Friday 18 January 2013
Weak Ender
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVySc2Qu3WI
Hmmm. Watching this it's difficult to see how the Guardian Media Group could have posted a pre-tax loss of £75.6 million last year.
This ad should really turn things around.
About as funny as being squirted in the face for 192 seconds with two week old urine.
Wednesday 22 August 2012
Sid Owen
Happy is the man who knows that Sidwell Owen has retired from acting forever (as of January 2012) and the UK, and that man is me. For those of you unaware of the existence of Sidenham Owen, he read Classics at Oxford (a contemporary of Boris Johnson) but decided to go into acting after his translation of Book Seven of the Aeneid was poorly reviewed by E.V. Rieu in the Times Literary Supplement. Despite early promise at RADA, his lacklustre performance in a West End production of Hamlet, in the title role, saw him question his choice of career and, as he says in his autobiography, In My Own Words, in his own words, "I really thought I might jack it all in and go back on the bins."
It was only a chance encounter with old friend and fellow actor John Altman (they had previously met on the set of Return of the Jedi, Altman playing a rebel pilot, whilst a young Owen played the ewok that got shot by a Scout Walker) that saw him land the part of Ricky Butcher in Eastenders. Siddartha Owen would continue to leave the show and come back each time he ran out of money for the next two decades, all the while appearing in night clubs and going out with top-heavy models. As he once claimed, 'I like them big,' though that may have been Dean Gaffney. However in January 2012 he announced he was leaving Eastenders and television forever, giving up acting to go and run a restaurant in France and not coming back.
So I was bitterly disappointed, to the point of wanting to cry, when, whilst shopping in the local supermarket with my infant daughter, to see his stupid face staring at me from the newspaper. Wearing glasses. Now in this age of eye surgery, wearing glasses is a conscious choice, usually to try and look clever. Sid was back in the UK to attend a party to celebrate the return to our screens of Dallas. Many of you (ie. the two people nice enough to admit to following this blog, other than the hordes who want to see 'Marc' 'Singer' 'naked') will be aware of my love of Dallas and my deep joy at its return. To put this in context, there was the tiniest sliver of a chance that I may have been considered for the position of informing the viewing public about the world of Dallas, it's cast, their past, a fourteen year story arc that had everything. In the end they went with John Barrowman. Fair enough. He knows less about Dallas than I do, but he's been on television before, people have heard of him and he sounds American. Likewise the party, it's not something that would mean I would get to watch more Dallas, and aside from the stars, the guest list was pretty lukewarm (Gloria Hunniford, Roger Daltrey and Vanessa Feltz). But Sid Cunting Owen. FFS.
The thing is, in a while, Larry Hagman will pass away. He's 80 and he's lived a full and exciting life (quite a bit of it as a fictional character). There's going to be a funeral, and it's going to be an episode of Dallas. Heck, Anne Haddy (Helen Daniels from Neighbours) wanted to do it and she was no J.R.
Ewing.
Friday 8 June 2012
GOSH
The blog has a new title.
It's been bothering me (in the style of Columbo) that I was unable to remember this man's name:
You may recall, he was responsible for the continuity in between TVS programmes in the early 80s, later his disembodied voice would tell you it was time for Worzel Gummidge or whatever else was on.
The other thing that bothered me this week was that I had lost a comic shop.
GOSH is/was a comic shop that used to be on Great Russell Street opposite the British Museum. It always suffered a bit from being 'Not Forbidden Planet' but it was good enough that you'd go out of your way to visit both if you were in the area.
And it's not there anymore.
I hope it's just moved, I really do. It started in my lifetime, not long after Forbidden Planet had moved out of Denmark Street and was trying to look like a business rather than a place where 14 year old boys went to buy magazines under plain covers or you'd gone in there by mistake thinking it was a guitar shop. It sold comics but things you couldn't get elsewhere and the owners took a wider view of what was a comic rather than the Beano at one end of the spectrum and American imports at the other.
Its disappearance wasn't helped by what they'd replaced it with:
'Excuse me, but didn't this used to be GOSH comics.'
'Yes but now it is Sass-Bell.'
I know this, because, well, I can read but it doesn't really help me much. Not unless I want to buy a paper butterfly or a ceramic owl which to be fair, they have a lot of.
So it's a slightly sadder me that heads towards the big Waterstones, and there I do a bad thing.
I'm not going to say I wasn't thinking because I was.
I'm in the bookshop browsing away quite happily. I've read the first few pages of the latest book from the ginger Scotsman with a big beard, his name will come to me, Mock the Week - I was enjoying the first few pages - it's a heartwarming story about a boy and former slave in the Deep South, they're producing a botany encyclopaedia or something, there's aliens in it.
