Post 295. DEPARTING DIPLOMATS.

COST IN WORLDWIDE TRAVEL?

One has to wonder...Why?
This Salisbury business has sure put the poison among the pigeons. Just in case you have been in outer space, Sergei Skripal (a sort of Russian Smiley's People character) and his daughter, Yulia, were found poisoned in Salisbury, England, on the 4th of this month (Post 287 refers).
The poison was Novichok which, apparently, is solely manufactered in Russia. It was a reckless attack and its perpetrators were irresponsible scum: but that's spooks for you.
Now, understandably, because nobody likes the thought of unfettered nerve agents roaming around their patch, the world and his wife have taken against those thought most likely to be behind the attack, Russia. Countries far and wide have dismissed from their nation's Russian embassy a token number of the blatant spooks they have tolerated for years. It seems these embassies have been spookily alive with them. (One has to wonder...Why?)
Now, as these countries expel Russian diplomats and Russia expels one country after another's diplomats in reprisal, hundreds of alleged spooks are on the move. Trains and planes are packed with them. If you're travelling first class, don't talk politics and keep your hand on your passport. If you're not travelling first class you won't meet them anyway.
Their countries pay their fares so they'll not be travelling with the hoi polloi.
God knows how much the total travel cost for all these comings and goings will be, but airlines everywhere must be rubbing their hands with glee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
   
   

Post 294. NOTHING WORKS.

WHATEVER I DO.
It's a Google plot.

So far in my quest to go from Post 288 to Post 300 at a rate approximating one a day I have had more trouble with the publishing than with the writing. Nothing works. Whatever I do.
As the regular reader may have noticed, I tried switching font from Times New Roman to Franklin Gothic Medium and at first that seemed to work. It didn't last. Yesterday's printing struggle was an absolute nightmare.
The end result had me swearing softly because original wording had to be cut or amended in places, but at least it's readable; if a trifle untidy.
I am in no doubt that this is all my own fault. Technology moves apace and a pleasant blog format in 2006 has to be overdue for updating in 2018. For a start, the number of words that old format will sensibly accommodate?
Don't ask me, ask the faceless Silent Bobs at Google and see where it gets you. If they ever spoke out it would only be to tell you there are great blog formats obtainable on Google Gold.
And that's where they mean you to be.
It's a Google plot; depending on your point of view of course.
Me? I could scream the scream

(with apologies to Edvard Munch)  

Post 293. THE POWER CUT ALWAYS COMES.

WHEN THE WORK HAS NOT BEEN SAVED.
It happened twice in succession yesterday.

I had wrestled the blog back from the cat Shadow (not without a show of petulance on his part), made a cup of coffee, weathered a "do the odd job because that's more important than any keyboard" session, acted as elderly retainer for a still lofty cat and we had been paid an unexpected visit by daughter Roz, who is currently suffering from shingles, poor love (there's no justice). She arrived as usual with Buddy (a mad puppy who is thankfully sane enough to avoid the cat Shadow).

After they departed, with my Leader sitting at the ironing board, Shadow surveying the dining room with a 'where's that bloody dog now?' look in his eyes and me blithely settled at my desk with the heading and first few lines of a post on the screen, there was suddenly no computer, no ironing, no electric kettle, no telephone, no television, no anything.

The power had gone.
As you will have gathered, I had saved nothing: not even the heading. Power came back minutes later.
Damage done.
I gently cursed, switched on the computer, tried to remember what I'd been writing, couldn't, began again. I had typed in the heading and a few unsaved lines when the second power cut came. 
It lasted...and lasted...and lasted.
Eventually we were back to second world war neighbourliness. Me on the phone to Derek next door and Derek next door on the phone to the nice lady on the other side of him and so on, until the nice lady on the other side got in touch with 'the electric' who said we'd be back in the warm world again by 5.30 pm.
We were. Bit sooner actually.
Too late for any more ironing, though, or for me to summon up the blog spirit again.
I spent the evening watching our magically alive television (Italians gaining a draw when one of them trips over his own feet in the penalty area? What a surprise) and went to bed with a smile on my face after experiencing again Lars Vogt's superb performance of Beethoven's Piano Concerto No.1 (found it on Sky Arts) and Pekka Kuusisto's joyful rendition of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto at the 2016 Proms: both courtesy of Den's 'erase these at your peril' television recordings.
A good end to the day.
Finally, I recently learned that Buddy has been letting next door know how unhappy he is when Roz is away from home.
I said he had better come here when she is at work then. He can settle on the chair in the conservatory when I am at work there, I suggested.
Huh!

