poat 483. THREE ELECTIONS.

IN A DIFFERENT BRITAIN

FROM THE ONE WHERE I WAS BORN.
Sad but true. It matters not a jot to me that Labour won in Selby and Ainsty, the Liberals won in Somerton and Frome, or that the Conservatives scraped in at Uxbridge and South Ruislip. The country that Messrs Mather and Tuckwell and Ms Dyke are going to Westminster to govern is not the country into which I was born four score years and twelve ago.
I know I have written this before, but it is a sober fact. Throughout my entire childhood the only 'person of colour' upon whom I set eyes was on a cinema screen throwing spears at Tarzan, or singing 'Ol' Man River.' That is now considered a bad thing. We knew no different.
At the elementary school to which I was transferred at around six or seven years, little lads were still arriving barefoot and being fitted out with council boots so nobody would be in any doubt they were from a family too poor to afford shoes like the rest of us. It was that sort of means testing little country, and there are those today who, given the chance, would reintroduce it tomorrow. Empathy? Huh! But it does mean, whatever your race, creed, or colour, that I no more need a media lecture on discrimination from you than I need to hear some fanciful bullshitter sounding off about 'the good old days.' It was not a better country then, it was a different country. It's just more crowded now. And I do not like crowds. Crowds breed gangs and gangs breed bullies, and the biggest bullies get to the top. You only have to appraise the powerful in politics to confirm that.
So, even though I respect the views embraced by kind-hearted Brits in the media (more of them from abroad every year) that there is always room here, and there is loads of money here, and we are an accepting nation here, as a person of no firm political - or much other - belief, I do sometimes wonder how right they are. Is the struggle to rehouse the population of entire countries simply playing into the hands of the bullies who make those countries uninhabitable? And there's good and bad, even in a shifting population. But what else can we do?

Most of my contemporaries are dead and buried or incinerated, so I am too old to do anything.
Of all the mistakes I have made the biggest was in not doing as Maureen suggested, when we were  newly married, and try to emigrate to New Zealand. I weakly argued that a go-ahead country would not want an ex army wireless operator, they only wanted qualified tradesmen.
So we stayed put and, thankfully, both we and our surviving children have managed. But Maureen would have loved, even to have seen, New Zealand, and I didn't give her the chance.
I'm sorry about that. It clearly is a beautiful country, give or take the occasional earthquake.
Meanwhile, midst the same shrill voices of dissent in the the UK, my sole ray of cheer is... 

THE PROMS.

Where last night yet another of my wish list was ticked when Max Bruch's Violin Concerto No.1 was played by brilliant South Korean violinist Bomsori with the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by lively German conductor Anja Bihimaier. Bomsori delighted the Proms audience with an encore by a Polish composer. The rest of the programme consisted of the now customary mixture: i.e. the tuneful and the tuneless, the former to musically entertain and the latter to assertively educate. I'll settle for the former any time. Give us a tune, kid, give us a tune.

That's it for this month.

Even for those who play the fiddle.

Be lucky.  

Post 482. THE PROMS.

A GREAT START

ON TELEVISION.
The BBC Proms 2023 season fulfilled much of my wish list in its first two television broadcasts. On the first night Clive Myrie introduced a programme of Nordic music that opened with (1) Jean Sibelius's Finlandia, featured (2) Edvard Greig's Piano Concerto (a splendid performance by Paul Lewis), and (3) concluded with Benjamin Britten's Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra (presumably on the grounds that a young Nord or two would be watching it). The BBC Symphony Orchestra and Chorus was charismatically managed by Finnish conductor Dalia Stasevska. Three off my list in one night. The second broadcast ticked another two wishes off the list.
(1) It was introduced by Katie Derham, and (2) Finland's Pekka Kuusisto was back.
Pekka conducted Die Deutsche Kammerphilharmonie Bremen. The programme consisted of Andrea Tarrodi's composition Birds of Paradise, Beethoven's Symphony No.! and, with Pekka on violin (in company with Ale Carr), Vivaldi's The Four Seasons. The evening was an enormous success. Oh, the encore was verbatim the one given by Pekka at a similar function in Sweden a while back (see YouTube). But why not? Pull in the audience and you've got a good encore.

Pekka Kuusisto (for the benefit of any unapprised reader) is a truly great entertainer.
ALSO ON TELEVISION.

I have watched two mini series on BBC: The Sixth Commandment, and Body On The Beach: What Happened to Annie? Both are based on true events. The sordid side of real life does not appeal to me, but Sixth has a wonderful cast, and Annie a spooky fascination. I think they can still be watched so I shall say no more about them now. Just go carefully, friend. It's a weird world

Post 481. IT'S CYNICAL WARFARE.

