TV Obituary: Tim Lovejoy & Something For The Weekend

It's with a warm pint of joy that we bid farewell to BBC 2s horrible Something For The Weekend, a show so at home with its inability to deliver anything other than mild nausea and a rapid changeover that it's incomprehensible that it has lasted as long as it did.
Lazy television at its zenith, as if a bored producer whilst picking someones nose (maybe their own) had thought for several seconds:"What do people like on the telly ? Cookery programmes and celebrities" and had then vomited this non-idea every week into a bucket which presenter Tim Lovejoy then threw mirthlessly in our faces every Sunday.
You may be blissfully unaware of Tim; he once declined an award due to his 'hatred of long words'. Tim was named after the Reverend Tim Lovejoy in the Simpsons (despite being born before he'd been created) in a desperate attempt to make him funnier, he's a result of the embarrassed coupling of Lovejoy (off of the Antiques Roadshow) and the actress Phyllis Logan (as played by Joyce Grenfell when she was 15) in the back of a converted horsebox.

Tim has a proven track record in making unwatchable television that little bit less exciting and he goes at his job with all the zeal of a fucked corpse. The only presenter I've ever seen who's clearly counting the seconds until the end of the programme under his breath, which is more than can be said for the audience.

There's some lazy football chatter between him and resident chef Simon Rimmer, a tired swipe at students, 'taxdodgers' one of them declares hilariously, Rimmer can at least cook but it's as nothing next to the visible onscreen chemistry of the two. Simon sympathises with TIm after he went skiing and paid '40 euros for a burger.' Scandalous, their bored, dead eyes both seem to say, but it's alright because Tim reveals, 'it included drinks too.' Phew. Those of us holding out for the payoff aren't disappointed when Tim confides that the cycling he's doing is, 'hard work.' It is difficult to see why ChannelBee - the internet tv channel that was TIm's idea, failed after a year (2008-2009) given that a mainstay was a forum called The Banter Pit.
But there's a diamond in the rough, halfway through an interview Tim interjects: "We do a lot of offal on this show." There's a pause, the entire studio goes quiet - the camera goes to Tim. Has Tim said something funny ? There's not a hint of recognition from Lovejoy, everyone is relieved, the moment passes - he was simply making a factual statement that a lot of the cooking does involve the use of internal organs. And now, gentle reader, we can share the tv crew's relief because the production of offal is about to stop.

In the Garden of the Night

"The night is black,
And the stars are bright,
And the sea is dark and deep

And someone I know is safe
And snug, and the're drifting
Off to sleep
Round and round, a little boat no bigger
Than you're hand, out on the ocean, far away from land.

Take the little sail down,
Light the little light.
This is the way to the
Garden of the night"

Or Isle of the Dead as it should be known. Iggle Piggle (clearly an offshoot from the Hills Have Eyes Clan) guides you there as the eponymous ferryman - you'll notice he never sleeps until the end, ever watchful is Charon. There you are met and judged by Minos (Father Christmas), Sobek (the Crocodile from Punch & Judy/Peter Pan)
and probably Macca Pacca (a suspicious creature with the bodyshape of uncle Jesse from Dukes of Hazard who looks like he has had mouldering dog turds glued to him and then painted pink). If you have been very good you can spend eternity in Nigel Slater's herb garden eating his simple meals and pissing all over the rosemary.

For the rest of us it is the Night Garden itself - an endless purgatory populated by those whose souls hang in balance and their wardens.


With snakes for hair one of the Erinnyes pursues the denizens of the garden.

The Hahoos - imprisoned there by the gods of Olympus after their revolt lead by Typhon.

The Pontipines and the Wottingers - two houses alike in dignity, perhaps once known as Montagues and Capulets

The three-headed guard - Tombliboos - a grim wide-eyed Cerberus

All under the watchful eyes of Macca Pacca from his cave.

Lucky it's only for children or I'd be terrified.

Big Brother Is Watching You & He's Dressed Like Batman

Now I was going to write a blog taking the piss out of Nigel Slater - for his Saturday morning tv program - the one where he claims to make 'simple delicious meals' out of things that he has lying around. Of course the culinary equivalent of the Wombles isn't talking about a slice of 2 day old pizza and half a jar of Helmans from 2008.
He wafts like a pastel breeze over to the spotless fridge where, by chance, he happens to have, 'just leftovers really' - the breast of a roast swan, filet of unicorn and a bit of cheese. Then it's out into his herb garden/magic kingdom for 'whatever is in season'/is just lying about and oh whoops I've accidentally made a quick simple meal that has Greg Wallace pushing his snout against the window like a starving urchin.

