157. Halloween 2010

HOME.

Potter time again!
On the 19th November the last Potter story, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1, will be released worldwide: Part 2 will come along next July. The success of the films will be governed by good acting, compelling presentation and imaginative direction. One can only hope all will show more inspiration than does the hackneyed addition of Part 1 and Part 2 to the title.

i.
As mentioned elsewhere within these posts, my preferred newspaper is The Independent. It carries a variety of opinion, is well written and, in common with the newspaper I dreamt of writing for in my youth, the News Chronicle, will quite likely end up in the hands of the right wing Daily Mail.
The decision by proprietor Evgeny Lebedev to launch i, a precis Inde priced at only 20p, is either far-sighted or desperate (depends on your viewpoint): it is certainly a brave venture.
I have purchased the new daily since its inception and it is very readable. True it contains a load of advertisements, but they obviously offset the reduced price and they do include Hyundai which, since we bought the i10, is fine by me.
The boy behind the counter in our paper shop muttered ‘There’s not much in it,’ when I cheerfully remarked that I thought it good value.
Age forestalled a quick response. Had it not I would have said: “Well, you didn’t expect tits for twenty pence did you?”
Don’t think quickly enough nowadays.
Visitors.
One morning last week friends Anonymous John and Sheila came in for elevenses. The cat Shadow (apparently determined to live up to the Brat Cat nickname bestowed upon him by granddaughter Jess) chose the occasion to indulge in some of his more irksome behaviour.
He prowled morosely through every downstairs room, declined an invitation to sit on the windowsill - he is not comfortable with the secondary double glazing - and made clear his displeasure that the customary human population of his home had doubled in one morning.
“I don’t know what’s come over him,” said Maureen, “He’s not usually like this.”
“Perhaps he’s wrestling with the last line of a poem,” suggested John, gently.

TELEVISION

The Hairy Bikers’ Cook Off. (BBC2)
This pair have been reinventing themselves since way back in the days when David Myers was a make-up artist and Simon King a location manager. Lord only knows how they landed those jobs but no doubt they were good at them.
They then became television cooks, clearly taking the opportunity of a gap in the market when the death of Jennifer Paterson brought an end to The Two Fat Ladies. Hairy Bikers was obviously a better soubriquet than Two Fat Blokes would have been, but the programme was an unashamed rip-off - as have been subsequent variants.
Now increasingly popular, and affectionately known as Dave and Si, they are hosting this recycled Ready Steady Cook/Master Chef crap with all the aplomb you might expect of two such experienced television performers.
They are not foul-mouthed footballers calling themselves chefs, or market place greengrocers masquerading as nutritionists, they are a couple of seasoned opportunists from Tyne and Wear who know how to woo a television audience - and that includes simply calling themselves cooks.
I loathe reality television.
But, perhaps against my better judgment, I still like the Hairy Bikers.
Strictly Come Dancing. (BBC1)

As anticipated, all the really good dancers, plus the joke entrant, are still in.

READING.

M.C. Beaton.
Returned from an enjoyable stroll with Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dibley and am now half way through Nocturne by

Graham Hurley.
Nocturne is told in the first person, by young media graduate Julie Emerson, and is such a departure from the Faraday stories that one cannot but wonder at the sheer versatility of the writer. More later.
In the meantime, my mention of Mr. Hurley (Posts 153 - 155) brought an interesting email from former Wessex Regional Health Authority PRO and editor of the award winning NHS magazine Link
Ian Dillow.
It seems that Ian and Graham Hurley have been friends for nigh on 40 years. Back in the early seventies the pair of them, together with the now departed John East (former Head of Addictions - drugs, alcohol and gambling - for Hampshire County Council), set up a charity film group called Project Icarus with a view to ‘bringing people down to earth about drugs.’
Their first film, “Better dead?” shocked the three of them by winning the Chicago Film Festival. It became required viewing for recruits to Britain’s armed forces and was shown in secondary schools throughout the country.
With money coming in they turned Icarus into a registered charity and went on to produce films on such topics as LSD, burn injuries, mental handicap etc. They had offices on the outskirts of Portsmouth and only wound down about six years ago. That’s it…and pretty much the way ol’ Dillow tells it.
Some people really are good value.

ENDPIECE.

Eamonn Lawless.
Eamonn regularly forwards funny and appropriate emails to us. This gem is a reminder that we were enjoying the dance long before 'strictly' came along.

Whoever put this music video together is an editing genius !!!....Speakers ON !!!!!!!!!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYL3j27sSH8

156. Not much change here then

HOME.

When is an e-mail an eye-opener?
In an exchange of e-mails leaked - what a meaningful word that is nowadays - to the County Press, Isle of Wight MP Andrew Turner has been accused by Tory Councillor Edward Giles of lying and stirring trouble in his handling of issues involving the Isle of Wight Council.
In previous posts I have expressed my opinion of the Tory MP; it has not been flattering and it has not altered. If, however, he has somehow publicised the fact that Island bus fares are appallingly high, Island highways are appallingly ill-kept and Island administration is an appalling shambles, he will have told nothing but the truth: a rarity in any politician.
As for Mr. Giles…Cabinet member for environment, transport and corporate services? Where the hell does he think he’s coming from?
For that matter, where the hell do any of these little upstarts think they’re coming from? And which bright spark first suggested it would be a good idea to adorn them with mock-parliamentary titles?
Surely all of us would be better served if they remembered they are simply local councillors, dropped the pretence of being something more - they’re not - and refrained from throwing their toys out of the pram at the slightest hint of criticism, from whatever source.
The Council and Tory group leader (don’t ask, but I think that used to be the chairman)) was reported as saying: “Clr Giles was articulating the administration’s view,” by which I take it he meant saying what we wanted him to say.
Mr. Turner might live to regret upsetting such sensitive party pigmies.
I wouldn’t let it bother me.
They are there to serve, not rule.
And if they don’t know the difference they should get the hell out of it.
When is a poem not…?
Poetry Week 2010 has come and gone but the 2010 National Poetry Competition is still open for entries; closing date 31st October.
Just in passing I mentioned it to the cat Shadow.
“You’re a bit of a poet,” I said. “Might suit you,”
His demeanour suggested a shrug. (How does he do that?)
“No way, mate,” he said. “I’ve read the spring 2010 issue of Poetry Review and I wouldn’t stand a chance. My poems rhyme.”
Know what he means.
But I thought it was worth a try.
The Flu Jab Club.
Lord how fast a year passes! We have just held the Flu Jab Club AGM again. No minutes. No agenda. Simply four friends strolling from the surgery to a popular local tea shop for light refreshment and an hour of small town gossip while they recover from the non-ordeal of a two second flu jab.
There is talk that next year the jab could be replaced by a patch.
The Flu Jab Club will then become The Flu Patch Club.
We shan’t vote on the change of name.

AND AWAY.

254 OBA Reunion 2010.
This year the reunion was held at Ramada Tamworth Hotel and was quite well supported considering the hotel is a ten mile, £30, taxi journey from Tamworth railway station.
We journeyed up by car on Friday 1st. October and it rained heavily throughout the entire trip. At times spray from fast moving cars and large vehicles blinded following traffic in all three lanes and every direction sign on the motorway was obscured. The lion’s share of our driving was undertaken by friend Jim Jenkins who drove us from his home near Salisbury. I only had to get our car to his place and that was enough for me.
It was good to see many familiar faces again, though a couple of my closest boyhood friends did not make it: one of them has all but given up driving now and the other’s wife was indisposed. Age catches up and eventually overtakes us all.
The Ramada Tamworth is far out in the country, half a mile from Appleby Magna (a village so charming and English I half expected to see Margaret Rutherford riding through it on a tricycle), so anybody without wheels will not even get there. But our room was comfortable, the meals were good and friendly staff provided an excellent service throughout our stay.
Bad weather also blighted the return journey, but a stop-off at Oxford, for lunch with daughter Jac, considerably sweetened the pill.
We arrived home swearing - there was a definite blue haze around me - never to undertake such a journey in such weather again and convinced (no matter what the earnest advocates of Open The Nation’s Doors To All may preach to the contrary) that England is now far too full of people and its roads are a bloody nightmare.

TELEVISION.

New Tricks. (BBC1)
They’re back again. Just as welcome and homely and reliable.
Dennis Waterman still comes across as your typical bloke next door, James Bolam remains that reserved chap who carefully makes up his mind before he accepts you and Alun Armstrong continues to be the nice fellow who randomly chats to you in the supermarket.
James Bolam’s real life wife, Susan Jameson, is still Brian Lane’s (Alun Armstrong) long suffering wife Esther - a woman with whom one cannot help but sympathise - and Amanda Redman is still the female boss accepted by even the most chauvinistic male.
Series Seven and it could run forever.
Strictly Come Dancing. (BBC1)
Celebrities who quickly become dancers. Celebrities who cannot and never will become dancers. Token joke entrant. Beautiful costumes. Great orchestra and chorus. Tireless professional dancers, Tiresome old compere.
No change here then.
Downton Abbey. (ITV1)
Put the glorious Maggie Smith (at her most imperious as Violet, Dowager Countess of Grantham), and believable Hugh Bonneville (as her son Robert, Earl of Grantham), together with a stellar cast including the likes of Jim Carter and Penelope Wilton and you can be assured of a dependable upstairs downstairs drama. This one is written by Julian Fellowes who appears to have set it in the next property along from Gosford Park.
Where would we be without the costume crowd on a Sunday evening?
Harry and Paul. (BBC2)
Was disappointed with their last effort and cannot take to this one. Never mind, I doubt they will notice my absence from their viewing public.
Ask Rhod Gilbert. (BBC1)
Why?

RADIO.

Golden Oldies.
Still in search of the perfect replacement for Wogan, I was directed to Angel Radio, Isle of Wight which turns out to be a non-stop collection of truly old recordings. Some of them, by almost forgotten singers like Malcolm Vaughan for example, are gems. Many of them are thirties dance band dross which was the forever background to our before-television thirties lives.
Apart from the gems I can’t say I miss any of it.

READING.

M.C. Beaton.
Have read Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet and Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener. Again good, easy reading; though the gardener takes quite a long time to pot.
Now I am following the enthusiastic sleuth’s adventure with the Walkers of Dembley. Eclectic cast are in thrall to the frequently formidable, strangely likeable Agatha.
Me too.
Back after the walk.

155. Comings and goings and an anniversary.

HOME.

