2 (4). Shadow, Sarah-Jayne and supporting cast.

WATCHING.

Shadowland.

The cat Shadow woke suddenly.

"You didn't publish my poem," he said.

I donned my guileless look. "Poem? What poem?"

"Last month...Loitering around with a poetry look...? He can wait until next month? I can read, y'know.”

“Oops,” I said. “I was in a bit of a hurry.”

“Yeah. Well, you can make up for it this month. I have an equal-gender, next-year's-election, party-political poem.”

“Christ,” I said.

“Indeed,” he said and struck his poetic pose.

“Are you sure about this?” I queried.

“Publish and be damned,” he said. "Here goes..."

Predictable pre-polls prediction.

When an MP comes pubbing and buys you a beer,

And promises you some monstrous favour,

You can bet your sweet life it's election next year

And s/he seriously hopes you'll vote Labour.

When an MP's doorstepping in your part of town

And compliments you on your cat:

You can bet that s/he's hoping to get your name down

As that rare Liberal Democrat.

When an MP appears - just the once - in your pub,

And gives you the Glory Days story;

(Then asks why you don't join the local Con club)

You won't need to ask if s/he's Tory.

But the dedicated xenophobe who makes it quite clear

You should break free from foreigners forthwith,

Is the one, by and large, that you most have to fear;

S/he'll be BNP or UKIP --- and a DIV!

He eyed me quizzically.

I shook my head in a shrug-of-the-shoulders sort of way.

“What?” he said.

“Didn't you say you were off football and politics?”

“When?”

“The last time Pompey got beaten by some back alley town which, in their heyday, they would have driven past without noticing it was there.”

“How are the mighty fallen,” he said.

“Them and a lot of others,” I said. “That apart, I seem to remember you saying football was just an excuse for all the countries we've beaten in wars to get their own back."

“Did I say that? How perspicacious of me. And politics?”

“You went along with our Leader when she decided MPs were all talk and no listen and she would have no further truck with them.”

"It was Dimbleby's Question Time and I was dozing on her lap," he muttered. "I was in no position to disagree."

“So why go all politically poetic now?”

“Well, from now on everything the politicos think or do is going to be geared to next year's election, isn't it? I just thought I'd get in on the act.”

“Now that's prescient,” I said. “That's sagacious.”

He yawned. “Yeah...and if you put them with perspicacious, what have you got?”

I took too long trying to form an unflattering reply.

“Journalese,” he said, and went back to sleep.

2010 revisited.

I'm not very good on names and am slightly apprehensive when it comes to double-barrelled Christian names (a fad based on the dicey assumption that hyphenated monikers are likely to be large, pushy, female and American).

Way back in Watching... I made the mistake of expressing this prejudice and was rightly taken to task by Sarah-Jayne Leverton (not large, not pushy, not American; pleasant, attractive, based in Cornwall) who, I think, was - and for all I know may still be - a copywriter for Clifford James.

At that time I also concluded that opening up my blog to guest writers might turn it into a cost free advertising spot for them. Sheer paranoia, my dears. This is a random monthly blog; not even that posturing little prick Putin would undertake a Crimea on it. Blame such fears on an ingrained tendency to like most people and trust but few.

Anyway, quite by chance, in my documents the other day, I came across the 2010 Rambler blogs we love article, written by Sarah-Jayne, which led to our contretemps. It was a nice little piece, I appreciated it and apologize if I did not say so at the time. Hope she is well and that her business thrives.

As to apologies.

Is an apology a sign of weakness? I don't think so. To my mind, never to apologize is a sign of pig ignorance.

That 'never apologize, it's a sign of weakness' line was originally delivered by the late John Wayne in the film She Wore a Yellow Ribbon and has since (presumably in tribute) become a staple of Leroy Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) in the television series NCIS. I wince whenever I hear it.

That having been said, I wonder how much worse it is than the patently insincere apology delivered nowadays by the spokesperson of whatever authority, business, or country, is deemed to be responsible for some awful wrong done in its name. When it comes down to it, none of them actually cares, do they? Better they said nothing than meant nothing.

End of cynical exposition.

THE DETECTIVES.

Comings and goings.

Person of Interest. Reese (Jim Caveizel) and Finch (Michael Emerson) are back on Channel 5 (Thursdays) for the second half of the current series. Totally daft concept, but we like it.

Likewise, The Mentalist (Simon Baker) is back. He, together with Lisbon (Robin Tunney) and Cho (Tim Kang), has been drafted into the FBI: don't ask. The remainder of the gang are currently wafting around the periphery; they can be seen on Channel 5 on Tuesdays.

Also on Channel 5 (every Saturday) a new detective series

Sheriff Longmire, starring Robert Taylor: not the American one (he would have been over a hundred years old now) but a fine Australian actor who was in The Matrix. If you liked Tom Selleck as Jessie Stone you will like Robert Taylor; they are interchangeable.

The same cannot be said for Inspector De Luca (another new series, this time on BBC4, Saturdays 9pm) and Montalbano, a very different plate of pasta. De Luca is played by an actor new to me, Alessandro Preziosi, and is set in Italy at the time when Mussolini was in power. It is a four part series which, on first showing, does not measure up to its Sicilian counterpart in either performance or location. But I live in hope.

For those suffering from an absence of Nordic noir, BBC1 is currently screening another series of Shetland (Tuesdays) starring the excellent Douglas Henshall as DI Jimmy Perez. The cast includes Alison O'Donnell, Steven Robertson and a host of familiar Scottish actors. The stories are as dark as their Scandinavian counterparts and it is good to know that, for some anyway, there is life after Taggart.

Line of Duty: Series 2 was written by Jed Mercurio. It could equally have been written in 1977 by G.F. Newman (Law and Order). There was not one trustworthy or likeable character in it. Great stuff for actors, though. Keeley Hawes et al were splendid.

AND OTHERS.

More comings and goings.

I continue to enjoy The Walking Dead , but have to be in the mood for it. No such reservations with the second series of Mr. Selfridge and the first of The Musketeers, both of which my Leader and I have enjoyed from start to finish.