WHEN YOU CAN BE BLOWN UP

JUST WALKING THE DOG.
It is cynical and cowardly warfare, but the most dangerous countries in the world are still producing landmines and promoting the use of cluster bombs. Now America is gifting cluster bombs to Ukraine for use against their Russian invader. Presumably because psychotic Russians are using them on Ukrainians. Has nobody ever heard the expression two wrongs don't make a right? Has nobody stopped to think that it won't be Russians who are killed or maimed by the unexploded residue of this cursed weapon when the invader has eventually departed? It will be another of those places in the world where you can be blown up just walking the dog. 

Is there no end to human senselessness? Apparently not. So, closer to home:
WHAT AN UTTER IDIOT!

As I write, the name of a BBC 'senior' who has been accused of unspecified but inappropriate behaviour involving a young man/some young men has not been divulged. Whoever it is won't remain nameless for long, and his career with the BBC will (may already) be over.
Why on earth didn't the fate of Phillip Schofield stop him in his tracks? What an utter idiot! 

TELEVISION.

BBC Proms are back on Friday 15th July. Hurray!

A recent prelude to them was the BBC4 Perfect Pianists From BBC Archives programme of 2016, presented by David Owen Norris, himself a fine pianist. It is now safe among my recordings.
And that'll do for now.

Take it easy

Post 480. DEJA VOUS?

WITH NO HELP FROM THIS LITTLE GUY.

WE DID THE USUAL CHORES.
There followed a visit to St. Mary's Hospital, Newport, me for a blood test initiated by my oncologist: Mo as my constant companion and faithful driver. It has all happened before. It happened again this week: Monday: Mo waited in the car.
A nice young woman shepherded me through the blood test process. I was in and out in half an hour, thankful again for the kindness and competence of a, doubtless underpaid, hospital staff member who will, in the current (caring?) climate, be required to pay to park her car in the grounds of the very place where she does such valuable work. Don't talk NHS Trusts to me!
We had a good trip home in the 4pm traffic and, for a change (hollow laughter), watched:
TELEVISION.
Still OK for the news and weather, most of which is painfully believable.
The rest is a mishmash of predictable chat shows, quizzes, and reality rubbish. I sidestep much of it. Mo is more open-minded. Films save the day for me. Recently we saw Tom  Hanks and Mark Rylance in the 2015 film Bridge of Spies, directed by Steven Spielberg. Based on a  true story in the Hollywood sort of way: Well scripted. Well acted. Thought provoking. We also saw Angelina Jolie in a gloriously daft Maleficent film. Needs no thinking. Just sit back and enjoy it.

At home alone (generally when Mo has departed with a book or to a tea and cakes morning), I rely on compact disc or television recordings, and on YouTube. Nearly all classical stuff.

What's the point of growing old if you can't be a predictable bore? And know it. And not care.
THAT'S ABOUT ALL FOR NOW.
Oh, if the surge in the number of folk who looked at WATCHING last month was not an illusion, I wonder if I praised somebody whose huge fan club reads anything that mentions their star's name. Or whether I have somehow been mistaken for another writer entirely. Nice anyway.

A WEEK AWAY FROM THE START OF THE PROMS.

MORE THEN.

Post 479. CHANGED MY MIND.

PURPORTEDLY A WOMAN'S PREROGATIVE.

WHICH, SURELY, IS A SEXIST MAXIM.
So why am I publishing this short post before the month ends when I had intimated that Further Reflections was to be my last until July? Changed my mind. Noted that the cat Spike had commandeered my chair at the painting desk and became, like the lady (unknown to me) in the picture above, in something of a quandary. Move Spikey and clean off the white fur left in her wake? Or eschew sexist mores and change my mind? No choice really. No painting on the stocks. Contented cat keeping old man company. Simple solution: if you write, write!
TELEVISION.
We continue to watch it, if only from behind a book or newspaper. Some of it is still worthwhile. The second series of Before We  Die (Channel 4) is hugely watchable if you like Lesley Sharp  We do. Though in this drama her character, Hannah Laing, is probably the most bull at a gate mess-up of a detective ever written into any cop show anywhere. Two series will be enough.
Currently the battle of the champions is being played out on Countdown (also Channel 4). These are people who know words the dictionary barely knows and can match Rachel Riley at maths.

I wrote reports and worked with figures for years: these champions are way out of my league.
But it's all very minor when compared to happenings in the real world. Callous coastguards leave hundreds to drown. Innocent civilians lunching in a Ukrainian restaurant are murdered by Russian rockets. A French policeman shoots dead an unarmed boy, and an abortive mission is launched to attempt the rescue of a not-fit-for-purpose mini submarine which, it turns out, has imploded.
No wonder we seek shelter in harmless quiz shows.

And this is as close as I'll come to one of these.
Careful how you go. 

Post 478. FURTHER REFLECTIONS

WITH AN OLD CD.

