than the discreet hack into a handkerchief cough suffered by secretary girls with shorthand notebooks on their knees.)
It's no joke to you, John, so keep warm, take such medicine as you are allowed, and get back to fighting fit very soon.
Friday, March 06, 2009
120. Billy,Feds,Julie,Tom,Alan,Sigourney & Catgut.
TELEVISION.Billy Connolly: Journey to the Edge of the World. (ITV1)
We have thoroughly enjoyed Billy Connolly's journey from the Atlantic to the Pacific via the Northwest Passage. Wonderful scenery, fascinating people along the way and a lively, sympathetic commentary from ol' Bill.
You either like him or you don't. We do.
Those who don't should shelve their prejudice: this is too good to miss.
US Cop Shows.
The more I see of Dexter, and many another US cop show, the more convinced I become that we should not, under any circumstances, introduce the equivalent of the FBI into this country.
It alarms me slightly that we are now producing a British television version of Law and Order. I do hope it is not the thin end of the wedge.
Thames Valley tossers and public school wallies in wigs are bad enough, but at least they are our tossers and wallies.
BOOKS.
Julie Walters.
I finished That's Another Story, the autobiography with a faint feeling of déjà vu.
Fine actress, many acclaimed performances in the theatre: Mrs. Overall of Acorn Antiques on television and that marvellous old waitress serving - and corpsing - Celia Imrie and Duncan Preston in Victoria Woods' Two Soups sketch: Rita in the film Educating Rita, dance teacher to Billy Elliot, Molly Weasley in the Harry Potter films: awards galore.
But the more successful the acting becomes the less time there is for anything else. This, along with a desire to maintain a private life, must be a common problem for popular actors seeking to avoid unwelcome attention and prying eyes.
Trouble is, the desire for privacy, no matter how understandable, does not make for a gripping read and at times I had the feeling, just as I did when reading Angela Lansbury's biography, that I might as well be reading the Wiki entry.
Never mind, she says she enjoyed writing it so who am I to carp?
What? Criticise Mrs. Weasley? Never!
FILMS.
Mission Impossible Three.
I like Tom Cruise but I didn't much like this film.
Well, even an all action thriller has to be a bit sensible: Ethan Hunt (Tom) would have killed off Philip Seymour Hoffman's Owen Davian as soon as it became obvious that nothing was to be gained from him but personal threats.
Everybody (not least ol' Tom) would then have been spared the tedium of Ethan sprinting everywhere like a leftover character from Chariots of Fire.
Snow Cake.
Starring Alan Rickman and Sigourney Weaver, this gentle film, shown on BBC2 earlier this year, was described in my copy of The best TV and radio listings you can get! as a tragicomedy.
An unpromising story line dealt with the death of a bright, quirky girl, reluctantly given a lift by Alex (Alan Rickman), who is killed when his stationary car is hit by a lorry. The guilt he feels for his guiltless involvement in the matter is lost on her mother (Sigourney Weaver), a fully functioning autistic woman who sees no point in pointless apology.
For me, the two leading players were enough to sell it and from the outset it was clear that they were were made for their roles.
If you missed it make a note to watch it next time around. Lovely acting from all concerned and a unique take on a small town in Canada.
MUSIC.
At Home.
The cat Shadow is settled in his chair behind me at the other end of the little computer room which my Leader still declines to think of as the study because, at five foot wide by ten foot long, it falls short of study status.
Nigel Kennedy is playing Bruch's Violin Concerto No.1 (a tape on the ancient aiwa) with the English Chamber Orchestra conducted by Jeffrey Tate.
We are at peace with the world.
I don't know what it is with cats and violins, but our first ever cat would come running from anywhere to join me in listening to the Tchaikovsky.
Shadow is the same.
Try telling them that catgut comes from the intestines of goat, sheep, horse, pig or suchlike creature, but never from a cat.
When they believe they're listening to the innards of an ancestor?
Do come on.
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