The same has to be said for David Hare's Worricker trilogy, Page Eight, Turks and Caicos and Salting the Battlefield. Bill Nighy starred in all three as Johnny Worricker, a disenchanted Mi5 officer. If you like him you will have liked it; if you don't...well...

In the meantime, Tom Hollander and Olivia Colman are back with the third series of Rev (Hurray!) and Timothy Spall, playing P.G. Wodehouse's Lord Emsworth, has just completed another series of Blandings (A-a-ah).

Not much wrong with the British acting scene, is there?

FINALLY.

Back on the Isle of Wight.

Nothing ever changes. Not really.

Last year a bunch of local politicians got together here to offer the electorate an alternative to its customary choice of increasingly unpopular Conservatives and Liberals.

The new crowd called themselves Independents. They were, by and large, former Conservatives and Liberals; but the ploy worked and they were voted in.

This year an Independent Remuneration Panel (fuck knows who they are or who elected them) has recommended a hefty rise in the allowances of senior Island councillors. The council has “agreed to accept the recommendations.” 
What a surprise. Their total allowances bill is £471,696 and hundreds of their employees are in line for redundancy.

It's another world, ain't it.

What's more, those confounded clocks have gone on again!

I might recover in April.

2 (3) Those darned detectives.

FIRSTLY: ON THE BOX.

You can't shake them off, can you? Once you've started watching them there's no going back. Well, the chances are they're also watching you. So those discerning souls who kindly keep up with this (more or less) monthly session of scribble may have noticed that The Detectives have sneakily reappeared in the title. They're rife on the box, too. Banks, George Gently, Death in Paradise and True Detective are currently with us; mostly short series, but none the worse for that. NCIS is well into series 11 and may include the demise of Leroy Jethro Gibbs's father, Jackson, played by veteran actor Ralph Waite who died on 13^th February at the age of 85:

he is probably best remembered as the father of John Boy and siblings in The Waltons. 

A new Mentalist series will be starting shortly and there could be more of Lewis and Vera to come. Bring 'em on.

AND IN PRINT.

Robert Galbraith.

Thriller news of the month has to be Robert Galbraith's second Cormoran Strike offering, The Silkworm, which is due out in June. You can read about it on the net.

It seems unlikely that I shall obtain an exclusive interview with the writer, but I do have what I think is a blog first in this exclusive picture of him.

Well, I doubt you'll see it on the book cover.

J.K. Rowling.

The Harry Potter author has apparently said (in a recent interview with Emma Watson) that Hermione Grainger should not have married Ron Weasley. Hermione, she said, should have married Harry.

So what's new? In my experience, very few mothers think their daughter married the right bloke: they seldom think the bloke she will marry after that, or the one after the one after that, will be the right one either. For what it is worth, and that ain't much, I think both Harry and Hermione married well. Harry was orphaned as a baby and Hermione effectively became an orphan when she removed her parents' memories, so the two orphans needed the warmth and security of family life: and where in the wizarding world would they find a better family than the Weasleys? Anyway, Ginny Weasley was never going to get hitched to anybody but Harry – that was clear from the first moment she saw him – and Hermione was far too good a wizard to spend her life in the shadow of 'The Boy who Lived.' They were best mates and needed not invoke 'The Cure for Love' (see Robert Donat's 1949 film).

As for people who were made for each other, surely the most compatible pair to graduate from Hogwarts had to be Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood. To my mind, that really would have been a marriage made in Valhalla.

What? No, I don't give a Wrackspurt or Nargle what you think.

Alex Grecian.

Believe I mentioned that daughter Jac bought me three thrillers for Christmas or Dad's Day or suchlike and I had just finished the Rebus one: a good Scottish tourist guide. The other two were by Alex Grecian and I am about halfway through the first of them, The Yard. This is a well written and informed narrative set in Ripper times. I am enjoying it and will get back to you.

LASTLY: THE ODDS AND SODS.

How else to describe The House of Commons?

Refreshing to see, with a Scottish referendum and a national election creeping ever near, that this masterclass in Lord of the Flies antics is being besought to modify its childishness. About bloody time too. But a word in your ear: if you're expecting a drastic change on the part of politicians, don't hold your breath.

AND THAT'S ALL FOR NOW.

Short month, short post. But I believe the cat Shadow is loitering around with a poetry look about him. Ne'er mind. He can wait until next month.

2 (2) Celebrations and suchlike.

LAST SATURDAY.

The 1^st of February was our son Neil's 50th birthday (try saying that without feeling old) and the entire family, together with a goodly selection of friends, met at Pauline and Neil's coach house residence for posh party nosh and a few bevvies. Daughter Roz produced a splendid birthday cake in the shape of a Carmageddon car and the Stainless crew arrived in some force to help see it off: they are a good bunch, even if the "demented Banksy style" birthday present with which they adorned his car (it gave a whole new meaning to the description "car tool kit") did put him at minor odds with the law. 

Anyway, gawd bless coppers with a sense of humour.

Family, friends, workmates and car are all back to pristine normality now. 

I think everybody had a good time.

NEXT SATURDAY.

1,000th edition of i coming up.

Next Saturday the newspaper with the fastest growing circulation of them all, i, will be on news stands for the 1,000^th time. I really did buy the first edition and the lad in the newsagent's really did say: "There's not much in it," and I really did consider the reply: "Well you didn't expect tits for twenty pence, did you?" And that really does seem a very long time ago.

For a while I read The Independent every Monday and i for the rest of the week. This enabled me to take in Yasmin Alibhai-Brown's column and Tom Sutcliffe's TV review: they were both Independent on Monday people.I think Mr. Sutcliffe is now a BBC radio 4 broadcaster, but Yasmin A-B sometimes turns up in i to create bobsy-die (usually with the utmost justification) about something some dickhead (or bunch of dickheads) has or has not said or done. I would hesitate to disagree with her, even from 78 miles away. 

My newsprint reading is now confined to i and The Radio Times. Well, RT still publishes cast lists for films and plays and i still has the former editor, Stefano Hatfield (now editorial director of London Live), contributing an article every Monday that (unlike ol' Fergie since his retirement at Man U) is happy and amiable and cheers me up no end.