TO END A POP MUSICAL MONTH
And what better than with The Hollies 20 Golden Greats: an EMI CD of 1978 which has arguably never been bettered. It was the original Hollies, with Allan Clarke as lead singer, and I like every number on it. When I kick the bucket, if my family want a song with which to see me off at the crematorium, I'd suggest I Can't Tell The Bottom From The Top would be most appropriate: it perfectly sums up the feelings of an old man who, in 1962, had the good fortune to marry exactly the right girl. That self-indulgent disclosure apart, as pop songs go it's a helluva good one.
Well, the IOW festival came and went and so, this weekend (via the BBC for non ticket holders), did Glastonbury. We had 55,000 fans and Robbie Williams, Glastonbury probably had better than 210.000 fans and Elton John. We had Jarvis Cocker, Glastonbury had Yusuf/Cat Stevens. The majority of the music on offer, both here and at Glastonbury, was not to my taste. Unimportant.

Hundreds of thousands loved it and good luck to them, and to those who entertained them. I've only developed a preference for the classical genre as I've aged. Shan't grow out of it now. So to:

THE PROMS

FROM 14 JULY TO 9 SEPTEMBER.
No of course I won't be there. Have never lived near enough, and don't go far beyond our corner shop nowadays. Maureen has gone to the mainland to see her remaining sister today. Jac and Mike have taken her in the car. I like Marg, but doubt I shall ever venture across the Solent again. You have to recognise your limitations. That's by the by, The BBC Proms are back next month and, though sadly lacking most of my (Post 476) recommendations, are looking pretty good. I just hope they'll put young Benjamin Grosvenor on television, not banish him to bloody Radio 3: his droll lack of histrionics is totally British. His musicianship the nonstop honing of a natural gift. 
More about it all when it's underway. I hope it won't be too 'modern.'

If you're a Promenader, have a great time.

 

Post 477. THEY ARRIVED

 IN THEIR THOUSANDS.

FOR FESTIVAL TIME AGAIN.
It meant one way traffic for motorists on the Isle of Wight's busiest road (Ryde/Newport) from Thursday 15th June  until  the following Monday. A very long weekend. But a lot of people had a great time and why not? This year our grandson, Ellis Dayer, played bass guitar there. He and his fellow performers did their set in the Stage One marquee early on Saturday afternoon. Apparently all went well. We didn't see it. We have only ever seen the names shown on Sky Arts TV over the weekend. Don't like crowds, are picky with the music, and couldn't afford the tickets. 
For what it's worth, we liked Jarvis Cocker with Pulp on Friday night. Great festival opener. And Jarvis has been doing this stuff so long he can do it standing on a pair of giant speakers. We also liked, in no particular order, Mika, Anne-Marie, George Ezra, Sophie Ellis-Bextor, Sam Ryder, Toyah, Niall Horan and, top of the bill, the indefatigable Robbie Williams. It was a good festival. 

Oh, it rained: but only a light shower. Glastonbury's next. There it'll probably pee down. Ah well.

ADDITIONALLY ON SUNDAY

IT WAS FATHER'S DAY.

Or, as my wonderfully cynical (the apple doesn't fall far from the tree) daughter, Jac, put it: 'Contrived American nonsense day.' Son Neil bought two cards, the first congratulating me on passing my driving test: 'They didn't have any bloody father's day cards so this was the closest I could find. It's the bloody thought that counts!!' The second was a father's day card picked up from the display alongside the till in the shop where he had just bought the first one.'They'd been there over a month: I had talked to the lady behind the counter about them weeks ago , but you know my memory...' (ditto apple and tree quote). No wonder I love the pair of them.
Driving test? Yeah.  I passed it in 1957.
THAT'LL DO FOR NOW

BACK, ALL BEING WELL, QUITE SOON.

Post 476. SO I RELAXED

WITH TV AGAIN: .

WE WATCHED.
Poker Face (Sky Max): saw the entire ten part series in a weekend. Yes, it was a beguiling attraction. Created by Rian Johnson, the series stars Natasha Lyonne (above) as Charlie Cale, a good hearted young woman who has a unique 'gift:' she knows unerringly when somebody is lying. To add to her problems, she is a gifted detective who is not attached to the police, the FBI, the CIA, or any other of the multiple law enforcement establishments in America. And, in that vast country, have you any idea how many liars will also be murderers? Or how many criminals with an amateur detective /human lie detector allergy are likely to send a hit man after you?
I believe a second series has been commissioned. Great. This one was perfectly cast. Loved it..
We were not particularly bothered which Manchester football team won the FA Cup. Turned out to be City who beat United by two goals to one. We entirely missed the Epsom Derby. Had not allowed for an early start. Didn't matter to us. You will know who won if it mattered to you.
Now it will be nothing but tennis and cricket, Thanks be to Sir Henry Wood for the BBC Proms.
So to the pipe dream. (Not for you if you don't like classical music.)
MY PROMS SEASON.

