What Was 2009 For...

Now we enter 2010 and the immortal question posed by the marvellous Tim Minchin 'what was (insert previous year here) for?' must be asked once again.

Well, I'm not entirely sure what 2009 was for. In terms of pop culture, it was yet another disappointing, vacuous, contemptible year, full of equally disappointing, vacuous and contempible celebrities. That is why I feel no shame or regret at all for failing to keep up with things. For example, I had no idea who pint-sized, Ellen Page-faced, Paul Phoenix-haired tosspots Jedward were, until it was explained to me by my mum, who has never watched X Factor either. That said, when I did suffer the misfortune of seeing a clip of them, I wanted to tear out my own eyes and use them as earplugs.

Now I've never watched X Factor, but neither have I ever had the faintest urge to watch it. It is a circus sideshow for the modern age - idiots being baited by overpaid wankstains. Cowell sits, trousers hitched, blindingly incandescent teeth on show, while some poor tone-deaf mancub howls at the moon like a bewildered King Charles Spaniel. That said, there are those (like John and Edward) who have mastered the art of being amusingly shit enough to make it to TV, but not so bad that they instantly become hate figures (although the two twins did a fairly poor job of the latter). In BBC's X-Factor ratings rival, Strictly Come Dancing, BBC Breakfast sports presenter, Chris Hollins struck a blow for the ordinary man against muscular driving offender, poor loser and actor, Ricky Whittle.

Of course there was a whole host of much more edifying television on our screens, but the sad truth is that it doesn't tend to linger as long in the memory as those abhorrations perpetually churned out by the idiotbox (yes, I'm looking at you Channel 4's The Execution of Gary Glitter and ITV 2's Fearne Meets... Peaches). Thankfully there were a number of Doctor Who specials to restore my faith in 'popular' television. They featured the last appearances of David Tennant as the Tenth (and greatest) Doctor. The high quality that had become the trademark of Russell T Davies' tenure was maintained and the finale, well... I can't really talk about it seeing as it happened in 2010, though I read in the paper today that Matt Smith is already in trouble for a patently inocuous 'ginger comment' - perhaps another hallmark of the year, the rise of gingers (they seem to have misunderstood how much oppression one needs to go through before they're allowed to whinge about these sorts of things).

In sport, football continued its descent into becoming some manner of Orwellian Hell, where all teams are equal but some *cough* Man City *cough* are more equal than others. The end of the year also saw the introduction of new regulations, the most important of which being that Manchester United were allowed indefinite injury time until they were able to win or draw the game. The Ashes were reclaimed in sometimes nailbiting, sometimes emphatic, but always entertaining fashion. In Rugby Union, England finally called up man-mountain Matt Banahan to play Wing and the big Jersey boy did Bath proud on the international stage.

In music, there was yet another terrible year of hip-hop, dub-step, grime and various other genres that I don't fully understand. There were a handful of half-listenable 'popular' albums, none of which I can actually remember off the top of my head. There was an 80s revival. Sadly this 'revival' consisted of female singer/songwriters, such as Little Boots and La Roux. Now, critics fell over themselves to heap praise onto these kinds of people, but the songs put forward as much of a case for the eighties as a heady, creative decade as Margaret Thatcher does. Now this leads me to believe that either there's something wrong with me or that there's something wrong with everyone else. Well, I can state categorically that it's definitely the second one. I like 80s music - I love Spandau and OMD and Hair Metal and Synth stuff, but even so these modern artists did nothing for me whatsoever, apart from leave me faintly depressed and annoyed that I can't just lay down and accept this stuff. People got over Amy Winehouse exploding in a massive shower of hairspray, booze, cocaine and court orders by leaning on copycat crutches like Paloma Faith and the mini Winehouse, you know the one, the goddaughter one (none of which are really my cup of tea either). Feel free to comment if you can remember any good music from last year, it was a bit of a blur really. I think I gave up on pop music when R&B stopped meaning The Who and the blues revivalist bands and meant pounding, incessant drum machines and warbling. Seriously, I've been listening to Radio 2 since I was about 14, that's what 'popular' music drove me to.

One triumph seems to be comedy. The year saw We Need Answers and the TV series of Cowards (my pick for TV of the year, despite its cruelly short 3 episode run). Criminally there is to be no more Cowards. But, in a world that allows Horne and Corden oodles of cash and a whole bunch of commissions, I suppose it was to be expected.

Radio comedy too continues to put many of its TV counterparts to shame. There was the hilarious ElvenQuest, a spiritual successor to the Geoffrey Perkins-produced Hordes of the Things and Bleak Expectations returned for a triumphant 3rd series.

So what was 2009 for? Well, it mostly stood for disappointment and edging us all, ever-so-slightly, closer to the void, but there were glimmers of hope. So goodbye to the noughties (thank goodness, it is without doubt the worst epithet for a decade ever) and hello 2010 (to be pronounced twenty ten, methinks, for time saving purposes).