The Bestival.
Last week the monthly lunch club I attend visited the Jolly Sailor at Old Bursledon, a pleasant pub situated along the River Hamble. Upon our return on the Red Jet from Southampton we were met by two police persons and a dear little spaniel dog. They stood halfway along the tunnel leading to and from the jetty at Cowes and their interest was entirely focussed on those disembarking. The police persons maintained an alert look while the little spaniel sniffed methodically. It ended in an anticlimax. None of us attracted special attention.
“They’ll be on the lookout for drugs,” said one of my companions sagely. “It’s the Bestival.“
The Bestival is the final musical event of the season over here. Lasts for four days. Attracts some great groups and some foul weather. Many of the audience are too stoned to know much about either. Granddaughter Jess, a non-smoker, reckons the way to avoid getting high is to avoid low flying clouds. She and her parents - also non-smokers - went, as they always do, for the music and the fun. They were not disappointed. It was a gloriously musical, fun-filled, mud-wallowing occasion and they had a great time.
So where was the little spaniel? I wondered. Did it give up sniffing after its lack of success at Cowes? Well, apparently not. It was on site sniffing the selected. Not everybody. Just enough suspected junkies and recognised pushers to justify its employment.
All sounds very civilized to me.
The Case of the Frozen Ipod.
Few weeks back Maureen bought an Ipod. She obtained a selection of games to play on it and set about hurling exploding birds at pigs in tin hats etc. All went well until she connected it to my computer to do some sort of update or other; I’ve no idea what. Don’t understand any of it. But the contraption froze. Nothing moved,
She went through set procedures; pressed all the advised buttons; sought the guidance of the manufacturer and of family and friends; finally disconnected it and tried again the following day. Nothing moved.
She then took it to the local retailer to say: “Repair or replace, please.”
“Have you tried doing…(blah blah blah)?” said the manager.
“Yes. that doesn’t work.”
“How about…(blah blah blah)?”
“That doesn’t work, either.”
“If you take it to Currys,” said the senior salesman, clearly unaware that he was walking on quicksand, “ they might be able to restart…”
Mild Maureen departed. My Leader emerged. “Never mind Currys,” she interrupted gently: “I bought it from you and I expect you to deal with it. Repair or replace.”
“It’s a 3 megabyte model,” said the manager. “We don’t have any in stock at the moment: we could replace with the 8 megabyte, but that’s £50 more.”
My Leader shook her head. “Can’t afford that. Repair this or replace it.”
The manager fiddled with the controls, got nowhere, asked if he might keep it overnight for further examination.
“Yes, but don’t go breaking into it and invalidating my guarantee,” said the now implacable Leader.
There was, he promised, no fear of that happening.
The next day only the senior salesman was in evidence. The bad news was that they had been unable to unfreeze Maureen’s Ipod. On a shelf behind the counter there was an Ipod with a lead wrapped around it.
“That will be my no cost replacement then,” said my Leader.
The salesman floundered. It was an 8 megabyte job, he would have to phone the manager for confirmation. The manager confirmed. Replacement on shelf. No charge.
“Thank you,” said Maureen.
Eat your heart out Dominic Littlewood.
The Case of the Great Britain Run.
“It’s the Great North Run on Sunday,” I said.
“I know,” said my Leader. “Heather and one of her daughters are doing it.”
(Heather is a friend who lives a short distance from us.)
“They must be keen if they’re going all the way up to Newcastle,.” I said.
“I think they’re doing it in Portsmouth,” she said.
“That’s a helluva long run to the starting line,“ I said.

AND AWAY.

The Pope.
In case you hadn’t noticed, Pope Benedict XVI (an elderly man who has done me no harm) has been here. His visit started in Scotland, where he met HM Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip (an elderly couple who have done me neither harm nor favour), plus the customary coterie of dedicated creeps and devoted ring-kissers. He was then driven off in his popemobile to face the hoped-for crowds.
In Princes Street, surrounded by thickset security men,. he received an enthusiastic welcome from Edinburgh’s cosmopolitan populace. He sensibly had a tartan scarf - which I took to be McPontiff - draped over his shoulders. Coach loads of children, brimming with day-out excitement, were in attendance from Catholic schools.
I guess his visit will go down as a resounding success. Nothing was said to suggest that Catholic priests known to have offended against children will in future be defrocked. No lessening of the intransigent stance on abortion and contraception was detectable.
But most Roman Catholics will be happy that he came and I don’t suppose the bill will be anything like the one for the 2012 Olympics.
I believe in none of it, but live and let live.
The Press and the Internet.
And when it comes to live and let live, is it my imagination or has the web finally driven the entire world of journalism into a state of paranoia?
I can understand professional writers becoming irritated at the tidal wave of advice, gossip and (frequently worthless) opinion freely available to those prepared to spend their lives surfing the net for it; but I find difficulty in understanding why proud, hard-boiled journalists should become quite so fearful and indignant at the mere mention of blogland. I thought only the acting profession was that insecure..
A couple of weeks back my favourite tilter at windmills, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown of The Independent, devoted her column to castigating the alleged instigator of those Sunday-rag-like rumours about William Hague which may have drifted past you on television news programmes. In an article headed. The stench from the blogosphere she placed the blame for this, and every other tawdry, spiteful act of minor celebrity defamation, squarely on the shoulders of irresponsible bloggers in general, and one chap (whose name I forget but it’s a pseudonym anyway) in particular.
Short of closing the web completely, or electing a dictatorship dedicated to the imprisonment of internet rabble rousers, I can see no solution to the concern felt by those who see cyberspace as a growing threat to conventional news coverage and our way of life. Change is inevitable and seldom for the better. Newspaper people are no strangers to it.. You just have to swim with the tide. If you don’t, you drown.
William Hague will soon recover.
Many jobless miners never will..

TELEVISION.

Merlin. (BBC1)
Hooray! Merlin (Colin Morgan) is back in a thirteen part package of magic and mayhem.
Brave, thick Prince Arthur (Bradley James), who will eventually take credit for inventing the round table, has still not realized that his put-upon manservant is a master magician. King Uther Pendragon (Anthony Head) is suffering from the unwell wishes of his ward Morgana (Katie McGrath); and Gaius (Richard Wilson) continues to keep a benevolent eye on our hero as does the talking dragon which sounds remarkably like John Hurt.
Stories, locations, special effects are great: acting is excellent.
Love it.
Grandma‘s House. (BBC2)
Beware a series written - or even partly written - by the star. Simon Amstell co-wrote this throwaway little piece and it was none the better for it. Geoffrey Hutchings as Grandpa had the best lines and made the most of them.
But it finished up like a weak, Jewish version of The Royle Family.
Shame: we rather like Amstell.
Joe Maddison’s War. (ITV1)
This lovely old-fashioned play was written by the late Alan Plater and was completed shortly before he died. It was written as a one-off for Kevin Whately, was set on Tyneside in the Second World War, and was perfectly played by the star and a splendid line-up of co-stars including Melanie Hill, Robson Green, Derek Jacobi and John Woodvine.
Loved every moment of it, but I’m an old-fashioned bloke so for me Plater could do no wrong. His Beiderbecke trilogy was a work of genius and he will be much missed.
Goodbye, definitive playwright.
Spooks. (BBC1)
Harry, Ruth, Lucas and Tariq started off at Ros’s funeral. After that I found myself, literally and mentally, all at sea.
Series 9 of this murderous, twisting, treacherous spy romp, is going to be every bit as lunatic as its predecessors. I shall watch and wonder and absorb at least one useful snippet from each of the eight episodes.
Lesson 1: Beware of Spooks bearing booze.

READING.

Graham Hurley.
Finished Angels Passing and am now a confirmed Hurley follower. I know many former police detectives and DI Joe Faraday is so real he could be any one of them.
Must get back to M.C. Beaton’s Agatha Raisin now. I know nobody like her.

FOOTNOTE.

Anniversary.
Maureen and I celebrate our 48th wedding anniversary today. A long time? Yes. WE ARE A VERY STUBBORN COUPLE.
(Helps a bit if you love each other too.)

154. A couple of farewells and a pair of trout.

Sam.
In my last post I wrote of an email I had received from an old boy who mentioned “my fishing buddy Sam with the two trout we caught.”
I had intended to include Sam’s picture at the time but my technical know-how proved to be gloriously inept (as it often does) and I chose instead to stay with the solitary, rather nice, picture of Emma Thompson.
However, just in case you have not seen the email and are curious (the old boy’s spouse forbade him fishing again after she had seen it) this is his fishing buddy Sam with as fine a pair of trout as you might see anywhere. I cannot imagine what the spouse’s objection was.

HOME.

Edinburgh Fringe.
It’s the time of year when every has-been, wannabe, will be, won’t be and loony in the world of acting and comedy descends on Edinburgh to be discovered, rediscovered, vaguely remembered or hastily forgotten.
There are a few regal offerings and a fair amount of …king rubbish; but it’s a good place to be at this time of year.
Come to think of it, it’s a good place to be at any time of year.
Summer‘s over.
The Fringe runs throughout the last three weeks in August and the first week of September. Don’t know how festival and other event people quite manage it, but when it comes to attracting inappropriate weather they do have a considerable knack: it follows most of them around. Surprisingly not so bad at Wimbledon and Cowes this year, but did you see the pictures from Reading?
In the past couple of weeks we have had pounding rain, gale force winds and enough leaves and other people’s bloody rubbish in our garden to keep a troop of bob-a-job lads (remember them?) going for a month.
And it ain’t even autumn yet.
Summer’s over.
But this is England so you never know…
Our space.
We moved here about ten years ago from a nice flat, looking out to sea in Ventnor. We have never regretted the move. When you live in a flat you never really own the place; not even if you’re freehold. This is our space and, within the sometimes irritating constraints of Listed, we are our own masters. This year my Leader filled the front garden and the courtyard at the back with potted flowers, mostly geraniums and petunias she tells me: I don’t know one flower from another. They are just going off now, but the whole place has been a glorious blaze of colour and I have loved it.
Thank you my Mo.

AND ABROAD.

Much ado about nothing - again.
Crikey, no sooner had Emma Thompson announced her intention of taking a year off work than there she was in America advertising The Return of Nanny McPhee (we know it as Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang, so I assume a big bang means something other than a loud explosion in the US). Apparently all went well over there until she appeared on a chat show where she casually offended every sensitive soul on the Isle of Wight (not a difficult undertaking) by joking about Islanders stoning, flogging, shooting or torturing everyone they perceived as undesirable: .
My instant reaction was hearty laughter; and if those who purport to represent us had even the slightest sense of humour, theirs would have been the same. When asked for quotes they could have replied along the lines of: “Tell her she’d be quite safe over here. Not as Sybil Trelawney or Nanny McPhee of course. We still burn witches.”
They chose instead to be affronted by her jocular effrontery…waxed sadly indignant to press reporters…clearly welcomed the opportunity to be mentioned on the same page as an international celebrity…and will now be basking in their brief brush with fame.
She must surely be experiencing a touch of déjà vu. In 1994 she won an Evening Standard British Film Award (Best Actress) for Much Ado About Nothing.
Can there be any more ado about nothing than this?
She should be nominated for another award.
How about Best Bundle of Mischief 2010?
I’d vote for her.
With a great big grin on my face.