NOBODY COULD BOOK (LET ALONE AFFORD) IT.

Not in the same season they couldn't. For a start I'd invite Pekka Kuusisto and the Norwegian Chamber Orchestra, and hope they would perform both Beethoven's 7th Symphony and Mozart's Divertimento in D Major K136.Perhaps they could even tackle Siblius's Finlandia (as a middle finger salute to the Kremlin). I would have orchestral sessions featuring at least two of the gifted Jarvi family of orchestra conductors (with intermission chats about their Estonian roots), and another with the talented Kanneh-Masons. The Academy of St. Martin in the Fields would perform Bruch's Violin Concerto, with Tomo Keller as soloist. There would be sessions of popular opera which would include Jonas Kaufmann and Kristine Opolais singing O soave fanciulla: the sessions would reach their conclusion with Bryn Terfel, and whomsoever he chose to accompany him, performing The Pearl Fishers duet. That would keep my Mo happy.
There would also be an abundance of piano concerti. Tchaikovsky One, Brahms Two, Rachmaninoff Three, and Beethoven Four would be featured. Litolff, too. I would invite any one of the following: Benjamin Grosvenor, Peter Donohoe, Stephen Hough, Lang Lang, Jan Lisiecki or Yuja Wang to demonstrate their grand piano skills again. I would invite Alexander Malofeev, too.
All interviews would be managed by Katie Derham.
Of course nobody could book, let alone afford, this whole shebang in the same season.

But you can dream, can't you?
AND SOMETIMES I DO WONDER...
What keeps my bedroom radio tuned to Classic FM?
At its best it is cheerfully presented and accepts modernity only through John Barry and John Williams. At its worst it is a melee of advertisements, one-movement-from-three in whatever classical composition, and messages from posh people walking their dogs in the Cotswolds.
I might go back to BBC Radio 4. 

Hope you, like us, are enjoying a spell of  sunshine.

Cheers.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

Post 475. SAD TIMES HERE

 AS I GRADUALLY DELETE NAMES

FROM MY EMAIL FORWARDING LIST.
This month we received news that Dave West had died. Dave suffered a deal of ill health over several years and bravely kept going. Back in the days of email exchanges he much enjoyed the sending and receiving of comedic messages: he had an insatiable sense of fun, and will be greatly missed, RIP old pal.
Our commiserations to equally good friend, Dave's wife Jean.
WE ALSO received live link details for Ian Dillow's funeral from his daughter, Kerry, but were sadly unable (either through technical or doddery old people failure) to connect to them.
I just know Ian would have seen the funny side of it.
He, too, will be greatly missed by many people.
Our thanks to Jean Dillow and Kerry Nicholas. Take it easy for a while, you two.
AND THAT'S ME FOR THIS MONTH.
No gay television presenter with a career death wish, or government minister of dubious principles, is worth naming on the same page as any of the above, so I will not name them.
And with any luck this will be published before Russia and/or China openly starts WW3.
What a daft world it is.

I'm just going to relax.

Post 474. REALITY TELEVISION

 A 21st CENTURY CANKER

ON A PAR WITH THE STATE OF OUR RIVERS.
What brought this on? Well, we have just received a missive from Southern Water telling us that our payment to them is going up yet again and will be close on £700 p.a. from 1 June 2023. This for a commodity that abundantly falls from the sky (ask anybody in Fort William) at no base cost whatsoever. In 1989 the water companies in England and Wales were privatised.
In 2020/21 the CEO of Southern Water was paid more than £1 million despite the fact that the company had been fined £126 million in 2019 for over 50 breaches of environmental law.
The above picture shows shit being shot into a British river. There is now barely an unpolluted spot left. Rivers, the sea, and many beaches are equally contaminated. Private enterprise? Huh!
REALITY TELEVISION.
No need to name names. You only have to watch the majority of the programmes that Gogglebox (Channel 4) regulars are required to watch. They're paid to watch it. I'm not. Just as well. I like most of the Goggleboxers, they're a good laugh, but I dislike just about every aspect of reality TV including most of its presenters  I give it a wide berth. None of my business that some unfamiliar celebrity wants to do silly things in a jungle, that a randy publicity hungry teenager is prepared to bed another randy publicity hungry teenager on television, or that somebody I do not know can cook, sew, dance, or be a good loser. And why do gay (black, white, or sandy-grey-russet) couples feel such a desperate need to be married in front of television cameras? Ah well.
It will soon be time for The Proms again.

Even with modern music that's real television. 

    
.  