I would give you one of those flashy TV style 'Coming up...' segments about future blogs, but truth be told if one were to examine the workings of my brain, you wouldn't see ideas, simply some random thoughts about bears, that man from the Montgomery Flea Market ads doing his rap and the gentle rattle of tumbleweed scratching across the arid plains of my imagination, so you'll just have to wait and see.

10 Years of Watership Down: The TV Series

There can be few more impactful and fully formed fantasy children's novels than Richard Adams' Watership Down about the struggles of anthropomorphic rabbits in Hampshire, escaping their warren as its destroyed and seeking a new home. However this particular post is not about the novel or even Martin Rosen's gritty (in a good way) film of 1978, both of which have enjoyed critical acclaim, but rather to celebrate the TV series which ran from 1999-2001.

Now this rather excellent website does a better job of explaining the details about the series than I can, but what I can offer are my memories of tuning in for the first time as a mere slip of a lad and following the adventures of Fiver, Bigwig and Hazel, glued to the screen and indeed my impressions now, having watched as many episodes as were available (including the elusive Third Series, which never aired in England. More's the pity, it's a cracker).

The ensemble cast for the piece has interestingly (much like a fine Pinot Noir) matured with age and features some fairly big names, for the first 2 series' at least (the cast was shuffled for the Third Series, along with the animators). As well as voiceover stalwarts Ian Shaw and Rob Rackstraw as Hazel and Campion respectively, the show also featured Phil Jupitus as storyteller Dandelion, John Hurt as General Woundwort, Jane Horrocks as Hannah the mouse, Rik Mayall as Keehar and my personal favourite Stephen Mangan (of Guy Secretan fame) as gruff Owsla captain Bigwig. The theme tune for the series was a reinterpretation of Bright Eyes, performed by the late Stephen Gately, who also provided the voice of Efrafan rabbit Blackavar.

I genuinely loved this as a child. Everything from the distinct, well-animated characters - clever leader Hazel; brawny, coiffured Bigwig; Hulking, dark, red-eyed Woundwort - to the crisp backdrops, filled me with wide-eyed wonder. The narrative gripped me. The escape from Sandleford Warren and then the rivarly with Efrafa was intense and fraught with danger. The third series was even better, despite an animation overhaul and several prominent cast members leaving the show. Now, the Third Series was never aired in the UK (for reasons which I don't fully understand) but can be viewed here thanks to the majesty of Youtube. It's grittier and more violent than the first two (which in comparison to the film were perhaps a little twee) and it benefits from the darker overtones of the resolution of Series 2.

The characters are well aimed at their target audience. Woundwort, the classic boo-hiss villain, who holds an iron paw-grip of tyranny over Efrafa, is later revealed to have a tortured past (with further revelations in Series Three). Hazel, the clever hero, using his wits to overcome adversity and holding the best interests of his friends at heart. Bigwig, the ballsy, Lee Marvin type, a rabbit of action. Hawkbit and Dandelion, the wisecracking duo, full of wit and self-deprication.

Upon watching the series again and viewing the Third for the very first time, I can safely say that, if anything, I enjoyed Watership Down even more than I did as a lad. It was a magnificent flare of children's animated drama that burned brightly (one could say 'burning like fire') as an overwhelming wave of American imports began to saturate children's television at the turn of the millennium. It does rather make me hanker for the golden age of British children's adaptations, but more than anything, I wonder why CBBC and CITV (who were relegated from ITV altogether) seem to be unable to produce quality British dramas, animated or otherwise these days.

If you were wanting a slightly more festive blog, then the best I can offer is the Christmas edition from the second series, featuring a cameo from Dawn French. There, if that doesn't warm the cockles of your heart, then perhaps anthropomorphic rabbits aren't for you.

A Ghost Story For Christmas...

Fascinated as I am by Horror (true horror this is, not gore-filled Hollywood torture-porn), I look forward to Christmas for BBC Four's resurrection of the tradition of a ghost story, as much as I do any turkey, presents and inevitable bickering after too much sparkling wine.

Now the horror author par excellence is, in my eyes, the majestic Montague Rhodes James (simply known as M. R. James), whose willingness to escape the gothic trappings of his predecessors and bring ghost stories kicking and screaming into the early 20th century, mark him out as one of the most effective and influential writers of the genre. A renowned medieval scholar, James was educated at King's College Cambridge and indeed remained there, first as a don and later as provost. It was these themes of stuffy, arrogant academia and a penchant for monastic locations and religious connotations that create such a remarkable atmosphere of terror.

While James was also a serious scholar, publishing a prolific output of works (of which I have the excellent 'Abbeys' on my desk right now) and remains highly regarded among such circles to this day, it is however for his collections of ghost stories that I love him so dearly.