I generally end up smiling, too, when the north countryman with a Welsh name, Owen Jones, takes off on one of his left wing outpourings. My grandfather was a proud member of the Bakers' Union and a staunch supporter of the old labour party; my mother's political outlook was red labour and I, at one time, was an active member of two (innocuous) unions simultaneously; so I'm with Owen, even if I do think nearly all politicians, of whatever ilk, are lying rapscallions.

I'm also laughingly with Mark Steel, politely in awe of Andreas Whittam Smith and constantly in accord with Simon Kelner, a damn good journalist.

Current editor Oliver Duff and sub editor Rhodri Jones cannot be other than on the ball. Look at the people who are keeping a (surely benevolent) eye on them.

I have just one question: now that i has become more successful than a critical news industry thought it could ever be, shouldn't it be joined by a Sunday i?

Perhaps one day I will write and suggest it.

DEAR OLD PAL ADVERTS.

It's the start of another year and time to receive the sort of Dear Dennis/Maureen letters that presume we have full pockets and empty heads and will be keen to: (1) test drive the latest model of our (rather elderly) car (2) replace our (now outdated) sewing machine and (3) spend a truly exciting fortnight's holiday on a deep sea fishing trawler in midwinter.

We appreciate that businesses have a living to make and it pays to advertise; we just wish they would show as much concern for the environment as they do to get their unwanted invitations printed and shoved through our letter box. Ah well, better that than...

THOSE GAS AND ELECTRICITY BILLS.

British Gas has just alerted us online to the state of our Gas and Electricity accounts and we are mightily in debt on both of them. Why is this? In common with anybody who can read, or who owns a working television, we are well aware that we have become sitting ducks in the telescopic sights of the nation's privatized profiteers (the last three governments of this country have a helluva lot to answer for) but we have been paying our bills by direct debit for years and find it intolerable and incomprehensible that British Gas could not bother even to guestimate the effect their enormous price hike would have on us (or indeed on anyone who pays by D/D) and advise an adjustment to our monthly payments.

One can only surmise, now, that public utilities - along with banks and the majority of the rail companies - are irretrievably in the hands of the greedy and incompetent. 

FILMS ON TELEVISION.

Did you see Hanna, a film about a robotic little girl who has been trained by her 'father' to become the ultimate soldier? It was another of those all-action films in the style of Bourne, Mission Impossible etc. Acting was good throughout and we particularly enjoyed the transformation of Rev (Tom Hollander) into a blonde hit man; wickedly polite. Don't ever lend him your biro.

The Thirteenth Tale.

This film had Vanessa Redgrave (as a dying author), Olivia Colman (as her biographer) and a convoluted plot with a twist in the tail. The director was James Kent.

It was worth the watching.

DETECTIVES ON TELEVISION.

Sherlock and Marple.

If Britain has shifted around a couple of degrees in the past few months it will be because Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle are revolving in their graves.

A recent episode of Marple had Julia McKenzie dodging in and out of woodland like an elderly yeti on speed. When she finally tackled the murderer she was alone and could (indeed, would) have been his next victim in the twist of a neck. He gave himself up. Would you believe it?

Sherlock (Benedict Cumberbatch) still, somehow, has his sidekick. The great detective is now subjected to visions that make clues sprout out of supporting cast members and any photogenic item of scenery. His eyes dart about and he gabbles in high speed gobbledegook. Nobody has had him committed. Well, not so far. But Martin Freeman as Dr. Watson (the friend who ought to have had him committed) has married and his new wife is, it turns out, some sort of hit woman. Would you believe it?

A-a-ah. It's easy viewing.

The Bridge.

I loved every sombre second of this second series in which there was never a doubt that Saga (Sofia Helin) and Martin (Kim Bodnia) were destined for the compulsory Scandinavian unhappy ending.

Wonderful, wonderful viewing. The cat Shadow slept through every episode.

DETECTIVES IN PRINT.

My Leader discovered a couple of Graham Hurley's Faraday and Winter yarns and it became difficult to get a word out of her: I don't know whether I should have been peeved or relieved. Anyway, she enjoyed them immensely. Told me he's a very good writer and well worth reading.

I said OK, I'll look at them later. 

Another world, ain't it?

Daughter Jac bought me three thrillers including Standing In Another Man's Grave, the latest from Ian Rankin, which I have just finished reading. John Rebus is back for a Cook's Tour of Scotland with some corpses thrown in. When it is adapted for television Ken Stott (below) will find it a doddle. Just sit him in a Saab, set him off from Edinburgh to Inverness via Pitlochry and leave him to it. He'll enjoy it and so will we.

I THINK THAT'S ABOUT ALL FOR NOW.   

Part 2.(1) Altered title.

INTRODUCTION.

If you regularly look in on Watching The Detectives you will know I have of late been at sixes and sevens over whether to keep plodding along with it, adopt a new format, amend/modify it, or jack it in altogether and leave blogland to the army of hobbyists, obscenity pedlars, business opportunists and professional hacks obtainable in increasing numbers at the click of a mouse or dab of a finger.

I've made a few abortive attempts at an alternative format, but have fallen each time at the hurdle warning me I could lose saved additions to my current set-up – whatever that may mean. In any case, I rather like the old fashioned layout. So once again it is back to square one.

THE TITLE.

The Detectives are no longer in the title because they no longer figure that much in the content: Poirot is dead, Foyle has retired, Patrick Jane has bumped off Red John and scarpered and just about everything left is a hodgepodge of tripe produced by giftless wonders.

I have led with my name because it is a good name and one of the few now left in the country not preceded by a title or followed by letters. I decided, after a brief try out and a checkup on Google, to dispense with the full Christian name and revert to Den. Dennis has me either muddled with a gentleman of similar name who is a Cambridge University mathematician, or confused with a Senior Technician (P and AV), of exactly the same name, who works at the School of Dentistry/Oral Health Centre of Western Australia. It also places me at an address in Ventnor from which my Leader and I moved in 2000 or thereabouts. Bit like the papers, Google, ain't it?

THE CONTENT.

Well, think old dogs and new tricks. Never works that well. So don't expect much change.

As if you did anyway.