I decided to buy it.
On Kindle.
Now I couldn't in all conscience buy it on Kindle in the bookshop, so I just popped outside to download it. And that's the death of bookshops right there. Just like Gosh, and just like continuity presenter whose name I can't remember.
You can browse in a bookshop, in a way you can't on Kindle, but Kindle weighs less and cheaper and just easier. I'm not sure I am not the only one - it makes sense - look in the bookshop and then buy it on Kindle, but that's the death knell for bookshops. Unless of course the bookshops pursue some sort of luddite anti-technological warfare. Wireless deadzones around every bookshop so you have to walk for miles to download what you've just looked at.
Though if bookshops close, how long 'til Amazon hikes the prices of e-books ? Then all you'll be able to buy in shops is strong drink and ceramic owls and no one wants that, do they ?
It's been bothering me (in the style of Columbo) that I was unable to remember this man's name:
The other thing that bothered me this week was that I had lost a comic shop.
GOSH is/was a comic shop that used to be on Great Russell Street opposite the British Museum. It always suffered a bit from being 'Not Forbidden Planet' but it was good enough that you'd go out of your way to visit both if you were in the area.
And it's not there anymore.
I hope it's just moved, I really do. It started in my lifetime, not long after Forbidden Planet had moved out of Denmark Street and was trying to look like a business rather than a place where 14 year old boys went to buy magazines under plain covers or you'd gone in there by mistake thinking it was a guitar shop. It sold comics but things you couldn't get elsewhere and the owners took a wider view of what was a comic rather than the Beano at one end of the spectrum and American imports at the other.
Its disappearance wasn't helped by what they'd replaced it with:
'Excuse me, but didn't this used to be GOSH comics.'
'Yes but now it is Sass-Bell.'
I know this, because, well, I can read but it doesn't really help me much. Not unless I want to buy a paper butterfly or a ceramic owl which to be fair, they have a lot of.
So it's a slightly sadder me that heads towards the big Waterstones, and there I do a bad thing.
I'm not going to say I wasn't thinking because I was.
I'm in the bookshop browsing away quite happily. I've read the first few pages of the latest book from the ginger Scotsman with a big beard, his name will come to me, Mock the Week - I was enjoying the first few pages - it's a heartwarming story about a boy and former slave in the Deep South, they're producing a botany encyclopaedia or something, there's aliens in it.
I decided to buy it.
On Kindle.
Now I couldn't in all conscience buy it on Kindle in the bookshop, so I just popped outside to download it. And that's the death of bookshops right there. Just like Gosh, and just like continuity presenter whose name I can't remember.
You can browse in a bookshop, in a way you can't on Kindle, but Kindle weighs less and cheaper and just easier. I'm not sure I am not the only one - it makes sense - look in the bookshop and then buy it on Kindle, but that's the death knell for bookshops. Unless of course the bookshops pursue some sort of luddite anti-technological warfare. Wireless deadzones around every bookshop so you have to walk for miles to download what you've just looked at.
Though if bookshops close, how long 'til Amazon hikes the prices of e-books ? Then all you'll be able to buy in shops is strong drink and ceramic owls and no one wants that, do they ?
The Box of Delights - Closed.
POSTSCRIPT
Turned out GOSH hadn't closed - just moved to Berwick Street in Soho - because the area around the British Museum had lost its bohemian, literary quality - all the bookshops were being replaced with tourist tat and the British Library had left the building. It moved nearly a year ago, I just hadn't noticed.
Still the continuity presenter's name is Brian Nissen. He retired in 1987 and died in 2001.
The Scottish author was Frank Boyle.
The Scottish author was Frank Boyle.
Wednesday 25 April 2012
An Evening With Gerald
Has it been so long. Oh mes petites, how I have missed you. Everywhere I am told, write all the time, else you are nothing. So for a while I have been nothing and you will have to wait to hear of The Misery of Cornwall, The Haunted Bedroom, and Cheese-Making of the Apocalypse. Maybe I will never tell you of Garth and the Submarine and perhaps it is for the best.
For I was in training to run half a marathon, but that is done for another year and as is traditional my exertions left me gasping and wheezing with a man-flu of my own invention.
But today I am filled with excitement. I must confess I grew tired of my own inactivity , it is not nothing to be nothing, but it is not pleasurable. So tonight I embarked on a short evening course called Starting to Write Fiction. I do not know if it’s any good, but I did enjoy it. We were given an exercise to do in class: a postcard at random. Write its story for 5 minutes. Then after that what happened before (for 5 minutes), then what happened after (for 5 minutes). We had the opportunity to read them out; it felt strangely confessional like being a nudist who has gone to the beach for the first time.