 

Today, for the first time in a year or more, the cat Shadow spent the morning asleep in that very chair. He's back there now. It's not as if he hasn't got the above settee, too. Little perisher.
I'd swear he hears everything we say.

 

Post 292. I'M SHADOW.

I'M THE POETRY CAT.
A poem by Himself.

Way back at posts 126, It's Poetry Week... and 135, Roofing at home... the old guy who puts cat food down for me published my A Stroll With a Musing Cat and Shadow - The Poetry Cat (a take on T.S. Eliot) respectively: there have been other ditties, too. It seems that people liked them, so now that he has given me a post all to myself, stand by for:

Shadow - The Feline Bard.

I'm Shadow, I write poetry,
A verse does not come hard
I'll write it leaning against a tree,
Or lounging in the yard.
I'll write it for you on a fence
If that is what you wish.
Compose it standing on the stairs
Or in an unwashed dish.
I have no fear of rhyming,
No hang-ups and no cares.
On rooftops they all know me
As the pussycat Pam Ayres.
I do rhyming in the kitchen
And I versify in the loo.
I do doggerel in the dining room
And odes in the living room, too.
But I versify not in the bedroom -
On your bed I'll give forth not a peep
Except only for the gentlest of snore
To let you know I'm fast asleep

If you don't like it, keep it to yourself, eh?

Post 291. WHY CHANGE ANYTHING?

 

 

 

ONLY ASKING.

 

 

 

Because change is seldom ever for the better.

For a start it's clock changing time again. I swear we only undergo this ludicrous routine twice a year to make governments feel they are the bosses.
It does nobody any good and plays havoc with many a digestive system, but the powers-that-be persist with it year in year out.
What?
Oh, somebody else does Big Ben for them. Pathetic.
Truth to tell, so far this year no change (whether it be of Brexit-like importance or The Wright Stuff shuffling newspapers back and forth inconsequence) has in the slightest degree improved our lot.
So why change anything?
Which reminds me:
I still haven't changed the time on the oven clock.

Bugger! 

 

 

 

.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Post 290. WHEN IT CAME TO SINGERS.

GEORGES GUETARY WAS GOOD, TOO.
And far better than most.

 Back at my desk I have the above pictured CD jauntily playing on the Steepletone.
I always liked Mr. Guétary (born Lambros Vorloou of Greek parents in Egypt) because, a naturalised Frenchman, he was more French and a far better singer than most of his contempories in the light music business.
I first heard him in 1947 when he was playing opposite Lizbeth Webb in Vivian Ellis's Bless The Bride at the Adelphi Theatre in London.
The show ran for 886 performances.
He then went on to star with Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron in An American in Paris, his one and only American film. I'll Build a Stairway to Paradise was the best number in that film and his was the best ever performance of it.
I always thought he stole the show and I don't think Hollywood ever quite forgave him.
Georges Guétary continued to give concert performances right up until his retirement to the Riviera at the age of eighty. He died, aged 82, in 1997.
So why, when old pal Ian Dillow has emailed me the name Mario Lanza (below), have I chosen a singer from operetta, rather than an opera, as my listening choice today? Well, counter tenor Georges may have had a lighter voice than bel canto Mario (who I also have on CD), but I think Georges was probably the nicer person.

Can't say more than that. 

Post 289. TODAY IT'S TENORS.

 

THE Original TENORS.

 

 

 

 

 

All three of them.

 

 

Midst news of another radicalised head case


gunning people down in France, nations at

 

 

each other's throats over political interference


from a social network, trade tariffs widening the


ever increasing gap between America and China


and murderous machinations in the spy world,

 

 

I am back at my desk in the real world: the little

 

 

Steepletone is doing its stuff. And today it's the

 

 

Original original three tenors: Enrico Caruso


(below right),Beniamino Gigli (above) and Jussi


Bjorling (below left).

 

Gigli was the first operatic tenor I ever heard on

 

 

record (old vinyl).

 

 

I had listened to Richard Tauber and Webster

 

 

Booth on the wireless of course, but Gigli was

 

 

something else again. Bjorling was a wonderful

 

 

Swedish tenor and Caruso was the benchmark for


the lot of them, and is to this very day. But I 


particularly liked Gigli. The little man had touches


of individuality(hear the last note of his Che gelida


manina) and I thought he was magic. Still do.
 

 

 

Where I picked up this CD, though, I have no 


idea.

 

 

You'll probably only get the later three now.

 

 

Well, they were pretty good, too.

Dare I say it?

 

 

 

Almost as good as my three.

 

Post 288. FROM HERE UNTIL 300

MORE MODULATED MEANDERINGS.