AND THE WISH AGAIN.

       A Happy. Peaceful and Prosperous New Year

                  Gawdblessyer one and all!

200(a). End of Part 1. (b) Index 4: Posts 176 - 199

200(a) End of Part 1.
This blogging lark.
My first foray into this blogging lark was, indeed, in July 2006 when The Oldies was edited by a chap called Justin Thyme. Neither they nor he survived the year. I have been pounding the Watching keys under my own name ever since and have lately begun to feel that it must be time for another change; or maybe simply time to pack it in; after all, isn't the ether crowded enough? Sometimes it seems to be nothing more than Objection Alley out there.
My Leader and I discussed it.
“If you give up completely,” she said, “you'll be like a fish out of water.”   
The cat Shadow concurred.
You can't give up now," he opined. "You're too old to do anything but knock out a blog, feed me, watch tele and take Ellis to school. Anyway, where else would I find someone to publish my bloody poetry?"
"I hadn't really thought of it like that," I said. 
Well, matey, it's high time you did. Now get back on that keyboard and thank Kelvin for his last email, Helmut for the on-line Christmas card and all the other good friends who send messages of encouragement and support on a regular basis. Follow that up by printing Index 4, Posts 176 – 199. Then jack it in. But only until the next time."  
And of course he was right.
So thanks to the aforesaid good pals and to all the other kindly readers who push the pageviews chart up a tad when we publish. Thanks also to my Leader, my family, my manager, my agent, Google, everybody involved in the production of i newspaper, the cat Shadow, anybody who has never been thanked at a film, stage or television awards ceremony, all those who meant to send us a card and forgot, all those to whom we meant to send a card and forgot and all those who have decided they will not send cards this year but will give the money to their favourite charity off-licence.

A HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND A PROSPEROUS NEW YEAR TO YOU.

200(b) Index 4: Posts 176 - 199.