Right, so what does this have to do with BBC Four? I hear you ask. Well sit down, I'm just getting there, if you'd let me get a word in edgeways. Long before the days when TV was clogged up with specials of Gavin and Stacey and clipshows (in short, happier times), the BBC aired a Ghost Story For Christmas. Now these included The Signalman by Charles Dickens and the brilliant Schalcken the Painter by victorian horror master Joseph Sheridan LeFanu (of whom James was a champion), but most of all they were adaptations of the works of dear old Monty.

My absolute favourite is 'A Warning to the Curious' (now available on BFI DVD) in which Peter Vaughan stars as an antiquarian arriving in a quaint coastal town, in search of the legendary Seaburgh Crowns. Published in 'The Haunted Dolls' House and Other Ghost Stories', A Warning to the Curious does exactly what it says on the tin, but the storycraft is remarkable and the tension ratchets up to impossible levels, as we watch the antiquarian deal with the consequences of his 'discovery'. In short it is masterful, every person the protagonist encounters is distinctly unnerving, with the exception of fellow tourist Dr. Black (who also appears in The Stalls of Barchester, portrayed by Clive Swift). The hotellier is creepy, the priest is creepy, the shop owner is creepy and the form in which retribution hounds our unfortunate antiquarian is terrifying and relentless. As is often the case with the greatest horror stories, it's the things that aren't shown that generate the greatest amount of terror and that is precisely what happens with the remarkable ending.

I feel the need for a brief word about my other two favourite tales from the pen of M. R. James: The Treasure of Abbot Thomas and perhaps the scariest of them all, Lost Hearts. TTOAT focuses on Peter, a young academic and the obsession of his tutor, Justin. Namely unravelling the series of clues left by alchemist Abbot Thomas leading to his treasure. After what seems like a straightforward clue-solving plot as Peter and Justin exercise their latin, take images of stained-glass windows and discover a culvert that could well be the location of the treasure. All the while surrounded by hooded monks of the abbey, whose presence are rather unnerving. After my description of the style of Jamesian horror, it should come as no surprise that, when Justin attempts to retrieve the hoard, he faces considerably more than he bargained for and yet again it becomes clear that simply putting it back does not satiate the appetite of a terrifying guardian spirit. Once again the ending is a magnificent coup de grace.

Now, if you were thinking that every ghost story of James' was simply a case of 'curiosity killed the antiquarian', then you would be mistaken. Lost Hearts tells the story of young Stephen moving to live with his cousin, the curious and occult-obsessed Mr. Abney. After sighting some ghostly children, Stephen learns that there had been two other orphans at the house at various times: A gypsy girl and an Italian drifter, found carrying his hurdy gurdy on the banks of a river, both of whom disappeared under mysterious circumstances. I don't want to ruin it for you, needless to say, it is a gruesome and chilling story, available here.

Now I didn't just write this post to wax lyrical about M. R. James (though it was a major contributing factor), but to talk about the general tradition of the Ghost Story For Christmas, resurrected last year by the marvellous Mark Gatiss. Now I've enjoyed every project that Mark Gatiss has been involved in (the League of Gentlemen, Nebulous, Doctor Who, BBC7's The Man in Black) but it was last year's Crooked House that elevated him to the pantheon of great writers, in my eyes. Three chilling tales, woven around the constant of the mysterious Geap Manor. An 18th Century tale of spirits in the Wainscoting, a roaring twenties story of love and betrayal and a terrifying realisation made in the present day. If you hurry to the iPlayer now- go on, quickly - you can catch all three of these. They are remarkably good, if the tiniest of fractions short of the towering genius of James and certainly put most modern horror tales to shame (even if I did spy some Fabulous Bakin' Boys Cupcakes in the episode set in the '20s). The final episode is a real triumph and though each episode is self-contained, it really rewards you for watching all 3 with a number of clever revelations. It has restored my faith in modern horror and hope that there is more to come from the talented Mr. Gatiss.

So go now (yes you, the one reading this) buy some M. R. James books, watch some adaptations and watch Crooked House on the iPlayer, you owe it to yourself and it's what Christmas is all about.

Thanks for reading, don't have nightmares... and oh, before I forget, Merry Christmas.

Yesterday's Jam...

Ok, so supposedly I was wrong in my assertations yesterday. However instead of being reasonable and accepting my human fallibility, I intend to be unreasonable and try and change the world (George Bernard Shaw said it could happen so it must be true).

I understand that the high view of millennia from year 1 up to and including 1000, but lets face it, that doesn't make any fucking sense. Dionysius Exiguus placed the date of Christ's birth on the 25th December of the year before Anno Domini, but surely that's 1 BC, yet how could Christ have been born in 1 year before Christ? He couldn't, he could however have been born in a 'year zero', much like those present in the Hindu, Buddhist and even astronomical calendars. Sometimes science can be accused of trying to spoil people's fun, but the astronomical calendar has this particular issue bang on.