Post 473. ONE OF THE ONLY THINGS

WE STILL DO WELL

WAS WELL DONE.
It was all there for the coronation of King Charles III. All the dressed up top toffs in horse-drawn coaches, followed by their posh kith and kin in large, expensive, cars of colour (you don't call anything black now, do you?), surrounded by marching, or impressively mounted, members of the various services, watched by a suitably distanced and mostly friendly public  It was one of the handful of things we have left in this country that we still do well. It was well done. Now it's over. Red Arrows flown. Horses stabled. Limousines garaged. Harry off home. Stand easy!
I really didn't know whether I could be bothered but did, of course, finish up watching it with Mo. Despite constant reminders that it was a much shortened version of the late Queen's coronation in 1953, I thought it went on a bit, and reading everything off cards made it look as though we're managed by robots: but witness PMs Question Time and you realise we undoubtedly are.. 

Not much more to say right now. Have heard today that a certain pain-in-the-arse acolyte of a former pain-in-the-arse US President is thinking of bullshitting his way back into politics here: and there are  many twisted minds who would support him. I can only think of two words to say to the lot of them and the second one is 'off.' Oh, I think his name rhymes with garage.
Have my painting gear set up ready to go but have not so much as picked up a brush. 

Perhaps it is time I seriously put my mind to it.
Nothing ventured...as the would-be-returned politician might say..
Away with pomp

Until next time 

 

Post 472. ALL'S QUIET

 ON THE WORLD SNOOKER FRONT

A BELGIAN WON.
In what turned out to be the most fascinating World Snooker final I have ever seen, young Belgian Luca Brecel beat Mark Selby 18 - 15 to win half a million quid and the trophy.
Mark, though tactically as brilliant as ever, had to settle for two hundred thousand, a medal, and the admiration we reserve for heroic, sporting, runners-up in this country. Both men were a credit to the game. It was a good competition throughout. The two tables set-up at the Crucible seems to be a bit of a bundle, but it all works out well in the end, and Sheffield is a warm-hearted city deserving of the favourable publicity it gets. We almost became snooker fans.
ALSO ON TELEVISION.

We watched Great Expectations (BBC1) with somewhat less than great expectations, so were not entirely surprised that Steven Knight's mini series took us far from the Charles Dickens original.

It did not help that we still remember the David Lean film, made in 1946 starring John Mills and Finlay Currie: the entire cast, including little boy Pip, played by Anthony Wager, and Miss Havisham, played by Martita Hunt, was a casting director's dream. Sadly, even Olivia Colman couldn't better such a line-up on her own. So the 2023 version got a thumbs down from us. 

Fortunately, the BBC simultaneously repeated a 1999/2000 series of David Copperfield, directed by Simon Curtis.  What a contrast!

Young (pre Harry Potter) Daniel Radcliffe was the boy Pip, Maggie Smith was Aunt Betsey, Bob Hoskins was Wilkins Micawber, and Nicholas Lyndhurst was a hypnotically unctuous Uriah Heep. Oh, there was also Alun Armstrong, Trevor Eve, and Michael Elphick. It was Dickens as written by Dickens, with sound direction and a stellar cast. Thumbs up! Thumbs up!

LOCAL ELECTIONS AND THE CORONATION.
We didn't have a local election that I know of. If you did I hope you were happy with the result.
And that's it for now.
Mo will watch all the excitement tomorrow. 

If I'm not feeling too bolshie I probably will too.
Luck and good cheer to you and yours.    

Post 471. A SHORT MONTH.

SO ONLY

A SHORT POST.
The one in the picture was once topped by an owl who lit up at night. His lights went out when he became detached from the post, landed in the car park, and was run over by the gardener's truck. We have a replacement (courtesy of Jac and Mike) for which we are trying to find a safer nest.
MEANTIME IT'S TELEVISION.
Weather still a bit cold for long spells in the garden so we have watched more snooker than expected. Well, when the BBC gets The Crucible in its camera lenses there's not much else to watch. The final is on today: Mark Selby v Luca Brecel. If Mark Selby wins it will be his fifth time as World Champion: he beat Mark Allen in the semi final. I think his opponent finally succumbed to the tedium of watching him make up his mind what his next move would be. It could be a very long final. Luca, a twenty eight years old Belgian, looks and plays twice that age. He could win..
Of course we'll watch it. Then we'll watch the final episode of Great Expectations.

Is there no beginning to the excitement.
AND TO CONCLUDE.
We were saddened this month by the death of two old friends, Maureen Timmins (here on the island), and Ian Dillow (at his home in Romsey). They were thoroughly nice people and will be sorely missed. We have been, and will remain, in touch with Maureen's daughter, Wendy, and Ian's wife, Jean. Our condolences to both families  and I print below, for the last time, the only picture I have of either of them. This is Ian with Jean.

That's all for this month.