Abby Sciuto: 182 Alexander, Vassos: 196 Alibhai-Brown, Yasmin: 183,189,194 Allam, Roger: 193 Anne, friend: 183 Annis, Francesca: 189 Appleton, 'Anonymous' John: 181, 182,187, 193, 198 Appleton, Sheila: 182 Armstrong, Alun: 185 Ayres, Pam: 177,194,196 Bacchus, Sgt. 185 Baer, Robert: 185 Baker, Matt: 176 Baker, Simon: 180 Barenboim, Daniel: 184 Barnden, Jac: 176 Barnden, Maureen: 177,179,182,186,187,188,191,192,197,198 Barnden, Neil: 176,180, 181,186,187,192,193,195,199 Barnden, Pauline: 176,186,187 Barnden, Roz: 178,179,182,186,187,192,197 Bassett, Linda: 187 Bean, Sean: 183 Beaton, M.C. 197 Beckham, David: 194 Beeching, Richard: 180 Biffy Clyro: 182 Blackburn, Tony: 177 Bob, the cat: 182,183 Bodnia, Kim: 179 Bolam, James: 185 Bolt, Usain: 184 Bolton, Michael: 177 Boothroyd, Betty: 192 Boulez, Pierre: 184 Bowen, James: 182,183 Bowles, Lynn: 196 Bradbury, Julia: 176 Bradley, David: 199 Brady, Orla: 185 Brand, Jo: 177 Bretton, Sally:179 Brodie, Nick: 179 Brookmyre, Christopher: 189, 191 Brown, Father: 190 Brown, Joe: 187 Brown, Mrs: 176,189 Bryson, Bill: 176 Buckland, Patrick: 180 Bullmore, Amelia: 194 Burton, Amanda: 179 Caine, Horatio: 182 Caine, Michael: 187 Cake, Jonathan: 196 Cameron, Julia Margaret: 183 Candace (Flynn): 180 Capello, Fabio: 176 Carter, Peter: 180 Caruso, David: 182 Cassidy, Eva: 177 Castle, Rick: 179 Caviezel, Jim: 193 Cersei, Queen: 183 Chapman, Kevin: 193 Chesterton, G.K. 190 Christie, Agatha: 198 Coates, Eric: 184 Coltrane, Robbie: 178 Corlett, Marama: 185 Cowan. Elliot: 185 Cromwell, Oliver: 196 Cumberbatch, Benedict: 187 Dalton, Prof. Leo: 179 Dan the Man: 197 Danson, Ted: 179, 198 Darvill, Arthur: 185 Davis, Phil: 176, 177 Davis (jnr.), Sammy: 196 Dawn, niece: 193 Dee, M&S first aider: 197 Delaney, Dana: 176 Dench, Judy: 177 Dennis, Hugh: 176 DiCaprio, Leonardo: 179 Dickens, Charles: 187 DiDonato, Joyce: 198 Dillow, Ian: 176,195,198 Dimbleby, Richard: 191 Dinklage, Peter: 183 Douglas, Jennifer: 197 Doyle, Arthur Conan: 187,190 Dr. Who: 199 Dunbar, Adrian:187 Dyer, Reg: 197 Eastwood, Clint: 190 Edwards, David Innes: 187 Elba, Idris: 196 Ellis, Mary: 184 Els, Ernie: 183 Emerson, Michael: 193 Evans, Chris: 187,196 Evans, Noah: 196 Evans, Shaun: 193 Fay, Kelvin: 196 Federer, Roger: 183 Fellowes, Julian: 179,.189 Felton, Tom: 179 Ferb (Fletcher): 180 Ferguson, Alex: 194 Filch, Argus: 199 Fillion, Nathan: 179 Fishburne, Laurence: 179 Fisher, Miss: 194 Flynn-Fletcher, Lynda: 180 Ford, Ford Madox: 187 Foyle, Chief Supt. Christopher: 191 Fraser, Hugh: 198 Freeman, Morgan: 195 Frost, David: 177 Fry, Stephen: 181 Gaghan, Stephen: 185 Galbraith, Robert: 196 Gaminara, William: 179 Gates, Bill: 191 Gates, Melinda: 191 Gatiss, Mark: 199 Gently, George: 182, 184,185 Gibbs, Leroy Jethro: 182,190 Gilbert, Olive: 184 Gillan, Karen: 185 “Ginger”: 189 Glaser, Paul Michael: 197 Golding, William: 192 Goodman, Len: 179 Google: 183,187 Granddaughter Jess: 179, 182,187,197 Grandson Ellis: 178,179, 180,182,187,191,193,197,198 Green & Forster: 184 Griffiths, Jaye: 179 Griffiths, Richard: 192 Grimm, Bros: 189 Guinness, Alec: 190 Harmon, Mark: 196,198 Harrison, Ellie: 176 Hart, Miranda: 176 Hartnell, William: 199 Hatfield, Holly: 178 Hatfield, Stefano: 178,189,190,192 Headley, Heather: 188 Heath, Ted: 176 Helin, Sofia: 179 Henson, Taraji P. 193 Hernia, the cat: 187 Hitler, Adolf: 193 Hodgson, Roy: 181 Holland, Dominic: 181 Holland, Jools: 191 Holmes, Sherlock: 187,190 Horwood, Clive Revel: 197 Hoyle. Lindsay: 192 Hucknall, Mick: 184 Huhne, Chris: 176 Hunt, Megan: 176 Hunter, Alan: 182, 184, 185 Hurley, Graham: 185,194,195 Hurt, John: 194 Imrie, Celia: 177 Ingleby, Lee: 185 Irons, Jeremy: 185,195 Jackson, Philip: 198 Jacobi, Derek: 190 Jake, Ellis’s friend: 191 James. Bradley: 189 Jane, Patrick: 180 Jansons, Mariss: 198 Jardine, Douglas: 199 John, Anonymous: (see Appleton). Johnson, Dr.Samuel: 196 Jones, Alyd: 187 Jones, Suranne: 194 Jones, Trefor: 184 Jong-un, Kim: 193 Kay, Peter: 194 Kanakaredes, Melina: 198 Kennedy, Nigel: 198 Kitchen, Michael: 191 Knight, Elliot: 185 Kyle, Jeremy: 177,192 Lancashire, Sarah: 190 Lannister, Tyrion: 183 Lansley, Andrew: 180 Larwood, Harold: 199 Laurel and Hardy: 192 Lea, Ruth: 190 Lederer, Helen: 183 Lee, Vanessa: 184 Leigh, Mike: 177 Lewis, Damian: 179,187 Little Boo: 180,194 Littlewood, Joan: 177 Liu, Lucy: 190 McCallum, David: 182 McCormack, John: 184 MacGregor, Ian: 180 Mack, Lee: 179 McKinnon, Gary: 177 Madden, John: 177 Madness: 182 Malik, Art: 177 Mallard, Dr. Ducky: 182 Mandela, Nelson: 183 Marg, sister-in-law: 197 Matthew, Brian: 177 May, Theresa: 180 Mena, Juanjo: 198 Merkel. Angela: 198 Merlin: 189 Michelle, 196 Mike, brother-in-law: 197 Miller, Jonny Lee: 190 Molina, Alfred: 189 Moran, Pauline: 198 More, Kenneth: 190 Morgan, Colin: 189 Murphy, Dr. Kate: 176 Murray, Andy: 183,195 Nadal, Rafael: 182 Nick:182,197 Nickleby, Nick: 187 Nighy, Bill: 177 Nixon, Richard: 177 Noren, Saga: 179 Novello, Ivor: 184 Obama, Barack: 188, 193,198 O’Carroll, Brendan: 189 Ochida, Mitsuki: 198 O'Dwyer, Eamonn: 197 O’Dwyer, Richard 177 O’Hagan, Ellie Mae: 191 O’Hara, Mary: 187 Orbison, Roy: 183 Pan, Peter: 193 Patel, Dev: 177 Patinkin, Mandy: 179 Patterson, James: 195 Paxman, Jeremy: 183 Peak, Daniel: 179 Pemberton, Steve: 176 Penry-Jones, Rupert: 176, 177 Perry the Platypus: 180 Petersen, William: 198 Phineas (Flynn): 180 Pickup, Ronald: 177 Poirot, Hercule: 190,198 Polizzi, Alex: 176 Potter, Harry: 177, 178,187,192, 197 Powell. Enoch: 194 Pratchett, Terry: 197 Pugh, David: 188 Pullman, Philip: 189 Quinn, Molly: 179 Raine, Jessica: 176 Raisin, Agatha: 185 Rampling, Charlotte: 189 Redknapp, Harry: 176, 181 Reid, Anne: 190 Richard, Martin: 193,194 Rigby, Lee: 194 Rohde, Martin: 179 Robinson, Anne: 177 Rosol, Lukas: 182 Rowling, J.K. 178,187,189, 197 Ruisshaert, Jimmy: 177 Runnicles, Donald: 198 Ryan, Jeri: 176 Santa Claus: 190 Schofield, Philip: 187 Scott, Adam: 183 Selleck, Tom: 196 Shadow, The cat: 176, 181, 182, 183, 184, 186.187,191,194 Sharp, Lesley: 194 Simpson. Andrew: 187 Sinbad: 185 Shaw, Martin: 182, 184 Skeeter, Rita: 177 Smith, Maggie: 177,187 Smith, Matt:194 Springsteen, Bruce: 182 Stark, Ned: 183 Stein, Rick: 188 Sting: 184 Stoppard, Tom: 187 Stuart, Moira: 196 Suchet, David: 190,198 Sullivan, Susan: 179 Sutcliffe, Tom: 189 Tappin, Christopher: 177 Tauber, Richard: 184 Tennant, David: 192 Terry, John: 176 Thatcher, Margaret: 193 Toksvig, Sandi: 184, 185 Topol: 197 Tsujii, Nobuyuki: 198 Vance, Director Leon: 182 Vine, Tim: 179 Wainwright, Rufus: 184 Wainwright, Sally: 190 Walker, Nicola: 190 Walsh, Bradley: 187,198 Warhol, Andy: 187 Watson, Dr. 190 Watson, Emma: 196 Wedge, Chris: 194 Weeks, Honeysuckle: 191 Whitehead, Geoffrey: 179 Wiggins, Bradley: 183 Wilkinson, Tom: 177 Williams, Mark: 190 Wilshaw, Michael: 180 Wilson, Ruth: 196 Wilton, Penelope: 177 Wix, Katie: 179 Wogan, Terry: 196 Wood, Victoria: 189 Wooderson, Sydney: 180 Woods, Hannah: 176 Woods, Mike: 176 Worth, Jennifer: 176 Wright, Matthew: 177,183 Yates, Paula: 191