The Gregorian calendar is based on an inherent fallacy and around an incorrectly dated year 1. In a system based around dates of religious significance, one must analyse these dates, so let's do that. Ok, so Christ was born and 7 days later a new year began, but he wasn't 1 year old, was he? He was a week old. When a child comes out of the womb, one doesn't say, 'oh well, that child's 1 year old then', one says 'the child is a week old' or 'the child is six months old'. I'm 18 years old and am indeed in my 19th year, but that doesn't make me 19, does it?

However Christian stubborness to accept zero (perhaps some fear of nihilism...) would appear to have led to the 'generally accepted' system of centuries beginning from '01, but let's face it, no-one likes that. I am somewhat of a pedant, but when John Howard tried to ruin the Australians' fun by pointing out that the millennium in fact began in 2001, pretty much the entire population of the island thought that he was a bit of a twat and the local media branded him the party-pooper of the century (presumably 1901-2000 by his reckoning... in fact, if the Aussies had really wanted to rile him, they should have produced banners heralding 'John Howard: Massive Twat 1900-1999). The case for year zero was perhaps most eloquently argued by Douglas Adams in his article 'Significant Events of the Millennium' in which he highlights people such as Howard as pedantic spoilsports. If it's good enough for the tongue-in-cheek sci-fi author par excellence, then it's most certainly good enough for me.

When one counts through negative numbers, one must pass zero to make it to positive numbers, so it stands to reason that the descending system of BC should have passed zero to arrive at AD. Now I am aware that that isn't the case, but that doesn't mean that it should be like that, simply that it is like that. Would the populace not be happier, if things were simple and all the years written 201x belonged together?

I would venture that the general public would be far happier dealing with a system from 2000-2009 and etc. Indeed since Y2K many have. Religion is accused of holding less and less sway over the populace and frankly in this particular issue, I can see why. I've never been a huge fan of popular culture, but the pop culture interpretation of this issue is one that I have undying support for. Truth be told, the topic is clouded with so much dispute, that it would appear one must simply 'take their pick' of which method to use, but I know which is neater. The nub of the issue is that this is just one of those debates that keeps on going and drags in philosophers, scientists, the opinionated (of which I am probably a standard bearer) and the downright stubborn.

In real layman's terms, one doesn't get excited when the car milometer rolls over to 10,001, do they? They are rather more interested when (starting from zero, I might add) it reaches the round number and the 9s roll over to reveal the line of zeroes.

If you want to pick holes in my argument, then you're welcome to do so, but I will respond with a vengeance, for I hate being wrong almost as much as I hate Liverpool FC (a lot, if you were wondering). So if you want to nitpick, you're welcome to, but I'll come round with my plastic model of Tim Howard and beat you to death with it. You can try and work out if I'm joking or not.

Thunderbirds

Just a quickie this time. After the excellent We Need Answers on Tuesday (see several previous posts for details) I happened to catch a documentary about Gerry Anderson and Thunderbirds. Now as I child I naturally wanted to grow up to became Virgil so I could pilot Thunderbird 2 and have a head massively out of proportion with the rest of my body, needless to say, I was hooked.

As previously mentioned, Virgil was my favourite. He was the cultured brother, the artist, the musician and of course piloted the best Thunderbird, the mindbogglingly unaerodynamic Thunderbird 2. As stated in the documentary, flight would almost certainly be impossible- the wings pointed the wrong way, it couldn't generate enough thrust to launch from its tiny ramp etc. - but that didn't matter to the young me. I just marvelled at the green behemoth, not for one second considering the ludicrous physics involved.

Scott was alright, but he was no Virgil, that's for sure. Alan was fairly sweet in his relationship with Tintin and Gordon... well Gordon was pilot of Thunderbird 4. The one I feel most sorry for is John. One can imagine Jeff taking him aside one day.

"John, I want you to pilot Thunderbird 5."

"Oh cool, dad. What is it? Some kind of plane or rocket or something?"

"It's a space station, son."

"What?"

"You'll receive the distress calls from all-"

"A space station! You've gotta be fucking kidding me!"

Scott and Virgil would attempt to mediate calming the situation down a little. But John had none of it yelling "No, it's cool, dad. I'll just fuck off up to space then, shall I? On the off chance that something goes wrong up there... twice in the entire pissing series. Well, Scott, enjoy your fucking millionaire playboy lifestyle and your hoverbikes and your... sash." Before clattering away in the ridiculous puppet walk, to serve a life of solitude upon the space station that resembled a discarded box of Dairylea triangles (other cheese triangles are available).

Ah, nostalgia's a wonderful thing.

We Need Answers

After my recent commenting and reading Julia Raeside's rather wonderful Guardian article about it, I felt the need to dedicate a whole post to BBC Four Quiz Show We Need Answers.