Post 470. ALLEGED BULLYING

IN THE GROWN-UPS PLAYGROUND

AKA PARLIAMENT.
What a surprise! Deputy Prime Minister Dominic Raab, accused by sundry civil servants of bullying, and following an investigation by Adam Tolley KC, is now former DPM. Can't say I have sympathy for him. There are too many bullies in this little country. Always have been. They built an empire. They went around the world telling the natives of other countries: "You are now citizens of the Great White Queen." The descendants of those so rashly integrated (and their like) now arrive here in droves to claim their inheritance. Do you blame them? I don't.
Like the Victorians, bullies of today never know when to keep their mouths shut. Mr. Raab concludes that the investigation was 'flawed.' Well, Mr. Trump complains that the last American election was 'rigged.' How quickly bullies becomes whiners. Ho hum.
TELEVISION. 
It is snooker from The Crucible Theatre, Sheffield, again. If you enjoy watching two guys knock a load of coloured balls about a baize covered table to the accompaniment of constantly droning old snooker players trying to give value for their commentator's fee, you'll love it. I'm impartial. 
This year has so far been brightened up by the unexpected arrival on a table of a powder 

scattering protestor. I think the protest had something to do with climate change. He was removed, and the mess cleaned up, and the ball potting went on. Ah, someone is always protesting about something. It's Britain in the twenty first century. Nothing much will be done.
SAME GOES FOR ME

Nice people have gone from the world and I don't know what to say..
So I'm off for a while to do other things. 

Such as?

Might do a bit of painting.
I'm my own boss. Well, almost...
Whatever you're doing: enjoy it.

Post 469. THE 'NO COMMENTS' MALARKY

 AT THE END OF MY POSTS ON

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?
The dreadful admission is I don't know. It is part of the Google Blog set-up. Presumably some bright spark surmised that the addition in smaller letters of the words Post a Comment after No comments might encourage a response from the reader. I don't know and nobody at Google can be pestered for an explanation because nobody at Google has discourse with anybody outside Googleland. This, in common with so much that I write nowadays, is a repetitive moan and may, at least partly, explain the dearth of comment on my meanderings. From all I hear, Twitter and TikTok are plagued by unwell-wishers wishing unwell to total strangers, so my empty No comments Post a Comment spot, for whatever reason, is probably a positive. Say no more.
TELEVISION.
The customary preparations for summer are underway with an abundance of  'previously unseen outtakes from the concluded series' increasingly in evidence. Would I Lie...? is still worth a look.
The news, home and abroad, is uniformly dire; game shows are packed with people incorrectly described as 'celebrities,' chat shows attract recognizable celebs if they have something to sell, and any viewer who cannot conjure up iPlayer, X, Netflix, YouTube etc., is on a hiding to nothing.
Nowadays I get up every morning to the sound of whichever Classic FM broadcaster is silently seeking a knighthood by including something conducted by King Charles' pal John Eliot Gardiner.

I have breakfast and turn on the television. The Vine Show. If it's Yasmin Alibhai Brown or Owen Jones I stay with it. If not I run the tape (who the hell watches advert littered programmes 'live?') right through to 'The Papers et al.' I then decide whether or not to stay with Storm Huntley and the (who?) pair allocated to her as guests for the remainder of the morning. Mostly I do not..
Occasionally I watch a B picture on Channel 5 in the afternoon. As a rule it is an innocuous little  thriller, one that provides employment for actors who may never reach the heady heights.
The acting world is crowded and its stars are comparatively few. Good luck to the B picture crew.
Mo likes quizzes and some of the antiques and property search programmes. I like fictional detective stuff. We record most of our favourites and together watch quite a lot of Netflix. Recent films we have enjoyed include a second viewing of News of the World in which Tom Hanks starred with young Helena Zengel, Troll (2022) a fascinatingly dubbed Norwegian film, and Monster Hunter, which was based on a video game and often showed it.
I am usually late to bed and spend time watching You Tube. The adverts can be irksome, but they can be rushed through or wiped, and my Search list outweighs the interruptions.

I HAD MORE TO SAY.
But they were sad words and you will have your own sadnesses. So I will decline.
Peace and comfort to you and yours.
 

Post 468. I HAVE LOST TOUCH

WITH MANY OLD FRIENDS.

AS THE CLOCK TICKS ON.

It was inevitable I suppose. Those still alive are less active, or unwell, or simply can no longer bother with prattle. They neither answer the telephone nor reply to emails. They seem very old.
Sometimes, but fortunately not often, I know that feeling. I try to ignore it.
Yesterday I telephoned old pal Bill Harrison who lives in Pitlochry (Scotland for any American browser who still reads) and, surprise surprise, got through for the first time since last November (Post 454 refers). His hearing has not improved and he is currently paying a fortune for private treatment. So he talked at me for ten minutes or so, bless 'im, and at least I know he's alive.
Old age, as I tend boringly to opine, can sometimes be better imagined than experienced.

But, yep, it beats the alternative. So I cling to my sense of humour even though...