N.B.  INDEXES: (1) Post 131 (2) Post 151 (3) Post 175

199. A natural break.

ON THE ISLE OF WIGHT.
Time for a breather.
After I finish this post I shall only return briefly in December to wish you the compliments of the season, tidily, at Post 200. After that I shall publish index 4 which will establish a natural break while I contemplate what next. Whether I shall continue with Watching The Detectives is questionable. I have been producing pretty much the same formula since July 2006, when The Oldies began, so the chances are I may still keep it going for the television stuff. I might then open another blog to run with it. Depends whether I can manage the procedure to set up anything else. Nothing comes easy to me nowadays. That particularly applies to...
Windows 8.
I am of the school which teaches don't look a gift horse in the mouth so my comments thus far on this well-meant gift from our son Neil have been muted. Suffice to say, thanks to the modification (to partial Windows 7) introduced by him after the initial instillation, I continue to pootle along making sparse use of the system's enormous potential and abundant use of my repertoire of foul language. I don't know which of your brilliant computer boffins invented it, Windows buddies, but even the modified Windows 8 is over-complicated. To the average computer illiterate it is murder and, from all I hear, even the most devoted nerd regards it as a fatality.
So, on the billions-to-one chance that one of you may ever espy this, the end of term report reads: Could do better. Next time try not to get carried away with your own cleverness, eh? Make it simple enough for everyone to think they're clever, my dears, and you'll make another fortune. 
Aldi.
A branch of the supermarket chain Aldi Sud has recently opened over here. Yep, two world wars to keep the Germans out and here they are.
My Leader and I gave the shop a try out at the weekend. They seem to have undercut everybody but Lidl - who got here before them - and their produce is pretty good. On the negative side, when you have deposited your goods at checkout you are required to park the front of your trolley up against a loading spot alongside the counterperson who shoves them back into it, willy-nilly, as they are priced: you are then required to remove yourself and purchases to a long shelf at the front of the store, away from the counter, to pack. It is efficient, soulless and Teutonic. We loathed it.
IN PORTSMOUTH.
Football and The Yard.
They say you can tell the state a city is in by the success or otherwise of its football team. In the nineteen thirties the city of Portsmouth was a Tory stronghold and just about every male who wasn't in the navy worked in the dockyard: butchers, bakers and candlestick makers were in the minority. It was a cocky city with a fine football team.
Portsmouth dockyard (The Yard) has now been closed by a government scared stiff it could be told to piss off by the Scots. The navy dwindles and the manager of Pompey football club has just been sacked. It already looks as though another relegation battle could be facing the team at the end of the season: fifteen or sixteen thousand loyal fans don't deserve that any more than an entire city deserves to be consigned to the scrapheap to suit political expediency. Disgusted Portmuthians should make known their feelings at the polls in 2016. Scotland will already have done so.
IN AUSTRALIA.
Cricket.
I haven't followed cricket for years and from what filters through regarding England's performance in the first match of the 2013 Test series, I haven't missed much. I still remember the Aussie outrage after Douglas Jardine set Harold Larwood onto them in 1932 – 33, though. It went on forever.
Now revenge time, with suitable intimidation, seems to be with us again.
Ask me not the details. I don't care. Haven't followed cricket for years.
TELEVISION.
Fifty Years of Dr.Who. (BBC)
Forget the cooks calling themselves chefs and the junk dealers calling themselves antiques experts and the reality rubbish where unrecognisable celebs vie for unpopularity on an unfamiliar stage; the bright sparks at the Beeb decided to revisit Doctor Who, the first episode of which was screened in November 1963. It was a great deal more simple back then. The main anniversary programme in November 2003, The Day of the Doctor was, to say the least, somewhat complicated. Which leads us nicely to:-  
An Adventure in Space and Time.

To accompany the fifty years anniversary programmes, Mark Gatiss wrote this fascinating dramatisation about the people who brought Dr.Who to life. The original Doctor, William Hartnell, was played by David Bradley, the actor who played creepy caretaker Argus Filch in the Harry Potter films.
His performance was bloody marvellous and should earn him a BAFTA.

All for now. Back a bit sooner next month.

198. Normal service resumed.

HOME.
Falling down report.