TELEVISION.

The Deep. (BBC1)
My earliest memory of Minnie Driver is as Ellie in the 1995 television series My Good Friend with George Cole and Richard Pearson. She was in her mid-twenties, easily kept pace with her experienced co-stars and took off when the first series ended to find further fame and eventually to live in America. In common with most showbiz folk, her private life has been even more erratic than her career, but I liked her in 1995 and I still like her now. I certainly like her far more than I liked The Deep.
Put it down to water on the brain if you will but, just as I didn’t know what to make of it in Post 153, the final episode of this wet series simply left me doing the dog paddle. I couldn’t get to grips with the Russian presence, the possible Chinese intervention, the deadly viruses, the alternative power source malarkey or the big business involvement. I’ll go no further than that; you may have recorded it and I do not intend to launch SS Spoilers for you.
Suffice to say that despite buoyant performances by Minnie, James Nesbitt, Goran Visnjic and the rest of a strong cast, for me it went down like a depth charge threatened submarine.
Dive! Dive! Dive!
BBC Proms 2010. (BBC2)
Rodgers and Hammerstein. I was about to start moaning again at the dearth of tuneful, romantic offerings at the Proms when along came this wonderful evening of much loved music from the mid twentieth century.
In a concert performance arranged and conducted by John Wilson (who masterminded last year’s MGM musicals Prom) we were treated to songs from Carousel, Oklahoma, The King and I, The Sound of Music, South Pacific etc. and we thoroughly enjoyed every minute.
The orchestra consisted of dance-band and classical musicians, hand-picked by the conductor: the Maida Vale Singers provided chorus numbers. Soloists on the night were Sierra Boggess, Anna Jane Casey, Kim Criswell, Rod Gilfry, Julian Ovenden and (off stage) Maureen and Dennis Barnden.
So far no complaints from the neighbours.
The Bill. (ITV1)
So Sun Hill has hung up its truncheon at last. Not a lot to say. I’m sure it will be missed by many; it had been going for 27 years. Lost interest myself just after Bob Cryer (Eric Richard) departed the scene and that was way back in 2001. After that too many know-it-all directors, executive producers or whatever took it in turns to change the format until it went from cop show to just another soap. I believe it had now tried to reverse that trend, but by the time it it was marked for the axe viewing figures had reached a point beyond recapture. The two part final story was well acted and tensely told.
Ah well…
Last of the Summer Wine. (BBC1)
And another goodbye. After 37 years running to 295 episodes we have had to bid a final farewell to Cleggy and Co. I shall miss them. Roy Clarke OBE, the writer, comes across as somewhat humourless in interviews. It has to be a façade. How can a man who has written Open All Hours and Keeping Up Appearances, as well as every single episode of Last of the Summer Wine, be other than full of humour? I doubt he’d thank a body for saying so though. No matter. I wish him good health and continued success. He’s eight months older than me and with any luck he’ll produce a few more comedy classics for me to blog about before either of us kicks the bucket.

READING.

Graham Hurley.
Still reading Angels Passing. My reading is slow but that has nothing to do with the story which I find moves me to despair. After watching the final episode of The Bill, this warts and all depiction of violent Pompey is a timely reminder that vicious drug criminals are everywhere and far closer to home than most of us imagine. Compulsively written and wincingly accurate..
Final report in the pipeline.

SOCCER.

England v. Bulgaria.
“England - Bulgaria at Wembley tonight.” I said to the cat Shadow, “Reckon England to win?”
“Is it a friendly?” he asked.
“Euro 2012 qualifier,” I said. “We did quite well against Hungary, though.”
“That was a friendly,” he said. “I assume this one’s for real.”
“Well…yes, but I think Fabio’s feeling quite confident about it,” I said.
“I think Fabio was feeling quite confident about South Africa,” he said.
I didn’t have an answer to that so I didn’t try to reply.

153. In the absence of my Leader.

Emma Thompson

ABROAD.

Emma Thompson.

This fine actress was recently awarded the 2,416th Star of Fame outside the Pig 'n' Whistle pub in Hollywood. Well deserved. She’s magic. Hugh Laurie and other famous friends attended the ceremony. It is unlikely that any of the bitchy writers who so readily pour scorn on her were present. Now she talks of taking a year off work to concentrate on family life. Good for her: though the harpy hacks will doubtless sniff at that, too.
Meantime, my Leader and I will watch our Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang DVD with extra pleasure and make doubly sure we do not miss her appearances in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Heck, after that she’ll be back. And, who knows? More Nanny McPhee?

HOME.

Granddaughter Jess.
Jess is at that early teens stage of life when adulthood is just around the corner but there are still a few steps to go.
Thanks to a glorious sense of the ridiculous she mostly avoids teenage angst. Among her recent zany offerings this one particularly appealed to me:
“I was wondering…if you tied a slice of bread and butter, butter side up, to a cat’s back and dropped the cat off the kitchen hardtop…how would it land? On its paws? Or flat on its back on the butter?”
She’ll do.
Emails.
Nice people still keep forwarding emails in droves, many of them hardy annuals. This week I have had the one about the impertinent young man being verbally floored by the dry old ’un: “You’re right son, we didn’t have the things you’ve got when we were young…so we invented them…”
Then there has been the glorious picture of ‘my fishing buddy, Sam, with the two trout we caught’…they still really are a nice pair of trout, too…and finally there has been the one about Mujibar, now working at a call centre in India, who famously made the following sentence with the words yellow, pink and green: “The telephone goes green green, I pink it up and say: ’yellow, this is Mujibar.’
If you are on my mailing list and haven’t received any of them from me it will be because, though I can still remember them from way back, I can completely forget to forward them this week.
It’s an age thing.

TELEVISION.

The Silence. (BBC1)
We recorded this four part thriller and watched it in one long session. It tells of 18-year-old Amelia, a profoundly deaf young woman, who witnesses a brutal murder. Her hearing problem, the struggle she is having with new cochlear implants and, among other things, the fact that she is staying with her Uncle Jim (Douglas Henshall) and Aunt Maggie (Dervla Kirwan) initially makes for difficulty in reporting what she has seen, even though workaholic Jim is a senior police detective.
Gina McKee plays Amelia’s concerned, overprotective mother, Annie, and Hugh Bonneville plays her father, Chris, wearily resigned to his wife’s constant apprehension. Genevieve Barr (profoundly deaf in real life) is excellent in the leading role.
With such a cast The Silence should be beyond negative criticism.
But sadly it was too slow and it went on too long.
Would have made a great two parter.
Identity. (ITV1)
Here we have yet another elite police unit (yawn) headed by yet another paragon female (Keeley Hawes) who is in ill-concealed love with yet another maverick cop (Aidan Gillen), who is heartily disliked by yet another distrusting departmental colleague (Shaun Parkes) who is deeply suspicious of our hero’s authenticity. (For template see Dexter.) It was well acted and, like Luther (Post 150), will probably be back.
And again I don’t really care.
The One Show. (BBC1)
Jason Manford and Alex Jones are the current hosts on this load of fluff, the premise of which appears to be that viewers are incapable of concentration beyond a couple of minutes at a time.
Guest stars come along to be given the two minute interview if they’re lucky - twenty seconds if they’re not - and a chance to publicise their latest project. They are routinely set aside by a small band of regulars who provide snippets designed to whet the appetite without taxing the brain.
This week’s guests included Tommy Steele, Whoopi Goldberg, Pamela Anderson and Celia Imrie and ‘regular’ John Sergeant told a story about thousands of pets being destroyed at the outset of WW2. There was also an item about black rats on the Shiant Isles, though none were seen.
Oh, Tommy is to tour again in Scrooge the musical, Pamela Anderson is to appear in Aladdin, Whoopi Goldberg is back with Sister Act and Celia Imrie will be in Hay Fever by Noel Coward.
I shan’t be seeing any of them but it was nice to know.
Getting On. (BBC2)
This little hospital series is written by Jo Brand, Vicki Pepperdine and Joanna Scanlan who also appear in it. I assume all have been nurses. Jo certainly has; it shows.
There is a nice line in indifference and buck passing from the top echelon. There is a lot of bad language and balls to P.C, And there is more than I care to remember about my NHS days.
Who Do You Think You Are? (BBC1)
Never mind the credit squeeze, celebs are still touring the world at the Beeb’s expense seeking to discover their antecedents. In most cases who, apart from them, is all that bothered?
The Deep. (BBC1)
Still don’t quite know what to make of this one. So far nothing much has come of it except the realisation that, no matter how tiresome his offstage persona, James Nesbitt is a bloody good actor.

READING.

M.C.Beaton.
I finished Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet (another easy read) and passed it on to my Leader who was well into the Quiche of Death. She has been spending a few days with her sister Marg in Alverstoke; both are avid readers so the books won’t go unread while she is there. Meantime, back at the ranch I have taken a short break from Mrs. Raisin to read the Pompey cop yarn my Leader had just finished and recommended to me, Angels Passing...

Graham Hurley.
DI Joe Faraday is as far from Mrs. Raisin as the Cotswolds is from Portsmouth and Angels Passing shows a side of the city which many of its citizens would sooner not know about. Whether the author writes from fact or imagination I have no idea, but this police procedural certainly has a Scenes of Crime ring of authenticity about it.
I am hooked, as was my Leader. Both of us know (or know of) the places where it is set. Makes it that much more real.
Report pending.

AND AS FOR YOU…

Thanks for looking in.
More anon.

152. Writer's block? Nope...idleness!

My Leader and Thomas in Anne's Cornish kitchen.

HOME.