Presented by Comedians Mark Watson, Tim Key and Alex Horne, We Need Answers is a comedy quiz based on questions submitted by the general to a text answering service, as Horne explained (with the aid of his trusty Powerpoint presentations) "It's easiest probably if you think of the questions as an enormous herd of chins... we've chosen our favourite chins and we've nurtured the chins - the stubble has grown and the stubble has developed into bea- Questions beards, it's question beards, that's how the show works." No further explanation is needed. That particular quote says a lot about the tone of the show. It's a mix of surreal and whimsical humour but done in an earthy, charming manner that avoids the angular, aggressive style adopted by so many 'comedy' quizzes.

Horne's presentations are a cornerstone of the show, chipping in with amusing idents and providing a generally light-hearted backdrop to the quiz. It is much to the comedian's credit, that he has been able to turn such a banal electronic medium as Powerpoint into such a potent tool for making mirth.

Quizmaster Key is beautifully awkward in his role. A style no doubt familiar to fans of his poems and membership of exciting sketch-troupe Cowards. His delivery is understated and bordering on clumsy (in the best possible way), but mostly very, very funny.

Watson is perhaps the sensible one and keeps watch over proceedings, chipping in with his undeniable wit and generally maintaining order (such as it is).

Each episoded begins with the presto movement of Summer from Vivaldi's Four Seasons and as the baroque strings evoke the thundering of heaven, this most charming of quizzes gets underway. Key introduces the theme - this week "the ancien- the oldest theme, possibly: Poetry... and God... and Politics and Geography". The chemistry between Key and Horne is magical to watch as they huddle in the booth for the opening of the show, Horne playing to the camera and Key's expressive face conveying thoughts of bewilderment. Then the contestants are introduced to the strains of "Let's Meet The Contestants", a song presumably unfamiliar to anyone who has not had the privilege of witnessing the show, but that will have avid viewers singing and dancing as we speak. This is one of a number of recurring musical motifs that include the brilliant 'Sad Question'.

Last night's episode was a cracker. Stoic and humourous Barnsley poet, Ian MacMillan hunched in the stool like Rodin's Thinker, played the game wonderfully, giving the marvellous hosts a dose of their own whimsical medicine. Miranda Hart towered above Edinburgh award-winning Key in a nail-biting physical challenge (working out when a minute has passed, while wearing a bucket on your head) and lost out by only a fraction of a second.

The Quickfire Meltdown Round was introduced as ever by Key, doled up like a genie and riding a carpet instead of his usual leather armchair for no real reason in particular. MacMillan had a stormer to ensure that Hart left in a clunky manner wearing the now infamous 'Clogs of Defeat'. The Barnsley poet went on to face the House Prize Showdown, which again came from Key's house. A pogo stick, not quite as good as last week's 'full set' of Moroccan hats, but a functional and tempting prize nonetheless.

The question, as big as any faced by Kant, Hume or Russell was 'Can horses swim?'. MacMillan paused thoughtfully, the tension was positively palpable, before bellowing a triumphant 'yes'. That brief affirmative sent Horne, Key and Watson into rapture and the studio was infirment, he gave a brief pogo of victory and Hart returned looking suitably disappointed but thoroughly pleased to have appeared on this, most irreverent of quizzes.

For some, the low-budget studio and presentation of the programme has been a stumbling block, but it is positively charming in its austerity and refreshingly modest about its considerable charisma and joyous in its sense of cosy involvement. I cannot recommend it enough. As Hart's fictional mother would say "Such fun!"

The Rigours of Digital Switchover

As mentioned in a previous post, for the last couple of months I have been without my precious terrestrial signal, leaving the Samsung LCD TV in my room little more than a monitor for watching DVDs or virtually winning the league with a team of footballing mercenaries from all corners of the globe. This means that for these last two months, iPlayer has been my God.

I really can't extoll its virtues enough, it is truly a marvellous invention, up there with the combustion engine and the flugelhorn, however it does mean that I do find myself filling my spare hours searching for worthy programming. There are certain limitations, no repeat viewing of MOTD, no Question of Sport full stop (though some would argue that's not a bad thing - I'm not among them) and limited movies (again, not always a bad thing). This provides an even greater challenge of finding programming to accompany my laziness.

I found myself watching BBCThree's Young *insert blue collar profession here* of the Year, hosted by non-thinking person's Vernon Kay, George Lamb. I confess I did not view it for long, but I did realise that it is truly watercooler telly, raising a number of important questions, namely - 'Who he?' 'Why he on telly?' and most importantly 'Oh Christ, where I put the remote?'

I find myself reaching for the excellent and far more cerebral Wallander on BBC Four (several brand new episodes being broadcast before Christmas) a healthy hour and a half of Swedish sleuthing by haggard, stubbly detective, Kurt Wallander (played magnificently by Krister Henriksson) or the equally excellent Sorcerer's Apprentice on CBBC, presented by the coniferous Ortis Deley (who was presenting kid's shows back in my day and remains jovial and proffessional as ever). It's a kid's reality show, but before you reach for Dignitas on the speed-dial, it's actually thoroughly enjoyable and a good deal more charming than its adult counterparts (though a turd in a hat is a good deal more charming than most of the tat regurgitated every year by the reality companies).