We are pleased to report gradual improvement in confidence and mobility following our recent falling down experiences. My Leader battles on come rain or shine and my appreciation of the kindness shown by the people who aided me is still equalled only by my anger at whatever useless bastard jettisoned an empty carrier bag in such 'don't give a fuck' fashion. 
Mostly the reaction of friends has been concerned and sympathetic. There was one slightly negative email, but that was from an old mate who managed to fall over his own feet on some stairs last December and doesn't now seem inclined to have much sympathy with anyone else. Well...why should he?
Anyway, our particular thanks go to 'Anonymous' John Appleton and Ian Dillow, both of whom sent messages that cheered us up enormously, and to our constantly supportive family. We're lucky people. 
Storm report.
It happened last Sunday evening and we have not had a storm like it on the Island for many years: it reached its pitch just as grandson Ellis got to bed. Sunday nights he stays with us no matter what. It is written in stone. But he is, he informed his grandmother, a bit nervous of thunder and lightning.
She allowed him to watch her ipad for a little while, then told him a (small-boy-ribald-humour-laden) story about how thunder and lightning really comes about. Really?
Then she settled him down, still giggling, for the night. I looked in ten minutes later and he was sleeping the deep, deep sleep of a happy lad who knows no fear. Every child should have a gran like that.
That bloody hour again.
As I write this piece, the schools are on half-term (which is OK) and the clocks have been put back an hour (which is not). Well, I suppose the kids being on holiday gives us a week to try and get used to waking up at six o'clock when we're totally geared for seven and being ready for lunch at eleven, an hour and a quarter before the bloke with the silly hats and bow ties invites us to go bargain hunting.
I still hate it, though. It's bright too early and it's dark too early and our little gardens are a haven for migrant leaves – religious ones from the church along the way and educated ones from the school opposite – all the more galling because we don't have any trees. I still think we only alter the time because some bugger in parliament has shares in a car battery firm. Have I said all that before? No matter. Think about it.
REST OF THE WORLD.
Spying.
German Chancellor Angela Merkel has accused the American secret services (a bunch called the NSA – look 'em up if you're interested) of intercepting her mobile phone calls. She has responded by taking the logical course of action, a telephone confrontation with President Barack Obama: Well you would, wouldn't you?
The President strongly denied the accusation: Well he would, wouldn't he?
And now the French have joined in: Well they...
So once again the Alice in Wonderland world of the super spook is left looking downright ridiculous. What do these paranoid pallbearers expect to discover? How many expert codebreakers have been enlisted to unravel Chancellor Merkel's hairdressing appointments, supermarket shopping lists et al and turn them into coded messages to and from a sinister figure hellbent on world domination? Took our minds off the shit state of the economy for a couple of minutes though, didn't it?
Lies and insults.
When I was a youngster the standard antidote to name calling was "Sticks and stones may break your bones but names will never hurt you."
Isn't it about time the Plebgate crowd, together with the ubiquitous army of politically correct malcontents waiting to be racially offended by every look or word, were gently advised to knock it off?
As to: "Who told a lie, the police or the MP?" Other than them, who bloody cares? 
The sensitive little souls should be told to get a life.
TELEVISION.
Did you see the proms this year?

If you didn't, they were good. If you did, weren't they good?
For a start, they included a couple of hugely popular piano concertos: Beethoven's 4^th played by wonderful Mitsuki Ochida (back to the Proms after nearly twenty years and accompanied by the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Mariss Jansons) and Rachmaninov's 2^nd played by the sightless young pianist and composer Nobuyuki Tsujii, (with the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Juanjo Mena). 
Beautiful music; wonderful presentation.
For the romantic classics enthusiast there was a good selection including a fine performance of Beethoven's 5^th Symphony given by the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra conducted by Donald Runnicles and (a truly wonderful experience this year) the Last Night of the Proms where Nigel Kennedy again showed himself to be the finest, funniest, most endearing violinist (and Aston Villa fan) born here in my lifetime and the American mezzo soprano Joyce DiDonato (a glorious voice, a fantastic personality) sang Rule Britannia as though she meant it.The NSA can listen to my telephones any time it likes. I'll listen to her.
Watching the detectives appear and disappear.
After all the hoo-ha over CSI New York outlasting CSI Miami, we now have neither. The New Yorkers, too, have been pensioned off. I never got over the departure of Melina Kanakaredes anyway. Nice bunch of actors, though, and I wish them lots of broken legs in the future.
Now there's only dear ol' D.B. Russell (Ted Danson), with the long-running CSI Crime Scene Investigation crowd, left on the scene and their future has looked uncertain ever since Gil Grissom (William Petersen) left. 
NCIS is still soldiering (or should that be sailoring?) on, but trusty Mark Harmon and his magical team mates can only be there until the suits distributing the dollars decide to dispose of them. Stands to reason, doesn't it? Viewing figures will always be less important than advertising revenue to the people holding the purse strings.
Poirot is currently making his last four appearances (discounting endless repeats on some of those channels that could not exist without them). David Suchet has been the only actor ever to transform the two-dimensional little egotist into a real person and in the first of the series he was joined, fittingly, by old friends Hugh Fraser (Hastings), Philip Jackson (Japp) and Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon).

Over the years the four of them have done Agatha Christie proud.

The English Ripper Street is back: the American Person of Interest is back: and the Sicilian Montalbano is back. All are welcome in our house. We also thoroughly enjoyed The Young Montalbano, an excellent in-between-Montalbano-series series. Well you can't have too much of some good things.
Lastly...and for the only time this year: The Specsavers Crime Thriller Club. This is a six part run-up to the SCTC Awards evening when radiant looking actors and actresses – and some rather uncomfortable looking writers - turn up to feign enthusiasm as the people they didn't expect to get an award are presented with an award by the people they hoped would get an award, but didn't.

Bradley Walsh adequately hosted all six programmes and the Awards show. No surprise there. He is, after all, the most realistic Detective Sergeant on our television screens today. He didn't get an award.
AND TO CONCLUDE.
254 OBA.
This year we were again unable to make it to the 254 Old Boys Association AGM.
It was held in Derby and we originally booked to go. Maureen has, however, had a difficult time since the hip operation and is currently still awaiting information about a scan that took place some weeks ago. [Nobody could ever accuse St. Mary's I.W. of rushing anything. One just has to trust that no news is good news.] So she was not up to the rather lengthy journey and we were compelled to apologise and pull out. In the event, our subsequent falling over sessions would have put paid to any imminent travel plans.
Never rains but it pours, does it. I am just looking outside the window...