But that can wait.
I had finished writing an e-mail, using my g-mail account, and sent it. When up pops, unbidden from me, a little link. Now I know that if I want free e-mail I have to pay the price somewhere along the line, quid pro quo and all that. But it never used to happen and I could live with (by which I mean utterly ignore) the ads at the side of the page, but this is a bit much.
Secondly - this is what the link was advertising:
http://www.morphsuits.co.uk
Now I know what you want to know, because so did I. Why this ad ?
According to the pop up:
"This ad is based on e-mails from your mailbox"

I was suprised by this - as well, the e-mail I had just sent was replying to a friend telling him what time we would be arriving for lunch. Here's the text (with names deleted)

Hiya XXXXXX,
Looking at train timetables I can probably get back from Gloucester on Friday evening, so barring mishaps we will aim to get to yours for 12-1 on Saturday if that is ok ?
XXXXXX has her tea at between 5-6 so we will be aiming to get her back for then - I have no idea how long it will take to get to yours by car but assuming an hour - we will probably leave about 4ish.

Is there anything you would like us to bring ?

Now my friend and his wife are a perfectly normal couple. They don't as far as I am aware have a dungeon. Neither do I for that matter. So I am wondering why g mail in its wisdom thought I might want, or indeed need, a full lycra bodysuit ? I suppose it is some small consolation that it wasn't crotchless.
Fortunately it is possible (I have learned in the intervening minutes to 'opt out' of such 'personalised ads' - but you can I am assured, opt back in again. Which means they are still collecting data from you, they are just not funnelling you the results.

It's all pretty unsatisfactory and the only real solution I can see is to revert to letter writing for the purposes of correspondence. Back when I had to do letter writing every Saturday morning at school I bemoaned that it was unnecessary (this was largely because I was a day pupil at a school predominantly comprised of boarding pupils - my point was that I really did not need to write mummy a letter telling her what a splendid time I was having and how I had built a camp and gone to the Good Copy tea party because I was seeing her in a few hours - besides she's not a stupid woman and there's only so much horseshit of that kind you can be made to swallow). Little did I know.
On the other hand I can now use gmail as a purely recreational tool, concocting increasingly unlikely epistolary compositions to see what personalised ads I receive
I shall start by writing to an imaginary farm based penpal using the following words:

Stallion
Oilseed Rape
Fertilizer
Cock
Brassica Napus

I am sure you can think of your own - and if you are not the solitary Marc Singer obsessed Bulgarian who reads this, feel free to post some of your ad results

Cheers.

Felines in Season

Lion in Winter

I went to the theatre last week, myself and the wife were very excited as it's the first time we've been since our daughter was born (not that we went very much before then) . Now whilst the evening ended badly (4 o'clock in the morning with me lying in hospital being given morphine after a rather vicious attack of gastritis, sans pants), the play did not, so I thought something approaching a little review might be nice. One of the charming side effects of morphine is constipation, so when you see it don't be suprised.
I'm feeling better now, thank you.