Anyway at the risk of wafting my fictional endeavours in your direction and then holding your head under my creative duvet, here’s what I got up to.
Two On The Aisle by Edward Hopper (1927)
‘Are you sure that the concert is this evening ?’
‘Quite sure. I’ve got the tickets right here. You see, Wednesday the 25th.’
‘It’s just that the seats are all empty and there was no one at the ticket office. Even the orchestra pit is covered in dust.’
‘Here are our seats. Why don’t you sit down ? Look we’re not even the first ones here: there’s a lady over there in a box.’
‘Where ?’
‘Just up there. Don’t stare Muriel, it’s very rude. Actually I rather fancy, I said don’t stare, I rather fancy that’s Grace Kelly.’
‘No George, it’s a mannequin.’
What Happened Before
‘George ?’
‘Martha, my love ?’
‘Are you sure we’re going the right way ?’
‘Of course, look, here’s the A to Z. We’re going down this street and then we take a left.’
‘I do wish we’d taken a taxi.’
‘Well there was only one and Frank Sinatra needed it.’
‘You know George, I am not so very sure that that man was Frank Sinatra.’
‘He was the very spit of him and I should know, I saw him before, when I went to Las Vegas. On holiday. We shared the same urinal. He sang ‘My Way.’
‘When did you ever go to Las Vegas ?’
‘The summer of 1978, I went on a gambling holiday before I met you. I believe this is the place.’
‘It doesn’t look open.’
What Happened After
‘I’ve had enough George My feet hurt and we’ve been going ‘round in circles. Just admit that we’re lost.’
‘I am absolutely certain that we are on the right track Mabel.’
‘What time did the tickets say the performance starts ?’
‘Seven thirty on the nose.’
‘That’s only four minutes away.’
‘Worry not my dove. Your proverbial knight in shining armour will get you there in time.’
‘George there’s a taxi, please let’s take it.’
‘Very well my rose. Taxi ?’ ‘The Royal Albert Hall please.’
‘Shhh don’t say anything Mildred, but I think our driver is Clark Gable.’
‘Are you sure that the concert is this evening ?’
‘Quite sure. I’ve got the tickets right here. You see, Wednesday the 25th.’
‘It’s just that the seats are all empty and there was no one at the ticket office. Even the orchestra pit is covered in dust.’
‘Here are our seats. Why don’t you sit down ? Look we’re not even the first ones here: there’s a lady over there in a box.’
‘Where ?’
‘Just up there. Don’t stare Muriel, it’s very rude. Actually I rather fancy, I said don’t stare, I rather fancy that’s Grace Kelly.’
‘No George, it’s a mannequin.’
What Happened Before
‘George ?’
‘Martha, my love ?’
‘Are you sure we’re going the right way ?’
‘Of course, look, here’s the A to Z. We’re going down this street and then we take a left.’
‘I do wish we’d taken a taxi.’
‘Well there was only one and Frank Sinatra needed it.’
‘You know George, I am not so very sure that that man was Frank Sinatra.’
‘He was the very spit of him and I should know, I saw him before, when I went to Las Vegas. On holiday. We shared the same urinal. He sang ‘My Way.’
‘When did you ever go to Las Vegas ?’
‘The summer of 1978, I went on a gambling holiday before I met you. I believe this is the place.’
‘It doesn’t look open.’
What Happened After
‘I’ve had enough George My feet hurt and we’ve been going ‘round in circles. Just admit that we’re lost.’
‘I am absolutely certain that we are on the right track Mabel.’
‘What time did the tickets say the performance starts ?’
‘Seven thirty on the nose.’
‘That’s only four minutes away.’
‘Worry not my dove. Your proverbial knight in shining armour will get you there in time.’
‘George there’s a taxi, please let’s take it.’
‘Very well my rose. Taxi ?’ ‘The Royal Albert Hall please.’
‘Shhh don’t say anything Mildred, but I think our driver is Clark Gable.’
Wednesday 7 March 2012
Page 132
There’s a joke I am fond of, somewhat ironically given my inability to finish anything more than a bowl of soup: two men propping up a bar, one says to the other:
‘I’m writing a novel,’
‘Neither am I,’ replies his companion.
I know a lot of people like that. Me included.
And I’ve found another one in my front garden. Well a fragment, the top half of page 132.
Now it’s not my place to say whether it’s any good, clearly the author was dissatisfied, which is why they threw it away, and the wind has carried it to me.