Welcome visitors.
The Isle of Wight is a visitor magnet which attracts both short-stay tourists to hotels and guest houses and long stay guests to H.M. prisons Albany, Camp Hill and Parkhurst.
My Leader and I have always avoided the holiday business, but it was lovely to welcome our friend Anne (followed later in the week by husband Peter) from Cornwall for a brief stay recently. Their house at Mylor, Falmouth, (Post 84: Back from abroad…) is now completed and they and the cat Thomas are nicely settled in. Thomas is a roughneck double of our Shadow, so they do have one reminder of home when they are here. Our tall, skinny little town house otherwise bears not the slightest likeness to their grand design. They have modernity and large rooms and wonderful views and several loos. We have antiquity and little rooms and hundreds of books and dozens of handy shops and a solitary bathroom incorporating the solitary loo..
Anne is a gentle live wire. I doubt anybody else would have persuaded us to attend a concert of trumpet and organ music at Newport St. Thomas’s Minster, even one in aid of the Island RSPCA, but she did. Maureen and I smiled resignedly and went along and were duly entranced.
Richard Hall (organ) and Joel Newsome (trumpet) are two very talented musicians who deserve every success: the entire concert (from Charpentier to Langlais via Bach, Purcell et al) was a revelation.
I don’t think either of the young men can be found on YouTube yet, but give them time.
(Light-hearted note: The relatively modern organ installed at Newport Minster is situated a considerable distance from the organ pipes. When I asked Richard Hall what affect this has on the organist he said: “Well, you hear the note fractionally after you strike the key. Makes it good fun to play, though.”
Sort of in the round organ playing. Bet it’s a hoot for anyone tackling Bach’s Toccata & Fugue.
All burnt up over painting.
A couple of weeks ago my Leader was stricken with the spring cleaning bug. It happens once a year and nothing inside or out is immune. I make sure I don’t stand still too long. Best way to ensure exemption is to join in, so I repainted the outside railings. Did not properly consider the strength of the sun. Finished up with neatly painted railings and nicely sunburnt feet.
What?
Yes, it was daft and no, there is no bloody justice.
Bone-idleness.
My brush with DIY provided the scribbler’s excuse not to scribble and now I am finding re-motivation a difficulty. Have the same trouble with my infrequent forays into the world of water colour. I try not to be too high flown about it: I don’t think of it as writer’s block or painter’s daub or anything that pretentious. I recognise it for what it is: bone idleness.
Think I’ll go and make a cup of coffee.

MUSIC.

Nilsson.
In Post 146: Votes for all…I included videos of A Little Touch Of Schmilsson In The Night which had been discovered by our son Neil and can be found on YouTube. A few days ago he gifted me A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night & More, a nice 19 track CD produced by BMG Campden and obtainable from Amazon.
Superbly presented and, so far as I am concerned, forever enjoyable.
Andrea Bocelli.
I have just been listening to Viaggio italiano, subtitled A tribute to Italian emigration in the world; an 18 track CD, produced by Phillips, featuring Andrea Bocelli and the Moscow Radio Symphony Orchestra. It starts with Puccini’s Nessun dorma and ends with Bizet’s The Pearl Fishers’ Duet in which Bocelli is joined by the Welsh bass - baritone Bryn Terfel.
My Leader loves The Pearl Fishers and this is a rendition to match that of my own favourites, Nicolai Gedda and Ernest Blanc (who recorded it back when she was but eighteen years of age).
It’s still great and so is she.

TELEVISION.

Sherlock. (BBC1)
Sherlock (Benedict Cumberbatch) and John (Martin Freeman) are updated versions of Holmes and Dr. Watson in this very clever tribute to the Conan Doyle stories. Already looks as though the series, written and produced by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffatt, could become as popular as Dr. Who. Seems there was initially talk of Matt Smith as Watson. He would have been good: Martin Freeman is excellent.
Only a short series I believe.
Deserves longer next time.
Rev. (BBC2)
If you missed the entire series, Tom Hollander is the Rev. Adam Smallbone, a C. of E. vicar newly appointed to a run down inner-city church. His beat is a basket-fronted bicycle journey away from anything experienced by The Vicar of Dibley or those dear old souls in All Gas and Gaiters.
He smokes, drinks, swears (sans dog collar), is loyally supported by his solicitor wife (Olivia Colman), battles the undermining input of his ambitious lay reader (Miles Jupp) and hopelessly struggles to make a go of things no matter how dismissive the attitude of detestable Archdeacon Robert (Simon McBurney)..
I think it somehow falls between two pulpits: neither comedy nor drama.
But I hope it will be back.
Liked it.
Undercover Boss (Channel 4)
Living as I do in an area where the council employs one overpaid top office tosser after another, Kevan Collins, the chief executive of Tower Hamlets, came across as an immensely caring and impressively candid modern boss. So, too, did Marija Simovic, the new head of Harry Ramsden’s.
That having been said, I cannot but wonder why so few of the local managers or heads of department in both their organizations, given supervision of a ’trainee’ for a day, did not question the new employee’s validity or show the slightest concern that a television company was to follow them throughout the exercise.
I am concerned, too, at the morality of such a deception.
Bosses masquerading as workers? Bit too much like Beggar King management to suit my taste, But I never did like public participation in television and, in the end, this is just another reality show.
It would be interesting to discover what reaction each of the bosses would have to a request to check on the protagonists’ fortunes a couple of years from now. Providing, of course, that the two bosses are still the bosses a couple of years from now. Faced with television cameras everybody was on their best behaviour. Thus we were denied the opportunity of listening in as a boss was bluntly put to rights with the words:: “Christ knows who’s in charge up there, but whoever it is they’re fucking clueless!”
Never mind.
At least this way nobody got fired...yet.
Five Daughters. (BBC1)
At first I thought I had tuned in to a Harry Potter cast reunion. There was Ian Hart (Professor Quirrell in The Philosopher’s Stone) as chief of detectives DCS Stewart Gull, and dear old David Bradley (Caretaker of Hogwarts) as Patrick, a drug rehabilitation worker
This was a play about the girls murdered by the Ipswich serial killer in 2006 and the tragic affect this had on their families and friends. That the girls were drug addicts, driven by their addiction to become prostitutes, somehow made their end the more deplorable.
What drove the lunatic who killed them is beyond comprehension.
Leading roles were played by Sarah Lancashire, Jaime Winstone and Juliet Aubre. The play was written by Stephen Butchard and directed by Philippa Lowthorpe. If you saw it I doubt you will ever forget it.
I certainly won’t.

READING.

M.C. Beaton.
No apologies for returning to Mrs. Agatha Raisin. It was bound to happen. Bearing in mind my ‘easy reading’ verdict on Kissing Christmas Goodbye (Post 146) my Leader bought me Ms. Beaton’s first ten novels about the amateur sleuth. I have just finished Quiche of Death, which tells how Agatha sold her P,R. business and set out to become a happy countrywoman in the village of Carsely in the Cotswolds. Nice combination of believable characters, easy plot and tourist guide. Took me straight on to book two, Vicious Vet. Same main characters, same easy plotting, more touring the Cotswolds.
Lovely stuff.
Have a lot of reading to do.
I must get back to it now.