Cougar in Summer
I think the joke runs something like this:
Upon delivery, what were Quentin Crisp's first words ?
'Well I won't be doing that again.'
Though if I look it up on the internet it is more famously the pithy comeback of a 38 year old Burnley grandmother after being prosecuted for having sex with a 15 year old last August.
Memory is clearly no substitute for the web.
But for anyone who has seen the film version of The Lion in Winter, James Goldman's 1966 stage play it might be a similar verdict. Not because it's bad, quite the contrary, I just wondered what anyone was going to add that Peter O'Toole (Henry) and Katherine Hepburn (Eleanor) hadn't already.
It turns out (that ever obliging internet again and I can't help but feel that in return for this and other knowledge it's going to want my soul) it's not even the only film - Patrick Stewart and Glenn Close had a go in 2003 and Lawrence Fishburne and Stockard Channing1, on stage, in 1999. So I resolved to watch Trevor Nunn's recent revival, this time with Robert Lindsay as Henry and Joanna Lumley as Elinor , without leaning over to my wife every few minutes and whispering, 'it's not as good as the film.'
As an aside Channing won a TONY. Though you'd hope she was used to the dialogue since the play was a favourite of Aaron Sorkind, writer and creator of the West Wing (in which she played the First Lady, Dr. Abigail Bartlet). Some of you may remember the line from an episode of the West WIng 'when the President stands nobody sits,' (No internet - that was me. Though I have to look up which episode - 25th 'The Midterms'), it's not very far from 'When the King is up, nobody sleeps.' Though (and again not the internet I am afraid) Henry was famous amongst the chroniclers for his boundless energy - constantly on the move, unable to stand still - so Goldman had perhaps done his homework. Certainly more than he was credited by recent reviewers who described the play as hokum and the dialogue owing much to Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
It's a tale of the Angevin Royal family at Christmas. Henry, King of England, Duke of Normandy, Count of Maine and Anjou etcetera etcetera and his Queen, Elinor, Countess of Aquitaine (a province that dwarfed its neighbour France in size and wealth) in her own right. Elinor has been locked up after one plot too many and is being trotted out for Christmas Court as well as their three surviving sons: Richard (Lionheart), Geoffrey, and John. The young King of France is there too as Henry's upstart rival, officially to recover his sister's dowry since she has not married the English heir as the treaty agreed. Not least because the heir is unclear and even more so since the sister is now Henry's mistress.
The action comes in the dialogue between family sparring over the succession. Elinor wants the throne for Richard and the Aquitaine for herself, whilst Henry prefers the youngest, John. Neither consider Geoffrey. Hokum it may be and full of anachronisms but the dialogue still flashes like the knives everyone carries. Poinard rather than rapier wit, it's still sharp as mustard, Lindsay and Lumley snap back and forth at each other with relish. And it's the anachronisms that save it from the inevitable comparison, delivered as pithy asides by the two main protagonists they're cleverly used to get laughs. That they manage it is down to some clever casting, knowing not to compete with the film for gravitas, Nunn has opted for a medieval My Family in which his two leads are perfectly cast.
Yes the line 'What family doesn't have its ups and downs? ' sits incongruously in a medieval drama, but as comic punctuation, delivered at the end of a particularly rapid exchange it's perfect as a means of establishing this version of the play as a sitcom Christmas special, which is what they have very sensibly aimed for. Occasionally when they're forced to stray into drama Lumley and the three (very young looking) sons struggle and have to resort to shouting at each other. Which is a shame, but doesn't happen very much. So yes, it's not the film, it sensibly doesn't try to be; instead it's a more self consciously light hearted production, that whilst not the perfect antidote to rich food at Christmas as was evinced by my hours of subsequent agony and drug induced vacancy, the rising bile that was there didn't come from the performance either. Both reminders of the onset of old age and one's own mortality, and whilst the latter was cheaper I'd very much recommend the former.
Worth seeing.
Though do wear some underwear.

New Year, Old Habits

For those of you who are even partial acquaintances, who may have seen bits of me (in the shower or old issues of Woman's Realm), you may recall that prior to my blissful espousement (blows kisses at short suffering wife) I liked to spend the donging of Big Ben 'pon the lav. I feely admit it was a rather obvious and lazy way to display my cavalier disregard for the inexplicable excitement felt by those for the New Year. Fortunately my father-in-law has since appeared with his own proud tradition of fancy dress - inflicted cheerfully upon his family and their hangers on. Each year is themed, which allows me to attend every year as a nun, thereby creating a proud tradition of my own. Such festivities are not without a suitable level of danger - usually in the form of said father-in-law, sugar-deprived and caperng wildly as, armed with a flaming taper, he launches a small arsenal of fireworks at his wifes carefully pruned trellis, then at one or more gravid offspring (fortunately safe behind the re-inforced glass), all the while his son stands on in the costume of an officer of the NKVD.
This year it was not to be. My turkeden came home to roost - which serves me right for attempting to re-heat it and serve it up as risotto 5 days later. I was violently ill and unable to attend the annual costume party. Which had been cancelled anyway. So, alone I ushered in the New Year, my stint on the toilet now obligatory. Still, there's nothing quite so fine as playing Sid Meyer's Civilization at 3 in the morning dressed as a nun. No strides on, but I've dragged the Ancient Greeks into the Renaissance by 440 BC. Happy New Year.

On another, smaller, smaller note, how nice it is to have a Follower.
I'd all but resigned myself to becoming the destination of last resort for Eastern Europeans desperate for results from the search terms 'Marc Singer' and 'naked' (you know who you are - and you're probably using Google Translate to translate the rest of this now - I sympathise with your inevitable disappointment - but can not find my postcard of Bobby Chunka or I'd scan it in for you as a late Christmas gift). But yes - I feel like I'm a Character in the late 80s boardgame Talisman, so thank you Jez Fielder (is that a tent in the background) - your signed photograph of Simon Fay is in 'the post' (of course it isn't - I've probably lost that too. Though if anyone knows what happened to Simon Fay, last known whereabouts: Preston Tescos in 1994 - let us know. I should point out that Jez Fielder and I, like Richard Astley, are no strangers. He was the shorter of my best men at my wedding and very good he was too (reasonable rates available for wedding and Bar Mitzvahs).