Should I throw it away ? Or do I have a duty to a wider audience ? In years to come the relationship between Tom and Carol could be the literary mystery of the 21st century and here I hold the answer. Is this the work of a new Dickens, a Shakespeare, a Jackie Collins, maybe even, the next Dan Brown.
And who wrote it ? Is it the silver fox with his wine import business on the left ? Or his smiling but enigmatic partner, who knows what she does with her days. Are they the template for Tom and Carol ? Does he smoke discreetly out of the window and admire her for the way she hides her despair ?
Or is it the nut-brown hiker and his soft faced boyfriend ? Which one is responsible ? Why the two shades of ink and what is the guilt Tom carries with him. Has he lost Carol ? Will he get her back ?
Who is the secret novelist of No. 21 or No. 17 ?
If I go through their bins, is there more to be found ?
So many questions and no answers. It’s bad enough that I’ve stolen a bit of their novel (except it did end up on my property). And a new and terrible thought plagues me. What if the wind carried it from further away. It could be anyone in the road, or maybe it flew out of a car window.
So anyway, if you’ve lost the top of page 132, pop in to collect it, think of me as the literary equivalent of Bagpuss. Though please, stop underlining stuff, and don’t use the word despair in the same sentence, whoever you are. I know what I’m talking about you know, after all,‘I’m writing a novel.’
‘I’m writing a novel,’
‘Neither am I,’ replies his companion.
I know a lot of people like that. Me included.
And I’ve found another one in my front garden. Well a fragment, the top half of page 132.
Now it’s not my place to say whether it’s any good, clearly the author was dissatisfied, which is why they threw it away, and the wind has carried it to me.
Should I throw it away ? Or do I have a duty to a wider audience ? In years to come the relationship between Tom and Carol could be the literary mystery of the 21st century and here I hold the answer. Is this the work of a new Dickens, a Shakespeare, a Jackie Collins, maybe even, the next Dan Brown.
And who wrote it ? Is it the silver fox with his wine import business on the left ? Or his smiling but enigmatic partner, who knows what she does with her days. Are they the template for Tom and Carol ? Does he smoke discreetly out of the window and admire her for the way she hides her despair ?
Or is it the nut-brown hiker and his soft faced boyfriend ? Which one is responsible ? Why the two shades of ink and what is the guilt Tom carries with him. Has he lost Carol ? Will he get her back ?
Who is the secret novelist of No. 21 or No. 17 ?
If I go through their bins, is there more to be found ?
So many questions and no answers. It’s bad enough that I’ve stolen a bit of their novel (except it did end up on my property). And a new and terrible thought plagues me. What if the wind carried it from further away. It could be anyone in the road, or maybe it flew out of a car window.
So anyway, if you’ve lost the top of page 132, pop in to collect it, think of me as the literary equivalent of Bagpuss. Though please, stop underlining stuff, and don’t use the word despair in the same sentence, whoever you are. I know what I’m talking about you know, after all,‘I’m writing a novel.’
Wednesday 22 February 2012
Sherlock - fake death nonsense
That's me finger on the pulse of the nation (pay attention now pulses are important).
I just watched the DVD and thought I'd commit my own theory to posterity before they reveal all.
1. He asks Molly for help. He then sits there playing with a tennis/squash ball (pay attention this is important too)
2. Up on the roof he tells John to stay where he is (the other side of the lower building) - obscuring his view of the landing
3. He jumps, he lands in the hospital laundry truck - rolls out complete with fake blood etc.
4. John comes around the corner, he gets hit by the cyclist just in time for the laundry truck to pull away so it doesn't register with the good Dr.
5. John gets over to the body - note he only takes his pulse from the wrist - remember your tennis balls: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BC97Uie7IVM (how to fake your pulse with a tennis ball - only works if you are taking a wrist pulse)
6. Cue Molly's confederates who turn up and bundle the body off.
The only think bothering me is the rectangular marking s on the street and they may be irrelevant.
Of course the real triumph of Moffat and Gatiss is that in a mere 6 episodes they have managed to convert me to referring to Dr. Watson as John. Now that's the real trickery.
Of course the actual mystery is why, when the Post Office are making cutbacks and redundancies, a provincial Postman has been trained to fly a helicopter ? I thought it was only Royals in the armed services that got to learn how to fly. Though a closer inspection of Pat - big-eared ginger, looks a bit like Prince Harry in specs if he'd really let himself go.
I just watched the DVD and thought I'd commit my own theory to posterity before they reveal all.
1. He asks Molly for help. He then sits there playing with a tennis/squash ball (pay attention this is important too)
2. Up on the roof he tells John to stay where he is (the other side of the lower building) - obscuring his view of the landing
3. He jumps, he lands in the hospital laundry truck - rolls out complete with fake blood etc.
4. John comes around the corner, he gets hit by the cyclist just in time for the laundry truck to pull away so it doesn't register with the good Dr.