151. INDEX 2 - Posts 132 to 150

Alan, Ray: 148 Alexander, Bruce: 144 Anderson, Lindsay: 136 Andrews Sisters, The: 137 Anonymous John, friend: 139 Armstrong, Alun: 134 Armstrong and Miller: 136 Ayres, Pam: 135 Baker, Simon: 147 Bakker, Thiemo de: 150 Balls, Ed: 142 Barclay, Linwood: 140 Barker, Ronnie: 139 Barenboim, Daniel: 133 Barlow, Gary: 137 Barnaby, DCI Tom: 145 Barnden, Neil: 132,146 Bassett, Linda: 142 Bassey, Shirley: 138 Beaton, M.C. 146 Beckett, Samuel: 141 Beckham, David: 134,136 Beesley, Max: 140 Beethoven: 133 Belzer, Richard: 132 Bentall, Ruby: 142 Berdych, Tomas: 150 Berkeley, Busby: 139 Betjeman, John: 137 Blackman, Honor: 137 Blackwood, Caitlin: 144 Blair, Tony: 142,146 Bleakley, Christine: 149 Blethyn, Brenda: 150 Blondie: 149 Bolton, Michael: 147 Boyd, D.I. Peter: 134 Bradley, David: 141 Branagh, Kenneth: 140 Brown, Gordon: 137,144,147 Brown, Charlie: 148 Brown, Wally: 135 Buchan, Andrew: 134,137 Burke, DCI Matt: 144 Burton, Tim: 149 Butler, Phil: 143 Butler, Steve: 143 Button, Jenson: 136 Byrne, Michael: 134 Callan, David: 134,137 Callow, Simon: 150 Cameron, David: 147 Cameron, James: 149 Capello, Fabio: 150 Caruso, David: 134,141 Christie, Agatha: 134 Clegg, Nick: 147 Clinton, Hillary: 132 Clunes, Martin: 136,147 Coltraine, Robbie: 136 Conti, Tom: 142 Corbett, Ronnie: 137 Coren, Victoria: 144 Costigan, George: 144 Cotton, Billy: 142 Coulby, Angel: 135 Cox, Brian: 137,139 Coyle, Brendan: 142 Cranham, Kenneth: 141 Creek, Jonathan: 143,144 Cribbins, Bernard: 139 Croft, DS “MJ”: 143 Cronin, A.J. 147 Crouch, Peter: 136 Crowe, Russell: 134 Crowther, Leslie: 145 Cruise, Tom: 148 Daly, Tess: 137 Dance, Charles: 136 Darius (Campbell): 140 Darling, Alistair: 144 Davies, Alan: 140,144 Davies, Russell T. 137,139,148,150 Defoe, Jermain: 150 Dempsey, Clint: 149 Dennis, Hugh: 147 Depp, Johnny: 149 Dexter, Colin: 147 Diggory, Cedric: 148 Dillow, Ian: 149 Djokovic, Novak: 150 Doc Martin: 136 Doctor Who 137,138,144,148 Dudgeon, Neil: 145 Duffy, Gillian: 146 Dunbar, Adrian: 144 Duncan, Lindsay: 137,141 Durham, Geoffrey: 139 Elba, Idris: 147,150 Eliot, T.S: 135 Ellis, grandson: 134,143,145,147 Evans, Chris: 134 Eve, Trevor: 134 Falco, Edie: 140 Farndon, Zoe: 146, 150 Federer, Roger: 150 Felton, Tom: 147 Fields, Gracie: 134 Fields, W.C. 147 Fiennes, Ralph: 133 Firth, Colin: 141 Fishburne, Laurence: 142 Fisher. Brian: 135 Fitzgerald, Ella: 137 Florek, Dann: 132 Foley, Dr. Grace: 134 Forbes, Bryan: 132,136 Ford, Phil: 137 Forsyth, Bruce: 137 Fox, Laurence: 147 Foyle, DCS Christopher: 145,146 Fradgley, Keith: 146 Frost, DI Jack: 144 Fry, Stephen: 138, 140 Garrow: 137 Gently, George: 145 Georgy: 132 Gerrard, Steven: 149 Gillan, Karen: 144 Giovinazzo, Carmine: 142 Gibbs, Leroy Jethro: 140,141 Graham, Julie: 140 Gilbert, Rhod: 138 Gleaves, Nicholas: 140 Granger, Ann: 137 Granger, Hermione: 143 Grant, Avram: 145 Grant, Hugh: 138 Green, Robert: 149 Grint, Rupert: 148 Grissom, Gil: 140 Hale, Amanda: 136 Halnan, Emma: 148 Hamilton, Victoria: 147 Hamlet: 136 Harden, Marcia Gay: 132 Hargitay, Mariska: 132 Hari, Johann: 144 Harmon, Mark: 141,142 Hartnell, William: 144 Hayes, Helen: 134 Head, Anthony: 135,138 Heather, friend: 147 Hickson, Joan: 134 Hill, Bernard: 143 Hirsch, Judd: 140 Hodge, Douglas: 141 Hogg, DCI Jason: 136 Horowitz, Anthony: 145 Hough, Stephen: 132 Howell, Anthony: 145 Hughes, Howard: 143 Hreidarsson, Hermann: 145 Hudson, Mr. 149 Humphrys, John: 140,142,144 Hurt, John: 135 Hurt, William: 145 ice-T: 132 Irons, Jeremy: 141 Isaacs, Jason: 150 Isner, John: 150 Izzard, Eddie: 139 Jacqui, daughter: 132 James, Bradley: 135,138 James, David: 145 Jane, Patrick: 147 Jason, David: Jay Z: 149 144 Jenkins, Gordon: 146 Jenkins, Jim: 135 Jess, granddaughter: 134 Johnson, Karl: 142 Johnston, Sue: 134 Jones, Suranne: 143 Joseph, Paterson: 140 Judge Judy: 148 Kanakarides, Melina: 142 Kay, Peter: 137 Kennedy, Sarah: 135 King, Si: 140 Kingsley, Ben: 145 Kinnock, Neil: 144 Kitchen, Michael: 134,141,145 Lampard, Frank: 149 Langston, Dr. Raymond: 140 Lansbury, Angela: 134 Laurie, John: 147 Law, Jude: 141 Lawless, Eamonn: 133 Lawless, Libby: 133 Laxton, Richard: 132 le Carre, John: 133,136 Lennox, Annie: 137 Lewis, DI Robbie: 147 Lisbon, Teresa: 147 Liszt: 133 Little, Ralph: 134 Logan, Phyllis: 144 Lord Charles: 148 Lumley, Joanna: 137,146 Luther, DCI John: 147, 150 Lyons, John: 144 McCall, Robert: 137 McCartney, Paul: 149 McCoy, Jack: 148 McDonald’s 134 McEwan, Geraldine: 134 Macfadyen, Matthew: 134 McGann, Paul: 150 McGrath, Katie: 135 McGuire, Dorothy: 141 McKee, Gina: 141 McKenzie, Julia: 134 McKinnon, Gary: 132,148 Mahut, Nicholas: 150 Malahide, Patrick: 140 Malfoy, Draco: 147 Malfoy, Lucius: 150 Maltravers, Dr. Edmund: 136 Mandelson, Peter: 142 Manning, Anita: 138 Maradona. Diego: 150 Marple, Jane: 134 Marquez, Ramona: 147 Martino, Al: 137 Mason, Jason: 147 Meatloaf: 140 Meirelles, Fernando: 133 Mellor, Ted: 135 Meloni, Christopher: 132 Mercer, John: 134,137 Merlin: 135,136,138 Messer, Danny: 142 Mitchell, David: 140 Mo, friend: 136 Moffat, Steven 144 Morgan, Colin: 135,138 Morrissey, David: 143 Morse, David: 134 Mowlam, Mo: 142 Mude, Minnie: 142 Murdoch, Rupert: 141 Murray, Andy: 150 Myers, Dave: 140 Nadal, Rafael: 150 Nesbitt, James: 132 Nettles, John: 145 Nieminen, Jarkko: 150 Nilsson, Harry: 146 Norton, Graham: 138,140 O’Briain, Dara: 140 O’Grady, Paul: 138 Ollivander: 134 Ömeroglu, Lara: 148 Ortiz, Cristina: 135 Pack, Roger Lloyd: 141 Palmer, Geoffrey: 137 Parish, Sarah: 138 Parkinson, Michael: 142 Pattinson, Robert: 148 Pendragon, King Uther: 138 Petrenko, Vasily: 132 Pinter, Harold: 141 Planer, Nigel: 140 Pond, Amy: 144 Potter, Harry: 134,143,147,148 Powley, Bel: 136 Preece, Nat: 135 Prescott, John: 142 Pullman, Sandra: 134 Putin, Vladimir: 132 Queen Elizabeth 2: 137 Quentin, Caroline: 134,144 Quirke, Pauline: 143 Rachmaninov: 135 Radcliffe, Daniel: 148 Raisin, Agatha: 146 Redgrave, Vanessa: 139 Redknapp, Harry: 145, 150 Redman, Amanda: 134 Reese, Della: 143,144 Reid, Anne: 143 Renwick, David: 144 Richardson, Joely: 139 Rickman, Alan: 141 Robbins, Tim: 143 Roddick, Andy: 150 Ronaldo, Cristiano: 150 Rose, Karen: 149 Roz, daughter: 132, 149 Rutherford, Margaret: 134 Ryan, Meg: 134 Sachar, Louis: 139,140 Sahil, Saeed: 143 Said, Edward: 133 Saint-Saens: 143 Scott, Dougray: 139 Seymour, Toby: 135 Shakespears Sister: 149 Sheen, Michael: 138,141 Shostakotich: 132 Sidle, Sara, 140 Simm, John: 139 Sinatra, Frank: 142 Skinner, Claire: 147 Small, Sharon: 136 Smart, Callum: 148 Smith, Andreas Whittam: 144 Smith, Alexander McCall: 132,141 Smith, Matt: 144 Somerville, Geraldine: 140 Sorbo, Kevin: 145 Soward, Maureen, 143 Soward, Pat: 143 Spacek, Cissy: 145 Standing, Gerry: 134 Stiller, Ben: 138 Stewart, James: 141 Stockwell, Brian: 135 Stott, Ken: 142 Stravinsky: 132 Stevenson, Robert Louis: 140 Taggart: 144 Tchaikovsky: 132,143 Tennant, David: 137,139,144 Tevez. Carlos: 150 Thatcher, Margaret: 135 Timmins, Robert: 142 Tofield, Simon: 142 Torres, Fernando: 150 Tsonga, Jo-Wilifred: 150 Tunney, Robin: 147 Turnbull, Giles: 140 Turner, Kathleen: 148 Urry, Marg: 135,143 Urry, Mike: 135,143 Vaughan, Frankie: 137 Villa, David: 150 Wade, Virginia: 150 Wainwright, Rufus, 146 Waite, Ralph: 141 Walters, Julie: 139,142 Walton, John-Boy, 141 Wasikowska, Mia: 149 Waterman, Dennis: 134 Waterston, Sam: 148 Watson, Emma: 148 Weeks, Honeysuckle: 145 Weisz, Rachel: 133 Wendy, friend: 136 West, Samuel: 141 Whitfield, Nick: 150 Willetts, David: 144 Williams, Serena and Venus: 150 Williams, Simon Channing: 133 Wilson, Richard: 135,137 Wilson, Ruth: 150 Wilton, Penelope: 141 Wingett, Mark: 143 Winkleman, Claudia, 137 Wogan, Terry: 134,137,139,140,142,143 Wonnacott, Tim: 138, 147 Wood, Victoria: 139 Woodman, George: 142 Woods, James: 145 Woodward, Edward: 134,137 Wordsworth, William: 137 Worsley, Arthur: 148 Wright, Bonnie: 148 Wyndham, John: 139

150. Mostly for Zoe

HOME.

Father’s Day.
I was gifted a great card in the form of a film advert for The Goodfather, which gave everybody a smile. And I had a DVD set of Chance in a Million, first series, with Simon Callow and Brenda Blethyn. We watched it with the same enjoyment we experienced in 1984. Pleasant memories. Lovely stuff.
As for the actual day, the description I best liked of it was: “Another load of American bollocks.”
Thank heavens for outspoken offspring.
The weather.
Driest spell since 1929, we are told. We went out and bought a four seater fishermans’ chair and a two seater rocker for the courtyard.
It has been too hot to sit out there.
We will, we will…

FOOTBALL.

England 0 - Algeria 0.
Ten minutes into the second half the cat Shadow made for the cat flap.
“Had enough then?” I enquired.
“Don’t know which is worse, the game or your language,” he replied.
Ho hum.
Slovenia 0 - England 1.
Harry Redknapp was one of the panel discussing this game and in the pre-match summary, acknowledging his bias as Tottenham Hotspur manager, said that Tottenham striker Jermain Defoe should be chosen to play.
He was and he scored the only goal.
Say what y’like, ol’ Harry does know his stuff.
Germany 4 - England 1.
The cat Shadow came in when it was over.
It was obvious they had been talking up on the roof.
“Well?” he said.
“No comment,” I said.
“You could always blame it on the red shirts,” he said.
“No comment,” I said.
“How about the goal that wasn’t given?” he said.
“No comment,” I said..
“Not having Harry Redknapp as manager?” he said.
I shook my head and shrugged. He sighed.
“Yeah,” he said. “They were crap.”
Argentina 3 - Mexico 1.
I managed to persuade my Leader, a dedicated visitor to anywhere else during football matches, to stay a while and see some real football. She was amazed by the skill and commitment of the South Americans, thought the ebullient Argentinian manager Diego Maradona was great and wondered why none of the England players could hit the ball like Carlos Tevez did.
Why indeed.

TENNIS.

Longest ever game.
Unlike snooker, they don’t give a ‘highest break’ type prize at Wimbledon.
If they did it would have to go to the American John Isner and his French opponent Nicholas Mahut: they played an absolute blinder over June 22nd, 23rd, and 24th 2010 to break the record for the longest ever tennis match. They played for 11 hours and five minutes.
If you have just returned from Mars and want to know more, go to Wiki.
Isner won and was unsurprisingly knocked out of the tournament the next day by Thiemo de Bakker of the Netherlands in 74 minutes.
And more of Wimbledon 2010.
Equally unsurprising was the reappearance of the fleeting shadow, Shadow.
“Poetry time again,” he declared briskly.
“Has the year gone that fast?” I muttered.
He ignored me and struck a poetic pose:
“Poem one: Who Needs a Roof?"