More frequent, too.
My blog posts up to post 300 are hence to be executed at a rate of knots hitherto untried. Why? Well, for whatever reason, the publishing of those somewhat longer posts has been an absolute beast for far too long and this particular Job's patience finally came to an end. From now on it's a more frequent dose of piano music on the music machine for me and a paragraph or two on the blog for you - if you're kind enough to look for it.
I hope to maintain the more frequent output until Post 300, when I shall publish a final index and Watching will be concluded in favour of a more modern format (if I can find the blighter).
That highly proficient computer guru Giles Turnbull once advised bloggers to turn out regular (possibly daily?) posts if they wanted to be regularly read. I mention Mr. Turnbull only because he was a blogger in whom I took considerable interest way back when I started online scribbling. We have not exchanged as much as a greeting and, to the best of my knowledge, he has never heard of me. But his wise words come back, together with a sad shake of the head, whenever I see my viewer statistics.    
Need I remind you there are lies, damned lies, and statistics?

Back soon.

 

 

Post 287. THEY'RE AT IT AGAIN.

THE MURDEROUS MUTTHEADS.

Yes, save our souls, those overgrown children from the school for spies are at it again: this time they have chosen to play one of their favourite pastimes for murderous muttheads, 'kill the turncoat kid.'
Now I haven't that much time for the alleged former Soviet agent currently in a critical condition in hospital. To me he appears to be just another of those daft buggers who has been playing silly James Bond games.
I do have a degree of sympathy with his daughter, a great deal of sympathy with Sergeant Nick Bailey of the Wiltshire Police, and concern for the many other innocent people effected, though.
Apparently they have been poisoned by a nerve gas known as Novichok: a Russian invention.Who says mad scientists can only be found in fiction?
As is the custom, politicians are spouting outrage and false innocence in equal measure.This has culminated in a Russian bigmouth reminding us that his country possesses nuclear arms so apparently should not be questioned. Bollocks! 
Most of the time, spies - like gangsters - stick to murdering each other, so the rest of us can pretend they don't exist: now we have been reminded again that they do. Appalling, isn't it?
With luck, and a load of decontamination, nothing will come of it all.
Without luck these recalcitrant renegades from the human race will eventually plunge us into another world war.
I'm far too old to let it frighten me, but I do fear for our descendants.
DEPARTURES.
In brief (because this blog is starting to look like an in memoriam column), both Ken Dodd and Stephen Hawking have died this week. Each man had a fine brain and each was an expert in his own field.
Wherever their spirits rest up will be the better for it.
TELEVISION.
We have been watching:
Shetland (good).
Below the Surface (good).
Portrait Artist of the Year (always watchable) and
Homeland (a neurotic nightmare).
We have also seen the entire series of Endeavour (excellent) and Call the Midwife (alive with loud ingenues in labour, fine ensemble acting, and a Judy Parfitt (pictured) performance that brought me close to tears of joy every week).

 (What's that? Recalcitrant renegades from the human race? Hell, if you're a born hack you can't resist the occasional jaunt into journalese.)
Cheers. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Post 286. A SHORT MONTH.

SO SOME SHORT 
Goodbyes and Hallos.

On Monday of this week we said our final goodbye to old friend Joan Keep. Customary service at the (above) crematorium down the road from here.
The one bright note was that her beloved little dog has been adopted and, our reliable informant tells us, is blissfully happy with its new owner.
She would like that.
The late John Tree's funeral service will take place on the mainland next week. I have been invited to attend but have regretfully declined. It's a bit too soon after Joan's and a bit too far for me to travel. (The spirit's willing, but the bladder...)
My kindest thoughts will be at Southwick - pronounced Suthick - in Hampshire on the day. My parents lived at Widley, a village close by, as did my Leader and I for the first few years of our marriage.
Unbeknown to me until many years later, John Tree and his wife, Bubbles, lived on the other side of the village from us, in the very road where my grandparents (on my mother's side) resided throughout WW2 and for some while thereafter.
A cliche, I know, but sometimes it really is a small world.
So to Tuesday of this week when we said happy hallos to Maureen's nephews Steve and Phil, the sons of her late (loved by the entire family) sister Jean Butler.
They - icy wind and snow squalls notwithstanding - ventured over from Gosport, Hants., for the day to take us out to lunch, reminisce, and generally make an elderly aunt and uncle feel wanted.
Despite the fact that they now qualify for bus passes, we still think of them as "the boys."
Over the years they have had their health problems, but neither has ever let illness keep him out of the work place for a single day more than the medics have deemed entirely necessary. The pair of them are a credit to their departed parents and thoroughly nice people to know.
So thanks again, boys. We'll try to make it over there to you for a day in summer.
TELEVISION.
Endeavour has been back.
All the leading actors (and those who back them up) are excellent. Roger Allam's DCI Fred Thursday is the best character currently on television.
The Walking Dead is back.
All the leading actors (and those who back them up) are excellent. Chandler Riggs's Carl Grimes (below) is the best character currently leaving television.
On a personal note: we have very much enjoyed your acting (and seeing you grow up) over the past six years, Chandler. Thank you and every good wish for the future.