5. John gets over to the body - note he only takes his pulse from the wrist - remember your tennis balls: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BC97Uie7IVM (how to fake your pulse with a tennis ball - only works if you are taking a wrist pulse)
6. Cue Molly's confederates who turn up and bundle the body off.
The only think bothering me is the rectangular marking s on the street and they may be irrelevant.
Of course the real triumph of Moffat and Gatiss is that in a mere 6 episodes they have managed to convert me to referring to Dr. Watson as John. Now that's the real trickery.
Of course the actual mystery is why, when the Post Office are making cutbacks and redundancies, a provincial Postman has been trained to fly a helicopter ? I thought it was only Royals in the armed services that got to learn how to fly. Though a closer inspection of Pat - big-eared ginger, looks a bit like Prince Harry in specs if he'd really let himself go.
Monday 6 February 2012
The Royal Order of the Spaz
As we enter the end of days - it's good to see the slender pillars of salt upon which our society has been propped up for the last two decades crumble - the electorate turn on the politicians who turn on the journalists and everyone turns on the bankers. The dawning realisation, not that there is no society as someone with big hair once claimed, but that most people have known it for a long time but didn't care as long as they got their bonus/stolen trainers whilst rioting/moat paid for out of the public purse - because there's not a great deal of difference between any of them (as any fule who's read the end of Animal Farm will know).
It's important to blame someone. That, we can all agree on, blame in this century rallies us, it unifies the nation. The divestiture of Fred Goodwin's knighthood is a start, but does it go far enough ?
I was disappointed to learn that Fred doesn't actually have to go back to Buckingham Palace to hand the award back personally. This seems like a missed opportunity for pomp and shaming - two things we still do best. I imagined a cermony in which Goodwin is made to hop down the red carpet in a clown outfit whilst being pelted with rancid haggis. He then kneels, hands back the gong, whereupon the Queen will kosh him with the pommel of the sword. He is then given the option of having his knuckles rapped or being given a smack on the arse with the flat of the blade. A royal corgi will then ceremonially piss on his real clothes which he has to put on before being chased down Pall Mall. It doesn't matter who by.
Why stop there. There should be a regular Dishonours List - each year, those who have disgraced themselves in public life should be forced to endure some sort of ritual humiliation. The classical Athenians had a similar (rather more severe) mechanism - those who sought public office could be privately prosecuted for the decisions they took on behalf of the state. It meant some thought twice before even running for office.
Anyway I propose the Order of the Spaz. Spaz - derived from the Greek 'spastikos' - meaning pulling in or tugging - the medal or 'spastika' would come in the shape of a clenched hand - denoting the universal sign for tosser. Recipients would be forced to wear these medals whilst in public.
Failing that - they could start including more stringent ethical requirements in their terms of service upon which their pension pots were calculated or include pension and bonus forfeiture clause in their contracts. Sadly it's even less likely than the Order of the Spaz or The Venerable Merkin Order.
It's important to blame someone. That, we can all agree on, blame in this century rallies us, it unifies the nation. The divestiture of Fred Goodwin's knighthood is a start, but does it go far enough ?
I was disappointed to learn that Fred doesn't actually have to go back to Buckingham Palace to hand the award back personally. This seems like a missed opportunity for pomp and shaming - two things we still do best. I imagined a cermony in which Goodwin is made to hop down the red carpet in a clown outfit whilst being pelted with rancid haggis. He then kneels, hands back the gong, whereupon the Queen will kosh him with the pommel of the sword. He is then given the option of having his knuckles rapped or being given a smack on the arse with the flat of the blade. A royal corgi will then ceremonially piss on his real clothes which he has to put on before being chased down Pall Mall. It doesn't matter who by.
Why stop there. There should be a regular Dishonours List - each year, those who have disgraced themselves in public life should be forced to endure some sort of ritual humiliation. The classical Athenians had a similar (rather more severe) mechanism - those who sought public office could be privately prosecuted for the decisions they took on behalf of the state. It meant some thought twice before even running for office.
Anyway I propose the Order of the Spaz. Spaz - derived from the Greek 'spastikos' - meaning pulling in or tugging - the medal or 'spastika' would come in the shape of a clenched hand - denoting the universal sign for tosser. Recipients would be forced to wear these medals whilst in public.
Failing that - they could start including more stringent ethical requirements in their terms of service upon which their pension pots were calculated or include pension and bonus forfeiture clause in their contracts. Sadly it's even less likely than the Order of the Spaz or The Venerable Merkin Order.
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