With a brand new roof worth millions of pounds,
Wimbledon’s ready for rain.
So view the baking Centre Court
You could get no more sunshine in Spain
Roddick’s been beaten and Federer, too,
By Berdych at the peak of his play.
Murray hangs on, though for just how long
I really would not care to say
Poor Jarkko Nieminen must have felt some alarm,
When an elderly lady (who does nobody harm)
Granted young Andy the rare accolade
Of her first Queenly Visit since Virginia Wade,
Pushing the lad, growing visibly stronger,
Into beating the Frenchman Jo-Wilifred Tsonga.
And onwards pell-mell to that ultimate hell
A semi final place on a court with Nadal.
It will soon be all over, the grunts and the blisters:
And a Ladies’ Doubles final with no Willams sisters.
Write none of them off. They will be back again.
To try out the roof in the Wimbledon rain.

He looked at me; I pretended not to notice.
“Poem two: Mostly for Zoe.”

I have said Roddick and Federer
Defy the art of rhyme,
Tomas Berdych ain’t much better
While Djokovic is a crime.
And when it comes to football
Ronaldo’s quite a pain
But so are Torres and Villa
Who both turn out for Spain.
I even had a foolish try
At rhyming Fabio Capello,
But my ‘Hello, England manager guy'
Really should have been 'Bye bye.’
So praise be for Zoe Farndon,
A reader and a pal
Whose name rhymes well with Barnden
And that’s my kind of gal.

He had a quick wash; said: “What d’ya think?”
“Farndon doesn’t really rhyme with Barnden,” I said gently.
“Does if you say it quickly,” he said.
“Fair enough,” I said.
We have yet to meet Zoe, but we like her.

TELEVISION.

NCIS. (Five)
Trouble with being able to watch this programme on Five, where series six is coming to an end and on FX, where series seven has just finished, is that you become in turn bemused and too knowledgeable. You also begin to realise that, unless you are prepared to watch another series re-run, you will have bugger all to watch next year on Five.
NCIS continues to be the sort of propaganda stuff we were fed throughout the Second World War and is no more real than that: but I can laugh at the ‘we are under threat from Whirling Dervishes’ twaddle and still stick with it because I like the actors.
Breakfast. (BBC1)
My favourite interviewee of the week was Jason Isaacs. He appeared on the Breakfast show to plug Nick Whitfield’s award winning film Skeletons in which he plays the Colonel, a role he clearly enjoyed.
As the interview ended he was prompted with the: “We can’t let you go without mention that you are Lucius Malfoy in the Harry Potter films…” line.
The Harry Potter films were not short on publicity, Mr. Isaacs pointed out, politely but firmly. The Deathly Hallows would be out in November and again next July. In the meantime, he was on the Breakfast show to publicise Skeletons, a fine little British film that deserved support.
Well done, Jason Isaacs. My Leader and I like you.
Luther. (BBC1)
Luther came to a gory climax with everybody but Luther’s psychopathic helpmate Alice (Ruth Wilson) and his wife’s lover Mark (Paul McGann) either oozing blood or dead or both. Idris Elba and Co. tried hard but were on a hiding to nothing from the start.
I suppose it will be back but I don't really care.
Dr. Who. (BBC1)
I did worry that the series might falter with the departure of Russell T. Davies, but the fresh approach remained lively and Series Five finished on a high with all the main characters set to return.
Look forward to it.

AND HOME AGAIN.

More tennis.
Got to go downstairs now…more tennis. Mens’ semi finals. Have to be able to say I saw them. The cat Shadow has been asleep all morning. He knows the danger of too much excitement.

149. Technology...Huh!

HOME.

Paranoid nationalists and web graffiti writers.
In the Middle Ages when a bedlam of bigots held sway, anybody who was different would eventually be dragged to the stocks, the ducking stool, or the stake.
Bigots are suspicious of different. It is something they cannot understand. It frightens them. And because it frightens them, they hate it.
Now, with email, a fast growing army of hate merchants are using the web to decry anything that might be construed as a threat to the volatile and vulnerable USA.
Puerile propaganda is circulated worldwide - excluding countries ruled by despots - and is invariably accompanied by a chain-letter style threat as to the consequences if it is not passed on.
Such offerings to come my way lately have been forwarded by liked and respected friends - presumably unwilling to accept the consequences of not passing them on - and appear to have been initiated by American jingoists who claim to have discovered the best ever (1) reply made to a dismissive French customs official (2) explanation of the Muslim terrorist situation, and (3) answer to anybody questioning gun-happy lawmen.
(1) turns out to be the usual “When I came through here in 1944 there wasn‘t a Frenchman to be seen” old chestnut, (2) is headed: A German’s View of Islam, and has allegedly been written by a Dr Tanay, “well-known and well-respected psychiatrist” (believe that if you will). Emanuel Tanay, M.D. compares Muslim fanatics rampaging across the globe in the name of Islam to Nazis who were allowed to take over because the peaceful (German) majority did not speak up…(I thought those who spoke up were put to death, but perhaps that’s me being simplistic) and (3) contains the droll reply made by a sheriff in Florida when asked why 68 bullets had been pumped into a cornered (illegal immigrant of course) murderer: “Because that’s all the ammunition we had.”
It isn’t just gung-ho Yanks, either.
We were bad-mouthing people long before 1776. and still are. The following is the latest English example sent to me:
A tourist walked into a Brighton curio/antique shop. After looking around for a while, he noticed a very life-like bronze Statue of a rat. It had no price tag, but it was so striking that he decided to buy it anyway.
He took it to the owner and said: 'How much is this bronze rat?'
The owner replied: 'It's £12 for the rat, and £100 for the story.'
The tourist gave the owner his £12 and said: 'I'll just take the rat, You can keep the story.'
As he walked off down the street, he noticed that a few real rats had crawled out of the sewers and begun following him. This was a little disconcerting, so he started to walk a little faster, but within a couple of blocks the swarm of rats had grown to hundreds, and they were all squealing and screeching in a very menacing way. He increased his speed and ran on towards the beach, and as he ran, he looked behind him and saw the rats now numbered in their MILLIONS, and they were running faster & faster. By now very concerned, he ran down to the pier and threw the bronze rat far out into the water. Amazingly, the millions of real rats jumped into the water after it and were all drowned.
The man walked back to relate all this to the shop owner, who said: 'Ah, you've come back for the story then?'
'No,' said the tourist, 'I came back to see if you've got a bronze Muslim Fundamentalist Cleric, a couple of illegal immigrants, scousers, Man Utd fans and anything French!'
It’s light hearted bigotry which could get a few laughs in the pub. Brownie points may be obtained by replacing scousers and Man Utd fans with drug dealers and expenses fiddling politicians.
At the risk of coming across as a po-faced politically correct prat, I have discontinued forwarding these emails. I’m fed up with paranoid nationalists and web graffiti writers preaching spite is right.
Gossip, even juicy gossip, should be confined to corner shops.
What?
No, I wouldn’t go to a bullfight, a cockfight, a dogfight, or an execution, either.

READING.

Karen Rose.
If you’re looking for gore aplenty Kill for Me (subtitled Kiss the Girls and Make them Die) by Karen Rose should satisfy you.
Hell, at 500 plus pages it should satisfy a vampire.
Daughter Roz gave it to me to read. She enjoyed it. I ploughed through it: thought it had little plot and all the subtlety of Dexter.
Guess I’m getting old.

FILM.

Avatar.
Halfway through this James Cameron film I was convinced he was taking a stand against any nation that waged war simply to appropriate another nation’s natural resources..
I checked on Google and apparently he had no such thing in mind.
Pity.
Alice In Wonderland. (2010)
My Leader has never been one of, or for, the Alice band, so she didn’t watch this DVD. Granddaughter Jess and I watched. I think she saw it all.
I went to sleep somewhere between Johnny Depp’s Mad Hatter tramping up and down his tea table and Mia Wasikowska‘s Alice returning to the real world and turning down her soppy, aristocratic, suitor.
Gather Tim Burton directed and that Alice is the highest grossing film of 2010 so far.
I’d have slept less comfortably in the cinema but I’d still have slept.

FOOTBALL.

Japan 1 - England 2.
“England won,” I said to the cat Shadow who had not bothered to move from his chair in the computer room. “Three goals in it, all of them scored by the Japanese.”
“How was that then?” he asked, more out of idle curiosity than interest.
“Seven minutes in and Japan scored the first goal. Wasn’t until the seventy second minute that one of their defenders converted an England cross into his own net and ten minutes later another of them managed the same thing. That’s what won the game for us. None of our bloody lot could beat their goalkeeper. Frank Lampard even failed from the penalty spot!”
“Ah,” he said, “now I understand why you were bellowing down there.”
I was indignant. “Bellowing? I don’t bellow; haven’t bellowed for years. Raised me voice a bit, perhaps…”
“Well, your raised-me-voice-a-bit echoed all the way up here.”
“Go on!”
“It did…I can tell you what your raised-me-voice-a-bit said…it said: ’Bloody ‘ell, Lampard… apart from Christine Bleakley, when did you last score!?’”
“Oops,” I said. “Heat of the moment...I recant.”
“Don‘t bother, they won‘t be reading you, you‘re not the Screws of the World,” he said.
“You did the right thing staying in your chair,” I said. “It was a friendly, played in Graz: the Japanese were the home team so I guess they’ve annexed Austria.”
“Do you not trust them?” he asked lightly, and added: “I don’t trust Siamese cats.”
“Pack that in, “ I said. “You’ll be the next one sending me racist emails.”
England 1 - U.S.A. 1.
First World Cup game and the cat Shadow, taking advantage of some good weather, was away on the rooftops listening to music from the distant pop festival. When he eventually graced us with his presence at suppertime, I told him the result.
“Who scored?” he asked.
“Steven Gerrard scored ours and a chap called Clint Dempsey persuaded Robert Green, our goalkeeper, to score theirs.“
He saw off his cat milk, demolished his food and headed back towards the cat flap.
“Waste of time watching it then,“ he said, “let alone putting up with that bloody great wasps’ nest in the crowd.”
“I had the sound turned down.“
“You could have been out here listening to some music,” he admonished, pushing his way through. “Sometimes I despair of you, mate.”
Thinking about the match, so do I.

AND HOME AGAIN.