The trick is finding the hidden gems (here's looking at you BBC Four) like the brilliant We Need Answers, hosted by comedians Mark Watson, Tim Key and Alex Horne, where two celebrity contestants battle it out over general knowledge, trivia and physical prowess in a number of innovative and most importantly fun rounds. It is a joy to watch and one wonders why it is so hard for more programming to be like this.

Humour Me...

I thought it high time to resume this blog again, the pressure of thoughts in my brain was becoming too much to bear. Two issues peaked my interest recently-

1) The sighting of an advert for a show called 'Take Me Out' by my friends Racky and Tommy, who duly informed me of a British version of the Channel Cuatro dating show (see earlier blog posts). No longer receiving Terrestrial TV signal in my house, I was, to say the least, a little skeptical when I received a text from Tommy claiming 'Oh my fucking God. The Herpes Show is going to be done in England', however a brief check with those that have the benefit of working television quickly assured me that this was indeed the case.

It will almost certainly be utter bollocks. Much of the charm of the Spanish version stemmed from the fact that we didn't have a clue what anyone was saying and could dub our own soundtrack over the top (mostly about Herpes, hence the cult title of the show among our friendship circle), an English version will almost certainly be car-crash TV, but it was only a matter of time.

More updates, as I discover them, but if Madeley isn't involved somehow, there'll be Hell to pay.

2) The item on the news about the helicopters for the forces. Naturally this is a delicate subject that could probably do without me weighing in like some manner of massive satirical elephant, thrashing around and tusking some poor native sod through the torso, however I'm going to anyway.

So, we need more helicopters in Afghanistan, that much is self-evident- people have been going on and on about the need for them for months. Fine. The PM attempts to provide more helicopters using the limited defense budget (raising questions over the spending habits of the MOD) and promptly gets shat on by the Tories for the suggestion that an RAF base will be forced to close and several MOD workers will lose their jobs. Ok, it's an election year, that's fine, this kind of stuff happens, but the Shadow Defence Minister acts as though there was another way of financing it.

In political matters such as this, it is invariably a case of robbing Peter to pay Paul, but it's a real kick in the teeth when Paul turns round and says "Hang on, you've robbed Peter, you bastard", prompting you to say "Look Paul, you ungrateful shit, at least I'm trying. If I robbed Peter to pay Luke, you'd still be right on my case and you'd have no fucking helicopters anyway." (This is all from the Marin Scorsese version of The Bible)

Anyway, that's another two issues solved (or possibly exacerbated. One of the two) so my work is done for today.

The Rupert Everett Show

I'm currently viewing C4's The Scandalous Adventures of Lord Byron or, to give it its proper title, The Rupert Everett Show. It's an interesting watch. Everett clearly understands and has a good knowledge of the subject matter, however he seems content to discuss his friend Robin's promiscuity or visit a VD clinic than get to the real nub of the issues.

Now, I met Rupert Everett last year in a restaurant (he was wearing trackie bottoms there too) in St. Moritz (get me) and, after 2 or 3 Calanda Braus too many, I said a few things that I regret (leave a comment if you want to find out what it was, I'm not prepared to reveal it to everyone). Though on reflection and after viewing his tribute to himsel... Lord Byron, I have a feeling that he may have found some deal of catharsis in my accusations.

There are some interesting points that he makes and all the expositionary detail that you might expect is there, however every time he ruins it with some facetious sex reference or dressing up. Now the show makes no pretenses aobut being anything more than a slightly saucy travelogue fronted by a Hollywood actor, which is just as well really.

I'd be interested to know what Percy Shelley and Ali Pasha would have made of Everett's accusations of them being in love with Byron.

Oh... he's playing bingo now. I have just let out a loud sigh, which I felt I would share with you. Still, I think I'd rather watch this than a David Starkey documentary. Andrew Roberts needs his own history series... and fast.

Sachsgate: The Aftermath

As I continued my battle with insomnia for the umpteenth night in a row, I found myself pondering the Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross debacle of last year. I had been a regular listener of Brand's since the 6 Music days and I enjoyed his irreverant humour, so you can imagine my annoyance when he lost his job over Sachsgate (which I had christened it before the papers even got a whiff of the story ((which was 2 or 3 weeks after the actual event of course))).

Now it seems to me that Brand was unfortunate to lose his job, albeit jumping before he was pushed. Alright, so he did have sex with Andrew Sachs' granddaughter (who also happens to be an erotic dancer), however what two consenting adults get up to in their own time is no business of the millions of listeners who tuned in to Radio 2 that fateful evening, though it would appear that someone neglected to tell Jonathan Ross that. As he made the immortal line of Sachs' answerphone 'he f***ed your granddaughter). Wonderful(!) Charming(!) He's worth every penny of the license fee is that Ross(!) /sarcasm

It was patently Ross' fault. Brand had no intention of leaving a message based on the sexual exploits or otherwise of his granddaughter on Sachs' answerphone and was clearly appalled by Ross' allegation. After only a handful of complaints after the broadcast, it snowballed as the tabloids targeted Brand with a hate-campaign and weeks later Brand and Radio 2 controller Leslie Douglas found themselves in the Dole queue (well, not literally, but you catch my drift).