Post 285. THE CHEERFUL AND THE SAD.

 

FIRST THE CHEERFUL.
On the really bright side.

First and foremost we have had the news that our favourite granddaughter, Jess (above left), gained a first in her recent university exams.
I don't have an inkling what that really means (lacked the background and the nous ever to qualify for uni) but I gather a first anywhere along the line is a very good mark indeed.
We are delighted with - and for - her.
Bonchurch Pond no longer beckons, lovely girl.
And on Shrove Tuesday our favourite grandson, Ellis (above right), came here with his mum, our Roz (nowhere above), for the annual pancake fest.
He took one look at Mo cooking the first of the batch and asked: "Can I do that?"
Maureen has never in her life turned down a willing volunteer. "Why not," she said and prepared him with one more example prior to handing over the ladle and skillet.
He then turned out nigh on a score of perfect pancakes.
Any television chef would have been proud of him.
We certainly were.
We ate very well that evening.
AND NOW THE SAD.
RIP two more old friends.
The older you get the more it happens. Stands to reason, doesn't it?
A week ago last Tuesday: our friend, and a former work colleague of Mo, Joan Keep, died in a nursing home at Sandown.
Joan was highly competent at whatever she undertook. A first class social services administrator, a devoted carer to her parents throughout their later years, and a splendid gardener all her life, it was a particularly sad irony that this nice lady, eventually stricken with dementia, was forced to leave her pet dog, together with her lovely home and garden at Ryde, and go into care.
We were told that she died peacefully, in her sleep. No surprise there. Joan never made a fuss about anything.
Then, last Sunday evening one of the straightest coppers I have ever known, longtime acquaintance John Tree, died at his home on the mainland following a long illness.
John was a born policeman. I think he first went into the police as a cadet, followed that with national service in the Royal Military Police and then joined the Portsmouth and Hampshire force to serve out the rest of a solid police career, quickly reaching the rank of sergeant.
By the time he retired from police work I believe he had become something of a security expert.
For a while he was the highly respected security chief of the largest company here on the Island, eventually leaving when his health started to deteriorate and the commute from the mainland became too much.
I'm afraid I then lost touch - only hearing on the grape vine of his ventures into local radio and 'oldie' choir singing - but I continued to like him and everything I heard about him.
He once said to me, apropos the security world: "There's no such thing as complete security. You can never cover all the angles."
John Tree was a man to whom you listened. He had no time for bullshit.
Go carefully, friends, you're a dwindling race.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

.

 

 

 

Post 284. A LITTLE TOUCH OF SCHMILSSON

STILL LIGHTENS MY HEART.

Yep, a month into the new year
and time again to battle my annual inclination to cancel everything and hybernate for whatever remains of winter. Harry Nilsson (above) has been a godsend for years: A little touch of SCHMILSSON in the night on the music centre transforms my SAD into relatively optimistic for as long as it lasts, i.e. long enough to get me back to the keyboard with a faint smile on my face.
After that it's all a bit of a lottery. Finding music that is easy to listen to whilst retaining the incentive to scribble is not as simple as it may seem: few albums are good right through and those that are can be more of a distraction than an inspiration. I would perhaps eschew background music altogether - I do on the rare occasions I drive the car - but there's not just myself to consider: in our current ground floor living situation there's also my Leader
AND A CERTAIN CAT.

The cat Shadow can doze peacefully to Doris Day, Nilsson, Robeson, Tauber, The Hollies, most piano concertos and anything tuneful on the violin: I think the latter has some archaic connection to catgut.
He is not keen on anything too loud, clearly favours the romantic school, and is out of the cat flap like a bullet the moment Sir Simon or whoever opines that modern classical music is anything other than a cacophony. (I have taught him rather well. It's not.)
Right now he is asleep on a chair in front of a radiator and in sight of Mo's sewing machine in the study next door. She is working there.
The chosen music is gentle.
He is blissfully happy.
That's good. It spreads.
TELEVISION.