Isle of Wight Pop Festival 2010.
It’s here again, to the joy of granddaughter Jess and over sixty thousand supporters from the mainland: some even came from as far away as Totland.
This year seems to be pensioners’ year, with lovely old people like Blondie and Paul McCartney in evidence.
My Leader and I will not go (we can hear most of it from the house) but when I am asked if I went I shall reply: “Liked Mr. Hudson: didn’t mind Shakespears Sister: couldn’t understand a word Jay Z jabbered, but the girl singer with him was good...”
We watched the television coverage and that was enough.

Technology...Huh!

If you had read this post earlier you would have seen the heading Technology! Wow! and this last item, similarly headed, giving credit to the technological genius who invented it.
'It' was the picture of a woman whose head and eyes followed every movement of your mouse and who would clearly speak any words you typed in for her.
It was sent to me by Ian Dillow, one time head of PR at Wessex Regional Health Authority, and it was fantastic.
Unfortunately it was also too clever to hang around for an indefinite time. In a few days the lady was not for talking.
I think it may be possible for you to obtain something of the idea by Googling
Free demo to create avatars using Text-to-Speech (TTS) by SitePal.
So far as I'm concerned, it was nice while it lasted.

148. Watch YouTube for the best dummies.

HOME.

Real Fur.
This from friend Heather:-
Did you hear about the man who bought his wife a coat made entirely from hamster fur? They went on holiday to Blackpool and he couldn’t get her off the big wheel for two days.
Conversation with my Leader.
We were sitting in bed, supping the morning cuppa, cat Shadow a purr ball between us, when a newsreader mentioned that the new Home Secretary could put paid to Gary McKinnon’s threatened extradition to America. I had doubts and said so.
“When it comes down to it this bunch will be just as gutless as the last,” I opined. “Only hope when he does get dragged over there they’ll get ol’ Jack McCoy’s Law and Order crowd to prosecute him. They never win.”
“Sam Waterston did this week,” murmured my Leader, cleverly disclosing that she knows the name of the actor who plays Jack McCoy. “ He beat Kathleen Turner.”
“You’re right; he did. Afterwards she offered him a job, didn’t she? Then she took off in a black limousine.”
“I think she was some sort of television lawyer,” my Leader opined.
“Yeah. Like Judge Judy. What sort of car d’ you think she has?”
My Leader was in no doubt.
“Bullet proof .”
Death of Ray Alan.
With the death of Ray Alan went another of our gradually disappearing links with music hall variety. He was a superb ventriloquist and a class act. Many years ago when he opened a fete over here, a flustered local dignitary introduced him as: “Ray Charles and Lord Alan!”
“Well, you were close,“ said Ray, amused. “But I assure you I won’t be singing I Can’t Stop Loving You or Georgia On My Mind and I‘m pretty sure he will tell you he’s the one with the title.”
He, of course, was Lord Charles and his response was as expected.
“Silly arse!” he said.
If you want to be reminded of - or even see for the first time - Ray Alan at his hilarious best, go to You tube: Ray Alan with Lord Charles - Worlds Greatest Ventriloquist.- 1986 to savour some real entertainment. And while you are about it, take in my other favourite vent act of all time, the lugubrious Arthur Worsley with his bullying sidekick. Charlie Brown: look for Arthur Worsley - Which one’s the Dummy. Marvellous.
Ray Alan was nine days older than me.
Pays not to dwell on it.
Welcome company.
The cat Shadow has taken up semi-permanent residence on the spare chair in my computer room. I am generally the only other occupant of the room and I am not bothered by his occasional gentle snore. I think he may be wrestling with writer’s block or versifier’s volte-face or something.
He did come downstairs for the England - Mexico soccer friendly: slept through most of it, insisted he enjoyed it, proclaimed it could as easily have gone Mexico’s way and warned there would be more dangerous opponents in South Africa. He can be a cheerful little bugger.
He’s back in the chair now: won’t move until he‘s ready to eat again..
How come they know when you’re going to put their food out?
I’ve asked.
He won’t say.

TELEVISION.

BBC Young Musician of the Year. (BBC2)
16 year old pianist Lara Ömeroglu, playing Saint-Saëns’s Piano Concerto No.2 in G minor, Op. 22, triumphed over flautist Emma Halnan (17) and violinist Callum Smart (14) to win the coveted BBC Young Musician 2010.
The three finalists must surely have meteoric musical careers ahead of them. To the layman their performances were impeccable; a total delight.
I know it is pointless saying so, but we oldies really should stop moaning about the young. The majority of teenagers are worthwhile, kindly and industrious. This biennial competition is proof that an outstanding few of them are gifted beyond belief.
Dr. Who. (BBC1)
I did hope the departure of Russell T. Davies would not detrimentally affect the new format and, despite some cracks in the seams, it hasn’t. There are pronounced differences; but no more than might be expected from new writers and a fresh production team. We remain optimistic by watching the follow up programme:-
Dr. Who Confidential. (BBC3)
Wherein the director, actors, writer and all concerned with the last episode discuss it, show how stunts and effects were accomplished, and clear away many of the cobwebs surrounding the production.
A fascinating character and plot master class for punters.
Good fun, too.
The National Movie Awards. (ITV1)
It was good to see the Harry Potter youngsters (Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson and Bonnie Wright - Rupert Grint rang in sick) still winning awards with six films gone and two to go. Good, too, to see Robert Pattinson (Cedric Diggory in H.P. & the Goblet of Fire) win The Performance of the Year award for The Twilight Saga: New Moon.
And good that Tom Cruise received a screen icon award. He’s a darned good actor and he does bother to turn up at these functions.

A CAT’S LIFE.

Stop pussyfooting around.
Must bring this post to an end now. The cat Shadow has departed the computer room and is pussyfooting around downstairs in a furry of righteous indignation. “Ain’t anyone going to feed me? I dunno what it’s coming to around here! Y’ just can’t get the staff anymore!”
I’ll go down, tell him not to be so bloody impatient, feed him and give him a drop of cat milk,
Afterwards he’ll come back up here and settle beside me again.
He doesn’t hold grudges.

147. None of them would vote for me...

HOME.

A family view.
Grandson Ellis and I were sprawled in my armchair watching Cbeebies Grandpa In My Pocket.

Of a sudden he asked: “Why has Jason Mason got curly hair?”
“I expect that’s how it grows,” I ventured. ”When I was your age I had fair curly hair.” He peered at me like a predatory nit nurse. “Hmm… now you’re grey, aren‘t you…” he said…“and spiky”
Keeps your feet on the ground, don’t it?
The expected unexpected.
I care not what the ITV people say to the contrary, their adverts are louder than their programmes; I am constantly reducing the sound to avoid being deafened as well as brainwashed. There are frequent frantic searches for the remote.
Recently I was halfway through a British Gas advert boasting how they are committed to ringing ahead so that you don’t wait in all day when, unexpectedly, the doorbell rang.
It was a man to read the gas meter.
Music.
Following up on the treats to be found on YouTube I came across one that combined my fondness for the Harry Potter films with my favourite track from Michael Bolton’s Vintage CD. The scenes are from Potter films and the song is called If I Could. If you would like to give it a try, go to you tube - harry potter/if i could.
Incidentally, for those who hate Draco Malfoy, you may also find a young man called Tom Felton playing the guitar and singing If You Could Be Anywhere. He looks a bit like Draco but is clearly a much nicer chap. I like him.
I bet he’s a good actor, too.

TELEVISION.

Goodbye Mr. Chips.
This television film, originally released over Christmas 2002, was one my Leader and I missed at the time. It was well worth the repeat showing.
Martin Clunes is splendid as Chips and Victoria Hamilton excellent as the freethinking wife who, in life and after her early death, is responsible for his transformation from retiring Latin teacher to respected Headmaster.
Our enjoyment owed as much to the moving story as to the fine acting.
Neither of us was privately educated (family finances scarcely ran to public schools) but we did see Roedean from the car - several times - and were favourably impressed without being at all envious.
Perhaps we should have had more ambition.
Nah.
Who wants to rule the country or study Latin?
We didn’t and still don‘t.
ora pro nobis.
Lewis. (ITV1)
Reliable Kevin Whately is back with laconic Laurence Fox to investigate donnish dark deeds and masterly murders. [I really must stop listening to Tim Wonnacott!]
The casting is extremely good and the plots give a reassuring nod towards an absent Colin Dexter. I think it meets the Morse code. All it needs now is a background tune playing ditdahditdit dit ditdahdah ditdit ditditdit and ol’ Robbie Lewis will be home and dry.
Luther. (BBC1)
New cop on the block is DCI John Luther, played by Idris Elba. He is a coppers’ copper; a loose cannon; a top office nightmare; a hopeless husband, an adoring father; a door-demolishing, table-overturning, friend-testing basket case.
Actually, he’s every cliché in the book.
And so is everything else about this dark psychological thriller - including that description of it.
I’ll not stop watching, but I do hope it will become less predictable.
Outnumbered. (BBC1)
Series three and to my detriment I have only just become a regular viewer of this all-too-close-to-home family romp.
As the parents, Hugh Dennis and Claire Skinner cope splendidly with every actor’s biggest nightmare - apart from somebody whistling in the dressing room or naming Macbeth - working with children and animals.
These parents simply play along. They have to. They are out-talked, outwitted and upstaged at every turn (by children Karen and Ben in particular) but they maintain moderate control and their sanity by the constant employment of gentle reproof and dry asides..
W.C. Fields once said: “Anyone who hates children and animals can't be all bad.” He died in 1946, 55 years before Karen (Ramona Marquez) was born.
He would have loved her. And she would have made mincemeat of him.
The Mentalist. (Five)
My Leader and I recently caught up on a backlog of Mentalist recordings and found we were hooked again. It is daffy and unbelievable and inclined towards the “let’s get rid of a few characters” shock technique, but Patrick Jane (Simon Baker) and Teresa Lisbon (Robin Tunney) have a clear rapport and everything else is incidental.
In a country full of people who seem to act first and think later, I have stopped counting the number of times the insufferably clever and good-looking Jane would have finished up flat on his back and toothless.
You just have to go with the flow,
It’s quirkily watchable.
Doctors. (BBC1)
Just as nobody without the death wish would choose to live in Cabot Cove or Midsomer, so nobody (unless suffering from latrophobia) would choose to be a patient of any other practice than this.
My Leader, who once worked for a GP, regards it as a sitcom; a daily dose of pseudo A.J. Cronin; a farce.
Did you ever find practice nurses, receptionists. managers, accountants, a couple of doctors and the local police sergeant rushing to your home to reassure you that not only would your panic attack not kill you, but neither would your child’s teddy bear - no matter how threatening it looked?
If your answer is “yes” you had better start looking for Alice; you are clearly in Wonderland.
It’s the sort of thing that only happens on Doctors. Ne’er mind, it gives employment to a bunch of actors and technicians and encourages me to have an afternoon doze without feeling guilty.