Monkey Business

As I wandered alongside London's grim,polluted mistress, a portly,be-spectacled stranger propositioned me with an offer I could only refuse but not ignore.
'Would sir like to get in touch with his inner ape ?'
All true, except for the sir and the faux Dickensian waft; he was wearing a black nylon hoodie - adorned with a red logo announcing 'The Rise of the Planet of the Apes.'
I have left the grimmest bit of this invitation to fun,'til last.

He gestured at a large enclosed pen/climbing frame that wouldnot be out of place in a zoo. It was mostly already filled with similar 'keepers' some with video cameras, but there were people in there as well, those who they'd already lured off the street,all of whom were in various stages of play.
I didn't need to be asked twice - I leapt in the cage threw off my clothes and began to pelt those outside with my own excrement. Followed by vigourous public onanism and aggressive sexual harassment. Admittedly I have made it sound easier than it was. I was chased around the cage by guards. Fortunately they lack my climbing skills.

My point is this, in his novel Seeing, the author Jose Saramago describes an electorate who refuse to participate in the political system which serves not them but the interests of a political elite. The bemused political class only eventually realising that they have been utterly by-passed by a society that finds ways to exist and express themselves without them.
So that when David Cameron announces how tough he's been with his veto.
Or there is an utter failure to reach agreement in Durban about climate change. Or wise heads comment on the foolishness of the RBS takeover of ABN Amro, long after the event. Surely we should take to the outdoor spaces and express our disinterest faecally.

Italian Holiday Part One

I was rummaging through some old files and found a brief account of a holiday I took in Italy three years ago. People need to know the truth about Florence. A Room with a View has a lot to answer for. Good day.

Dear friend,

A word of warning about Florence.

Don't go there.
If you must have romantic notions about parts of Italy, and there are many that feel they must. then I urge you not to ruin them forever by actually visiting the place.
It will make you weep with its oppressive ugliness - even if it isn't raining. Which it will be.
It is the worst.
There is a Medici palace, that appears on the face of it to be all right but is utterly ruined by the performance art of George Adekunbebebeetc. whatever his name is.

One is confronted by some of the most ornate, resplendent, breathtaking indoor spaces of the Renaissance - and in each room is a placard proudly telling you how George Adkkkuntbeeetc has ruined it. In the manner of a tiny child showing mummy and daddy little Georgie’s first poopoo.

Some one has written the big words in neat handing for George, to explain what he has done. George is a ‘native African performance artist,’ what this means in practical terms is:
George can't paint (thank god)
He can't write either.
He might just about to be able to hold a stick and smile at you like some kind of retarded Indiana Jones extra in the vain hope that you give him money.
(This is solely based on the only evidence I have, which is a photograph of George, holding a stick and smiling with a bowl that has some coins in it)

What George can do (and has done IN EVERY ROOM) is lay out books, newspapers (whatever stuff he has lying about) in the Palazzo - these are meant to subtly blend in.
Quite how 'The Four Immortal Elements of Creation' that decorate the walls and ceiling, whilst a 16thc terracotta mosaic adorns the floor blends in with half a dozen old copies of Le Figaro strewn across the floor next to a 1970s dinky toy is beyond me.

But clearly not beyond George.
He really goes for it in the Medici private chapel.
There amid the gold leaf and weight of history - George has really exceeded himself.
On the floor he has arranged some books - in the shape of a cross.

My beloved had to explain it to me - but it's clever - you see - a chapel, some books in the shape of a cross. Brilliant. See, clever.

In one room I discovered an upturned paperback and a half empty bottle of mineral water.
What could it mean ?
What was George Abracadabrabayou trying to tell me ?
It turned out it belonged to one of the curators. It was their lunch.
I pondered what dark revelations George had in store for me by chosing to place the 1983 Look-In Annual on the stairs leading to the Exit,what did it mean ?

Ah I see.

Nothing.

The only redeeming thing was that on wandering through this ancient and impressive palace - I happened to walk into a full court session of Florence's civic body - it seems they still use the palace for day to day political business and you can watch.

The mayor/judge - I could not tell which, was brilliant.
He looked like Al Pacino - and in the midst of the court - with many tables of lawyers etc. was sporting a pair of sunglasses and a cheap beige jacket, the sort you would find being worn by many of our fathers.

I liked him more than a little.

The rest of Florence is beset by Americans and the smell of soiled leather. The Ponte Vecchio is small, characterless and adorned with gaudy unpleasant jewellry shops.
The streets are gloomy, and dirty.

Only where they have hidden Michelangelo’s David was there any evidence of scant humanity. There in a semi-circle of pious devotion sat the matrons of Firenze, steadfast, immovable (they were not giving those seats up ever),constant, faithful.
All staring at David’s sculpted and perfect marble anus.

We left Florence - with much joy
But what follows is, another story.