We have been watching the French series Spiral on BBC Four, the English series Kiri (with Sarah Lancashire - pictured) on Channel 4, and have finally watched the Bond film Spectre, originally shown on ITV1 on New Year's Day.
The French series contains more sexual content than the Bond film and the English series is more disturbing than either of them.
None of it has shocked or affected me as much as have the latest episodes of Silent Witness.
I can laugh at Still Open All Hours and Death in Paradise (picture below), too, and be close to tears over Call the Midwife.
I know, 'get' and 'a life' spring to mind.
All for now.

Next month: Text it, Brexit or Trump it?
Cheers.

.

    



.
 

 

Post 283. TO START 2018.

IN COLD LIGHT.

Whatever the tunnel it does all look rather black.
Somebody on television (possibly the ubiquitous Miriam Margolyes, top marks to her agents) recently remarked that they saw no light at the end of a tunnel.
How very sad that is, whoever said it.
But how understandable when you stop to think: around the world there is nonstop conflict, much of it indescribably bloody.
So vast are the numbers trying to escape assault or annihilation that many of the countries where refuge is customarily given are talking migrant saturation and threatening to close their doors.
What can anyone do?
Well in this country it seems what we do is try to sell arms to even more tinpot dictators than the current crop from whom we currently obtain billions of pounds a year (and probably sustain better than 100,000 jobs).
Nobody in government will ever be seen to lose such a buoyant source of revenue.
I think it's called 'economics' or, in political terms, 'common sense.'
I wish I could be optimistic, but in cold light, whatever the tunnel, it does all look rather black.
The rich get richer and the poor get stateless.
Not very promising, is it.
So, on a lighter note...
TELEVISION.  

Rummaging through my list of saved television programmes recently I found another recording of The Good Old Days (this one circa 1980) with Leeds City Varieties favourite Robert White on the bill.
He sang three songs and on that occasion concluded with the John McCormack signature tune I Hear You Calling Me.
It could have been the Count himself up there.
As he acknowledged the applause I said to my Leader: "Now that's a singer. Every word as clear as a bell." 
She smiled. "And effortless," she said.
Mr. White is also listed to appear on a Good Old Days (1980) repeat to be shown on BBC Four next Friday (19th January, 2018).
He was eighty one on the 27th October 2017. Doubtless still singing.
Doubtless, too, he will never see this blog post.
But belated birthday greetings anyway, maestro, and many happy returns.
SO ON TO.
An email Fw: Google Pizza sent to me by old pal David Parry which I hope appeals not only to those to whom I have already sent it but to anybody else who may read it, including those faceless geniuses at Google:
CALLER: Is this Gordon's Pizza?
GOOGLE: No sir, it's Google Pizza.
CALLER: I must have dialled a wrong number. Sorry.
GOOGLE: No sir, Google bought Gordon's Pizza last month.
CALLER: OK. I would like to order a pizza.
GOOGLE: Do you want your usual, sir?
CALLER: My usual? You know me?
GOOGLE: According to our caller ID data sheet, the last 12 times you called you ordered an extra-large pizza with three cheeses, sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms and meatballs on a thick crust.
CALLER: OK! That's what I want ...
GOOGLE: May I suggest that this time you order a pizza with ricotta, arugula, sun-dried tomatoes and olives on a whole wheat gluten free thin crust?
CALLER: What? I detest vegetables.
GOOGLE: Your cholesterol is not good, sir.
CALLER: How the hell do you know that?GOOGLE: Well, we cross-referenced your home phone number with your medical records. We have the result of your blood tests for the last 7 years.
CALLER: Okay, but I do not want your rotten vegetable pizza! I already take medication for my cholesterol.
GOOGLE: Excuse me sir, but you have not taken your medication regularly. According to our database, you only purchased a box of 30 cholesterol tablets once, at Drug RX Network, 4 months ago.
CALLER: I bought more from another drugstore.
GOOGLE: That doesn't show on your credit card statement.
CALLER: I paid in cash.
GOOGLE: But you did not withdraw enough cash according to your bank statement.
CALLER: I have other sources of cash.
GOOGLE: That doesn't show on your last tax return unless you bought them using an undeclared income source, which is against the law.
CALLER: WHAT THE HELL?
GOOGLE: I'm sorry, sir, we use such information only with the sole intention of helping you.
CALLER: Enough already! I'm sick to death of Google, Facebook, Twitter, WhatsApp and all the others. I'm going to an island without internet, cable TV, where there is no cell phone service and no one to watch me or spy on me.
GOOGLE: I understand sir, but you need to renew your passport first. It expired 6 weeks ago...
AND FINALLY.

Must go now: it's time for The Archers (an everyday story of BBC cosmopolitan country folk) on BBC Radio 4.
Keep smiling.