197. Lots of reading and falling.

HOME AGAIN.
A chapter of accidents.
Last week Maureen went to stay with her sister in Alverstoke, Hants. Brother-in-law Mike was away on a walking holiday and my Leader went to keep Marg company for a few days. I gather everything went well enough, though the day after Mo's return home she let slip that she had undergone another fall on her outward journey and consequently was nursing a badly bruised right leg to go with the bruised/cracked/broken rib/s sustained when she tripped on a carpet in our dining room the previous week. No good me berating myself for not being there to save her on either occasion. I actually was with her last Friday when she fell in the street. Her falls are sudden and definite: Superman couldn't save her.
So on Saturday, instead of our planned trip to the Michaelmas Fair at Alverstoke, I took her, nursing a painful right foot, to Beacon Health Centre at St. Mary's, the sole working hospital on the Island since the last NHS shake up. The foot, an x-ray revealed, was not broken, it was sprained. We sighed our relief and I drove her back to Newport where M&S was holding a 50% off sale: not even a one-legged Leader could resist that.
I would, it was agreed, "pop next door to Morrisons" for a couple of items not stocked by M&S.
I was approaching a flight of stone steps leading down to Morrisons' car park when an empty plastic carrier bag from that establishment, carried up by the wind over the top step, inexplicably wrapped itself around my feet and brought me crashing to the pavement just short of the steps. My left hand and right elbow were cut, both knees and a somewhat overweight elderly midriff were bruised and I was badly shocked. I was also very lucky. I had not fallen down the steps and two extremely kind shoppers came to my assistance (one seemed to have nursing experience and the other escorted me back into M&S to find Maureen). Without them I would never have made it back onto my feet, let alone back to Mo, so my heartfelt thanks go to the pair of them. Lovely ladies.
I am grateful, too, for the kindness and consideration shown by the splendid folk at M&S, not least their newly trained first aider, Dee, whose first patient I was and who concluded the dressing of my wounds with the advice that I return to St. Mary's for a check up. (She rang us at home to ask after my progress the next day, too.)
So, bless her, my Leader, she of the sprained foot, drove me back from whence we had shortly before come and my wounds were re-dressed. It didn't take long. After all, we were season ticket holders.
A couple of days later I am feeling much better and do so hope Mo is. She needs some really good luck: about a month ago she was in the car with grandson Ellis when a tailgating white van man drove into the back of them. They were shaken but not physically injured. The car required a fairly extensive body job, was in a local (insurer - designated} garage for a fortnight and was brought back just in time for me to collect her on her return from Alverstoke. Also, before she left for the mainland she had some patterns to photocopy for one or other of her sewing circles. My hp photocopier fouled up attempting the job and, in a foolish move to temporarily replace it, we completely crashed the computer. Screen went black.
The computer lifeboat captain came, carried out all the standard procedures, got nowhere, gently cursed and got in touch with the computer recovery expert.
Dan the Man came. Daniel has been recovering stricken computers for eleven years. He is called in by Stainless whenever one of their computers founders. He carried out all the standard procedures, got nowhere, gently cursed and departed with the computer under his arm. 
For a while I was without wife, car or computer. It was a quiet time.
Anyway, Dan the Man took but a few days to resurrect the computer.
"What was wrong with it?" I asked him.
"It was buggered," he replied.
I do love an expert who doesn't talk down at you with technical details.
And the photocopying? Oh, the newsagent down the road did that at a very reasonable price. Makes you wanta spit, don't it?
Some magical moments.
Fiddler.
Way back in the nineteen seventies, youngest daughter Roz and I went to see Fiddler on the Roof at the Mayflower Theatre, Southampton. It was a beautiful production (Tevye, played by a chap called Reg Dyer, was a mesmerising double of Topol) and when, early on, the chorus line did their cossack-style advance downstage – complete with lighted candles on their hats - a delighted, shining-eyed little Roz turned to share the moment with me; it was a magical experience.
So this year on the 14^th of September, as a slightly advanced 51^st wedding anniversary gift, Roz took Maureen and I to Southampton to see a matinee performance of Fiddler on the Roof, the Mayflower being the first venue of a UK tour directed and choreographed by Clive Revel Horwood (of Strictly Come Dancing) and starring Paul Michael Glaser (of Starsky and Hutch). We had an excellent lunch at the Vestry restaurant and bar before making our leisurely way across the road to the theatre where we were greeted with a notice informing us that Paul Michael Glaser was indisposed. The role of Tevye would be played by Eamonn O'Dwyer.

"That'll be all right," I said."The stand-in always works twice as hard."
He did, too.
In their penultimate performance in Southampton, Mr. O'Dwyer and his colleagues delivered a spellbinding blend of acting, singing, management of the set and, without a separate orchestra, onstage musical accompaniment (many playing several instruments).

 The Fiddler (Jennifer Douglas) not only played cool violin, she had a cool head for heights.
At the end a cheering audience gave the players a standing ovation and this old chap had been transported back some thirty five years.
Thank you, lovely Roz.
Evensong.
To the best of my knowledge the roof is still on Portsmouth Cathedral despite an attendance by my Leader and I at Evensong on Sunday 1st September. We went because our friend from Cornwall, Anne, sings in The Saint Hugh Singers (a select group of choristers gathered from all over the country), which was guesting there. In the event, I think the imposing but slightly overgrown building needed as many defaulters like us as it could get. The congregation was sadly sparse. Pity, because the combined voices, guest and resident cathedral, were a delight to the ear.
We were so pleased to see Anne again, if only for a brief spell.
READING.
The perfect Potter replacement.
A short time after the second Harry Potter book was published, our daughter-in-law, Pauline, asked if we had read any J.K. Rowling. We had not. So we hastily rectified the oversight, became doting followers and happily joined the queue, with granddaughter Jessica, at our local Ottakers, renamed POttakers, every publication night thereafter. It was a magical time.
Now, daughter Roz's partner, Nick, has directed us to four of his favourite Discworld novels and...would you believe it?...we are well and truly hooked again. Both of us have read them all.
I find it hard to believe that Equal Rites, Wyrd Sisters, Witches Abroad and Lords and Ladies, published by Gollancz in 1987, 1988, 1991 and 1992 respectively (and many times since by Corgi), had never before come to our attention; the first of them was published ten years before Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone graced a shelf in any welcoming bookshop.
Have you read them? If you have, you will surely have read the lot. If you haven't, buy all four together. Nobody should read just one.
Oh, for the benefit of the uninitiated, they are the hilariously recounted adventures of witches Grandma Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Margrat Garlick and they are told (with a plethora of footnotes and fine humour) by the comedy genius that is Terry Pratchett.

Now my Leader has purchased Sir Terry's Discworld novel Night Watch and says I should be first to read it. Trouble is, by the time I've regaled her with all the bits I thought were hilarious...
A-a-ah, she'll still read it anyway..
No time for tele talk, it's already October and lengthy periods without the computer have put many hours on my reading time; so not only have I read the four Discworld masterpieces, I dipped back into the Agatha Raisin yarns of the prolific, multi-named M.C. Beaton for another good read, A.R. and the Murderous Marriage. So it is fitting that a picture of Ms. Beaton conclude this post. Cheers, all.