There are two key facts that most commentators overlooked, however. Number 1, Brand's sung apology (left as another answerphone message) was entirely improvised on the spot and remains one of the most impressive examples of ad-hoc song crafting I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing. Listening to Brand skilfully rhyme 'consentual' with 'menstrual' and 'contrition to the max' with 'Andrew Sachs' was a veritable joy. Number 2 is the person we should all feel sorry for in this. No, not Andrew Sachs, but rather Brand's writer and usual co-host Matt Morgan, who returned from his holiday only to find that he was out of a job because of Jonathan Ross, a misfortune that few of us are ever likely to suffer. Under Morgan's steadying influence Brand provided a podcast soundtrack to my teenage years. Morgan was the only man capable of keeping the hirsuite comedian in check and doing it with a deal of panache and aplomb. Conversing on subjects from Brand's previous drug addiction to taking lessons in Krav Maga, the Israeli army martial art.

Brand's resignation showed a good deal of dignity, but I regret that Morgan was not in a position to do the same. Hell, they should have just given the slot to him and maybe even have brought in previous Brand contributor Trevor Lock.

Anyway that's my two penneth on the subject and only a mere 9 months too late.

My Thoughts

Now, I've just returned from a holiday in Mallorca and, despite the appearance of the picture to the left of this, it wasn't one of those kinds of holidays. The... interesting (for want of a better word) setup of the picture is simply the corollary of heat and a pool tournament. However, while on this holiday, a number of strange thoughts cropped into my head, mostly the fault of other people.



Thought Uno is this: I think we value certain jobs a little too much. A prime example in the current climate would be bankers, what exactly do they do, except piss our money up the walls. Another is pilots- don’t get me wrong, it’s a job that requires incredible skill and years of training and practice, but on the flights to and indeed from Mallorca, we had some delightful passengers in our section who insisted on providing impromptu rounds of applause for takeoff and landing. Yeah, congratulations Mr. Pilot on doing your job. I don’t mean to detract from pilots, but if he’d done anything other than takeoff and land successfully, I would have been seriously disappointed... and probably dead.

Thought Dos is this: The man in charge of the hotel's entertainment every night was a jovial Spaniard named Justo. He spoke excellent English and German and yet myself and every one of my friends overlooked this for the simple fact that instead of saying 'give them a big hand' or 'let's have a round of applause' he would say (I'll spell it phonetically) 'Bigaplows'. This was a source of much hilarity to us and forced us all to look past the man's remarkable charisma in 2 languages that weren't his mother tongue. There were numerous jokes made- 'What was your favoured method of agriculture again, Justo was it smaller ploughs or...' or 'This field has been fallow for too long and yet these small ploughs make barely a dent in the sod, what is it that we need, Justo?'

Thought Tres is this: Despite being generally a good linguist, my area of expertise lies in German and not in Spanish which meant that me and my friend Tommy (the man 'giving' in the picture) decided to dub channel Cuatro's big money dating show Eligeme with our own comments (mostly about Herpes, mostly because the Zovirax advert had an unfortunate use of Spanish in it, which led to the famous cold sore cream being advertised as 'creme labial'). Now this show was everything that's wrong with all the rubbish reality television that we regurgitate in this country... only in Spanish and hosted by the lovechild of Hugh Jackman and Richard Madeley (see clip for details). http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PqLWLBNypKs. Essentially, a dashing (or otherwise) bachelor is paraded in front of a panel of women who rate him on his physical appearance initially and then on his promo video, job and skills, before he brutally cuts them down, based on their physical appearance and a witty caption, none of which I understood. In my time there I saw a man dressed as a Stormtrooper and Zoro, a permed ginger rocker and a rip-roaring bender (or closet homosexual as common decency would have me say) all waltz out of the studio with a bronzed, young Spaniard on their arm. It's like Blind Date on narcotics... and not blind. It was obviously mental... and yet I do find myself missing it somewhat.

Anyway, those are my thoughts for the week, yet more self-indulgent than usual. Excellent.

Total Perfect Recall

When I returned to my house after a preposterous bus journey that somehow transfigured a 15 minute trip into a 50 minute one, I slumped in front of the television and was greeted by tea-time Channel 4 quiz show Wogan's Perfect Recall, a harmless mid-afternoon test of memory and general knowledge. Or so I thought...