I DETEST PRACTICAL JOKES

AND LOATHE PRACTICAL LOKERS.
So on Saturday last, April Fool's Day, I kept my head down and scanned the paper (i weekend).
Patrick Cockburn was on form (when isn't he?), and I avoided any terribly funny deliberate error perpetrated by a 'humourist.' Nothing ever matches Panorama's 1957 spaghetti tree hoax.
Practical jokes played on individuals are invariably mean-minded laughs at the individual's expense and, 'learning to take a joke' bedamned, deserve the reward of a punch on the nose.

Not by me. At my age I only think violently: mostly when I'm watching reality television. I try to be impartial, but you can no more like everybody than you can expect everybody to like you. Thus to:

TELEVISION.

Where we have watched Meet Joe Black, a film starring Brad Pitt, Anthony Hopkins, Claire Forlani and Marcia Gay Harden. Apparently it received iffy revues back in 1998. We enjoyed it.
We also enjoyed the BBC series Beyond Paradise starring Kris Marshall and Sally Bretton. It was full of old-fashioned British daftness, so it suited us. Anyway, I have had a crush on Barbara Flynn ever since The Beiderbecke Tapes. Now that was a great series.

On Sunday mornings we have been watching Love Your Weekend with Alan Titchmarsh.
Celebrity guests appear and talk about their latest television show, book, play, film (you name it). their love of the countryside, and their part in its upkeep by dint of the farm they own and visit when they are temporarily without a  showbiz engagement. We have liked most of the guests so we have generally liked the show. We have enjoyed the llamas, shire horses, piglets et al, too.

But we have been resident on this (mostly pleasant) island for fifty five years. Our entire family currently lives here. We feel we belong. Which sadly means that the Channel 5 series The Isle of Wight - Jewel of the South, commentary by Mr. Titchmarsh, has not been to our liking  In fact it has been a load of back-scratching 'overner' crap. Ditch it. Go back to the bloody garden, Alan. 

HAVE A GOOD EASTER BREAK

WHETHER OR NOT YOU HAVE A RELIGION
AND GO CAREFULLY ON THOSE ROADS.

 
  

Post 467. BRIGHT, WINDY DAYS.

 WITH ONLY CATS AND FIDDLE-FADDLE

TO DISTRACT ME.
If I was a disciplined professional I might have written the opening chapters of a whodunit in the time it has taken me to start this post. The spirit has been willing: the muse, weak.

I have fussed around; feeding cats, making cups of coffee and tea, emptying the letter box, skipping through past blog posts, and handling routine chores. I have also fallen asleep with the cat Angel on my lap at around half past four every afternoon (even the annual buggering about with the clocks has not changed that). I have simply lacked the drive to shove a few words onto a computer screen. Sadly, my inhibition has not been helped by my current book of choice, Philip Pullman's Daemon Voices on stories and story telling. Sir Philip is unlikely ever to see this.

But what if somebody draws his attention to it because his name has been mentioned? Will he be disinclined to excuse grammatical malfeasance by a writer who has a collection of his books? 

I fear so. And the end of the month is upon us.  
So it is deadline time again for Den Barnden: Watching. 

Who says so? I do: and I'm the editor.

My grammar may not be pristine, but I'm a tough editor.
Chance academic criticism.

Publish and be damned!

Good day one and all.

    

Post 466. THE PIANO

ON TELEVISION.

DID YOU SEE IT?
It was a Love Production for Channel 4, presented by Claudia Winkleman, and 'a must' for any lover of the piano like me, a non player, whose childhood piano lessons got as far as Drink To Me Only with both hands before the discovery that I was reading the music from the numbers printed on the notes, rather than on their position on the score, brought an abrupt end to my tuition. Nobody had mentioned that the numbers were only a basic beginner's guide, I can still start DTMO with both hands, but probably not finish it. Bit like the lessons really. Ah well.
Back to The Piano.
 Amateur pianists were invited to play pianos sited on railway station platforms at St. Pancras in London, at Leeds, at Glasgow. and in Birmingham. Unbeknown to them they were being watched by the renowned performers Lang Lang and Mika who invited all of them to be spectators at a special concert to take place in the Royal Festival Hall, and who chose one of them from each group to play at the concert.
The chosen four were: Jay (25) from the Isle of Wight (winner at St. Pancras), Lucy (13) from West Yorkshire (winner at Leeds), Sean (27) from Edinburgh (winner at Glasgow), and Danny (26) from Manchester (winner at Birmingham). All were delighted to be chosen.
As is always the case in television, some dickhead in power insisted there be a winner because that's what the public wants/needs/expects.
So, come the performance, the ultimate accolade was given to  Lucy, whose performance of a Debussy Arabesque was beautiful, touching, and entirely worthy of the standing ovation she was given at its conclusion. Lucy is blind and neurodivergent, and everybody loved her.
But every one of the chosen finalists was a winner.
Did you see it? If you are in any way a piano lover it really was the best reality television so far this year. A welcome change from cooks, twaddle talkers, and junk dealers, too.
Well done all concerned.
BUT HERE THEY GO AGAIN.