POLITICAL HANGOVER.

Election post mortem.
That’s it, then. All over for as long as the courting couple stay together.
Who can say how long that will be?
Gordon the jaw-dropping-Scot gained more sympathy in his last appearance as PM, heading with family away from No.10, than he managed to muster from public or colleagues at any other time throughout his tenure.
Blair-clone-Cameron now has to show himself to be something other than a Morecambe and Wise double act with his Lib-Dem-double, Clegg.
As John Laurie oft lamented: “We‘re doomed. We‘re all doomed.”.
So did I vote?
Gosh no.
None of them would vote for me.
Anyway, a wet plank could win an election over here if it was wearing a blue rosette.
One did this time.
Again.

146. Votes for all - well, not politicians....

HOME.

Battle of the Dental Plate.
A routine visit to old friend and long time dental surgeon Keith Fradgley of Ventnor turned out to be more than the customary: “All OK here. I’ll give them a clean and polish…people like you could drive me out of business…” and concluded in a no-holds-barred contest to extract a tooth and a half (an eight and a five I believe) from my bottom jaw.
Tooth and a half? Well, yes, one of the blighters had cracked right through and in the process of taking a mould to extend a small lower dental plate…
Anyway, the final confrontation lasted better part of an hour; the wisdom tooth was a bit of a beast and the remaining half tooth fought savagely.
Keith won on points, but it was a split decision.
I was awarded the Modified Dental Plate for being best opponent of the day.
Music.
Son Neil has sent me a copy of the BBC television programme Harry Nilsson - A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night, a 1973 recording session which made me a lifelong fan. It and many others can be found on You Tube.
All the tunes are golden oldies. Of the five parts, the last two contain my favourite: This is All I Ask, by Gordon Jenkins and Harry’s version of Over The Rainbow which I like very much.
Listen in. There’s not a bad tune among ’em.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9Zsjphc3RI&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dyfnqEADpSY&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6lwdePZg9BU&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YNXXSYjWnO4&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWF8wkXvPSM&feature=related

AND AWAY..

Rufus Wainwright at Oxford.
Daughter Jac went to the New Theatre (Formerly Oxford Apollo Theatre) on 26th April to see this young chap in concert again.
Her pal Zoe Farndon travelled from Warwick to go with her.
I gather the first half was a somewhat downbeat tribute to his late mother, but it picked up after the interval and he finished in customary buoyant fashion. They enjoyed it.
Of course they did.
They are loyal, if not uncritical, fans.

TELEVISION.

Foyle’s War.
At the end of this short series Foyle departed for America. Before he left he cleared up a couple of nasty murder cases for D.I. Milner; put paid to a council scheme to build on a Roman burial ground; saved Sam’s future husband from prosecution for assault and, with his last word, cut Milner’s bumptious assistant down to size.
Pity there was no sign of Andrew Foyle.
Could have done with a few decent outfits for Sam, too; even if it was Cripps‘ austerity Britain.
The Prime Ministerial Debate.
So all three of the Brickbats at Five Paces sessions are out of the way. According to the pundits, Nick won the first, Gordon probably shaded the second and David took the third.
Most critics agreed that putting the leaders of the largest parties into American style debate was a good thing.
I think it is too much America and would be better left there.
Gordon probably scuppered his chances before the last session by forgetting he was wearing an open microphone when he ‘privately’ pronounced elderly Gillian Duffy to be a bigot.
Later I thought I saw a damp patch under the television.
It wasn’t the cat, so it must have been Tony Blair wetting himself with laughter.
Joanna Lumley’s Nile.
The ol’ girl was on form here. There was plenty of head prefect enthusiasm and slightly breathless wonder There was the expected touch of raunchy naughtiness (think Purdey in The New Avengers and Patsy in Absolutely Fabulous) and there was the customary lack of vanity.
Joanna’s Nile may have been a far cry from her Girl Friday Island or her quest to view the Aurora Borealis but she is never disappointing.
She holds an MBE.
Why not make her a Dame?
An Ambassador?
Hell, now we’ve seen the other three, why not make her Prime Minister?

READING.

M.C.Beaton.
Have just read Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye by M.C.Beaton. The writer was a Fleet Street journalist and had written 18 Agatha Raisin novels at the time this one was published.. It shows.
Easy reading.

AND POLITICS AGAIN.

The Election.
A former son-in-law used to tell me that if I didn’t vote I deserved whoever I got and had no right afterwards to complain about them.
My reply was that whether I voted or not the winners always turned out to be self-serving pains in the bum and I would most certainly complain about them ad infinitum.
Our polling station is the church just around the corner, My Leader may go to vote on Thursday. The cat Shadow and I will probably not.
We might have done if Joanna Lumley had been standing.

145. Mostly a mad world

HOME.

Refuse refusal.
Latest of the Isle of Wight Council’s tail-wagging-the-dog policies is to order all citizens to place their politically correct rubbish (no bottles, or plastics, or cardboard; and no garden waste unless contained in overpriced green bags bought from the Council) in black dustbin bags and, on the given day, take them to the kerbside - or an allocated spot - outside their houses for collection by refuse collectors, waste disposal operatives or whatever else dustmen are calling themselves nowadays.
If rubbish is put out earlier than six the night before collection is due, the miscreant is liable to be prosecuted. Taxpayers’ money will be used to bring the prosecution.
For years we have been placing our dustbin bag in our front garden the night before the lads who collect it come around. We site it less than a yard from the front gate. Our garden is no more than a large forecourt anyway. Neighbours have adopted the same routine, give or take a bag or two or a yard or two,
This week all those who have ignored, overlooked, forgotten or simply not absorbed the new rule have had their rubbish left where they put it. No warning. The bags have simply been labelled with a notice saying they have not been collected because they are in the wrong place.
Why, I find myself constantly asking, are we employing the arrogant sods who run things around here? And why have none of them reasoned that litter-filled thoroughfares attract litter-scavenging vermin?
At the end of the road running alongside this terrace is a large woodyard wherein reside - if local folklore be believed - some rather large rats.
How long before said rats (accompanied by various other forms of wildlife) realise that the kerbs are being routinely littered with goodie-filled plastic bags lacking so much as a garden gate to protect them?
Since the new rules are clearly not designed to benefit the customer, one can only presume their purpose is to reduce the number of dustmen (or whatever title) we are currently employing. What a mean, futile saving.
A cutback in the number of overpaid, bullshit blathering top officers would be more to the point.
A huge reduction in the number of inflated expenses claims submitted by avaricious councillors would be even more so.
And a return to the days (if they ever existed) when the lunatics did not run the asylum would not come amiss.
The election.
So we’re off to a flying start. They’re going to build Utopia for us - again. The Blues, the Reds, the Oranges, the Greens, the Plaids, the Tartans, the BNP, UKIP and whatever the OMRLP might now be. For the next few weeks every one of them will promise everything you ever hoped for.
Your vote for them will surely make you the equivalent of a National Lottery winner.
And now they’ve imported another American game show, Brickbats at Five Paces, which consists of party leaders indulging in televised verbal jousting. What anybody is supposed to learn from it (other than just how undignified politicians are at election time) I do not know. It comes complete with highly paid opportunist American advisers of course, and that should be warning enough. At first glance they need a more exciting opening.
As a starter, the contestants should have been seated in the audience.
A compere - someone like the late lamented Leslie Crowther - should then have come on stage, introduced the show, and shouted:
“So who’s going to play Brickbats at Five Paces tonight? (long pause) David! Gordon! Nick! Come on down!”
What?
Give it time…
The Easter Hols.
Grandson Ellis has been stricken with the irritating itch of chicken pox, stoically refrained from excessive scratching and is on his way to a clear skin again. (Always happens at holiday time, doesn’t it?)
The cat Shadow has been stricken with cystitis; bad bout. I had not realised cats suffered from it.. We wrapped him in a blanket to take him to the vet. He goes berserk in a cat box. Thank gawd my Leader is a firm but kind administer of medicines. She is dealing with the daily dosage. I’m hopeless: get more fraught than the cat does. He has been very tolerant about it.
“That cat has not got a mean bone in his body,” was Mo’s verdict.
He had a quick wash to cover his embarrassment

FILMS.

Prairie Fever (2008)
This western had drunken ex sheriff Kevin Sorbo (think James Woods without the menace) escorting a group of women from a small town where neither he nor they were any longer wanted. It didn’t get much of a write up but we enjoyed it.
Tuck Everlasting. (2002)
Nice little fantasy from the Disney people. Starring William Hurt and Cissy Spacek, it was clearly family viewing for holiday time.
Ben Kingsley played the villain and the supporting cast included some attractive young people we did not recognise; they were all very good.

TELEVISION.

Foyle’s War.
The three leading characters are back. Sam is out of uniform (pity); Milner is a newly-appointed Detective Inspector with a lot to learn; Foyle is still a reluctant Detective Chief Superintendent who would rather go fishing; and the acting hat is still effortlessly upstaging everybody except its owner, who obviously taught it everything it knows.
Another three weeks of Honesuckle Weeks (what a smashing name), Anthony Howell (whose acting limp may not have kept up with his promotion) and the master of underplay, Foyle himself, Michael Kitchen (complete with his acting hat).
Might have been better to have a complete end to war and give us Foyle’s Peace?
Who knows?
Perhaps Anthony Horowitz does not want Foyle to become a home counties George Gently.
Midsomer Murders.
In a two hour episode, Barnaby and Jones investigated the customary mixture of class distinction, sex, spite and Middle England mayhem.
Dear old John Nettles is still being made to run all over the place before delivering an out-of-breath caution to a detestable toff.
I think he is really looking forward to the arrival of Neil Dudgeon.
　
FOOTBALL.

Mad world.
So penniless Pompey beat Redknapp’s Spurs and now Redknapp’s Spurs have beaten Chelsea. Can’t help wondering whether the ol’ boy will find the right players to beat the Inland Revenue.
Mad world, football.
Surprisingly decent world too, sometimes. When four staff at Pompey’s Eastleigh training ground were axed recently, head coach Avram Grant, club captain Hermann Hreidarsson, goalkeeper David James and the rest of the team, chipped in enough money to pay their wages until the end of the season.
In adversity, eh?