Now I have no problems with Wogan, the great raconteur that he is, in fact I am one of the millions throughout the land who choose to 'Wake Up to Wogan' (well on the days which I wake up before 9.30 that is ((and those are rapidly decreasing in number))), however I don't know of any other gameshow that includes the host's name in the title of the show and has a title sequence composed entirely of a picture of the host's face. It's typical gameshow fayre: Four contestants are reduced to one, who plays for the big-money final round, with one subtle difference- it isn't about the show's contestants, but about its jocular host, the indefatigable Mr. Wogan. Sometimes he delivers the questions directly to the camera and not to the contestants, in what is (I imagine) a futile attempt to drag in more punters, giving the show an 'interactive' (still a buzz-word after all these years) feel.


Now I do enjoy a lot of crap telly. I quite liked Step Up To The Plate (du Beke and Grossman, together at last!) and the magnificently unpopular Identity, fronted by Donny Osmond. The memory of Donny, baring his Hollywood smile, pointing his finger at a guest and delivering the immortal line: 'Is that your Identity?', which he said in an identical manner every time, is one that I shall struggle to erase. Still that's enough nostalgia for one day...

Apologies for the recent lack of activity...

I've been busy listening to TMS as England snatched an excellent, a remarkable, a thoroughly swashbuckling... draw. Still, us English love a good draw, don't we? Surely it's better when there are no winners, then no-one's disappointed (or both sides are, but I'm determined not to be a pessimist).

I've also been following proceedings on Twitter, where a number of people (well 4) including myself and the comedian Lloyd Woolf have been picking the choice phrases delivered by the golden tongue of the magnificent Henry Blofeld and tweeting them for all to see. Both Aggers and Bumble have joined Twitter and they were swiftly followed by CMJ, but don't expect to see Geoffrey Boycott on there anytime soon...

Still, that explains my recent lack of activity, in case anyone was wondering, which is unlikely, I don't think the number of people who have read my blog has even reached double figures.

Davro's Fleece

I've finished my pizza and now I sit, alone and dejected, with naught but a coffee and Bargain Hunt Famous Finds to console me. Oh, it's light-hearted family fun, or so I thought...

Before I go on, I must confess to a half-truth, dear reader. While I am watching BHFF with a coffee, I am also attempting to listening to the excellent Test Match Special, which would prove an infinitely preferable soundtrack to my evening. However, the accursed internet apparatus is currently preventing me from doing so. Still, I am not here to wax lyrical about TMS, but rather to subject myself to Bargain Hunt (the things I do for blogging...).

I summarise thus:
Bobby Davro adjusts his hefty fleece and laughs maniacally over a mildly amusing statue of a cat and a dog. The woman he is partnered with (is she famous?) swoons over a tiny porcerlain couple, who lie, frozen in time, carefree and bereft of the pitfalls of celebrity culture. And the lot they choose to put forward? Davro's fleece. Seriously, the fleece.
'I can sign it, if it'll add any extra value.' Gurns Davro.
One can hear the collective thoughts of experts, Tim and indeed the entire audience at home. 'It won't' the deafening silence seems to say.
Meanwhile Helen Lederer makes a loss of £50, hope for Davro's fleece after all. The expert bounces up and down with all the grace of an incontinent wrestler, anticipating the money-shot, the fleece. The porcerlain couple make £10 profit and Davro punches the air. Davro models the fleece himself. Bidding starts at £20 (the tension is palpable now, one could cut the atmosphere with a spork) and makes it all the way to a massive, an amazing, a thoroughly contemptible £32. Their total loss: £58. Not even Davro's fleece could save them. The little man looks heart-broken, a personal failure adding to financial loss and as the credits roll, having just witnessed 3o minutes of the stuff, I know exactly how he feels.

This Week

So, here I am watching This Week, BBC 1's irreverant look at the political and newsworthy issues of the previous week, or so I thought...
Quite frankly, despite the presence of two politicians AND Andrew Neil, This Week is more akin to The One Show than The Daily Politics. Alright, so what's the problem with that? Well, I have nothing against a light-hearted look at serious issues, however the show does spend an excruciating amount of time focusing on Abbot and Portillo who are sat uncomfortably close (to the point where it seems that they should be holding hands) on a sofa that is patently big enough for Portillo to scoot several times to his left. Abbot jokes about the Credit Crunch, while Portillo sits, louche and brooding- so louche, in fact, that one expects him to scratch his crotch at any given moment. Neil watches proceedings with an air of disinterest, presumably thinking 'roll on next week's PMQs'. And who can blame him?

Anyway- rant (and indeed show) over. This is the first post in what I hope may be a mildly amusing blog for your delectation (though in reality it is a glorified method by which I can subject you to my sometimes witty, often vitriolic and always controversial opinions). Hope it didn't get too Machiavellian for you- let me know what you think by leaving a comment or dropping me an email and feel free to send any suggestions for blog topics, I shall endeavour to rant endlessly about whatever your particular likes, dislikes, gripes, gropes and indeed grapes (sour, of wrath, or otherwise) may be.

If you have been, thank you for reading.