THE STUDIED COMPLAINANTS.
Other than condoning change for the sake of it, why would any English speaking person heed the latest problematizing of our language, Oxfam's Inclusive Language Guide? 
Oxfam staff are apparently being urged to amend what we dinosaurs used to think of as 'plain English' (e.g. mother and father are out, parent is in). For what misbegotten reason?
Don't ask me. Ask Oxfam or any other of the studied complainants. They will find an abundance of reasons: anything from colonialism to disablism to  racism to sexism (not forgetting - never forgetting - anti Semitism). Give 'em the nod and they'll all moan together. It's a mad world.
And I've probably offended enough people for now.
Back before the month is out.

Post 465. STILL TAKING IT EASY

 WELL, WHY NOT?

WHEN YOU HAVE A BUDDY LIKE THIS,
It has been gradual but inexorable, the cat Angel's decision to befriend me. I put it down to our old pal Shadow's influence. He, as any regular reader of this blog will know, was my constant companion for many years, and his spirit still strongly exists here. At an early age I was firmly advised by my father that I should not believe in ghosts. "If you can't see it, it ain't there." Perhaps as a consequence, I have never seen a ghost. Ghosts are for people who want to see them.
But I do believe in spirits: for all, not just human, creatures. So I believe the spirit of the cat Shadow, along with that of our dear Roz (who would have celebrated her fifty third birthday last Sunday), are still here with us, and will be until we, too, become spirits. I'm happy with that.
ENDEAVOUR.
So that's it then. No more real ale, Times crossword, and elderly Jaguar cars. No more unfathomable (other than by our hero) murder mysteries and obscure classical music.
No more dah dah, dah dah dah, dit dah dit, dit dit dit, dit.
Or, for those not familiar with the code, no more Morse.
The last Endeavour episode did occasionally present as a tortuous attempt to tie up all the loose ends. Those who saw the last episode of Game of Thrones will know what I mean. But this was saved (as has often been the way) by the credibility of the entire cast. A wonderful team effort.
We saw it right through and then watched the denouement where cast members from every adaptation (Morse, Lewis, Endeavour) got together for the final farewell. Fascinating. Who would have imagined that Shaun Evans (Morse) has a north country accent, that Sara Vickers (Miss Thursday) is a Scot, or that Sean Rigby (DS Jim Strange in Endeavour) would one day become James Grout (Chief Superintendent Strange in Morse). Ah well: all good things...

GARY LINEKER.

I don't know the man. I have not been a football fan since the glory days of  1948/49 Pompey  I think every celebrity (however well meaning) should take a breath before spouting in public.
But so, I believe, should every touchy race, creed, or clique that leaps to take offence on their own or another's behalf  no matter how tenuous the connection.  Give us a break. Shut up. 
And let Gary Lineker continue to enjoy freedom of speech. After taking a breath, eh?

Even if he never did play for Pompey.

Keep warm. Keep safe.    

Post 464. TAKING IT EASY.

IN THE USUAL WAY.

WATCHING TELE TECS.
Endeavour is with us again. Hooray!
Shaun Evans as Endeavour Morse and Roger Allam as DCI Thursday, together with the same superbly chosen cast of fellow actors, are back on ITV1 for Series 9. Loose ends are being tied up and character development clarified. Shaun Evans' Endeavour has been a fitting tribute to the late John Thaw's older Morse, and Roger Allam's  Fred Thursday will always be one of my favourite television coppers: I have known a lot of  policemen over the years and he epitomizes the best of every old-fashioned one of them. I'll say no more or he may have to take his hat off.
This is a very short (three episode) series and, sad to report, will be the last ever. So the final appearance (other than repeats) of the late Colin Dexter's popular characters will take place next Sunday evening. If you want to see it, be there, as  Home Office pathologist Max DeBryn (James Bradshaw) might advise, at: "Shall we say eight o'clock?
Unforgotten is back on ITV1. (Or the entire series 5 can be viewed on ITVX.) It is not really a spoiler if I reveal that Sunny (Sanjeev Bhaskar) is sadly missing last boss Cassie (Nicola Walker) who died in a car crash at the end of series 4, and is thoroughly detesting new boss Jessica ("Call me Guv") James, played by Sinead Keenan. Every leading character in the story has 'at home' problems which, to my simple mind, is more than I have ever needed to know about a copper, fictional or not, but the acting is brilliant throughout and we shall enjoy every moment of it.

 Apologies if you are not a fan of the television detective genre.

And no, I wouldn't sack Gary Lineker.
Whatever happened to free speech?

That's all of mine for now.