They are serving after hours again in the Humiliation Arms. It is bitter dregs all round. One is not even safe in one's dreams.
There I was riding to the rescue of the Divine Miss Middleton. Teeth bared in a savage war cry, eyes blazing with love. My proud horse's hooves drumming on the hard baked steppe, I bore down on the marauding band of Daily Mail snipers and cellulose spotters who held her hostage.
The moment came. In my ears a thousand spectral Templar Knights cried, as Lord Tennyson prepared a fresh Idyll: “Draw sabres.....................”
And I had forgotten my sword.
I could swear I packed it in my sabretache with my housewife and button stick. But no. There I sat with an empty scabbard while all around me Daily Mail rogue leader writers jeered.
The eyes of the Divine Miss Middleton swam with derision and disbelief as she scanned the sky searching for The Holyrood Helicopter. I blame Lemsip. I am addicted to the stuff, despite the fact it induces dreams in 3D.
Not only that. They come with a monarchist motif. I have danced a reel with the late Queen Mary, naked save for her velvet toque hat. Once, to hide my nudity, I borrowed a suit from King George VI, which is ridiculous. I have got a watch chain that weighs more than he did. My lips are permanently sealed in the matter of Princess Margaret, the bucket of G and T and the Courgette. I can only say the makers of Lemsip should be ashamed of themselves and Constance Spry would be appalled.
What is most distressing is that the nightmares I ride under the influence of Lemsip also carry with them a strong whiff of Opera Bouffe.
I am also addicted to Operas Bouffes, which is musical Lemsip. I particularly relish the memory of a production years ago of “The Huron", which is based on a story by Voltaire of a self-righteous Red Indian who shows off like mad in a French village.
It was turned into a not-so-comic opera by a citizen called Marmontel and had its premiere in Paris in 1768. It says a lot for the taste of the music loving public that it hadn't been performed since. But every Buxton Festival had its operatic joke and one year Huron was the choice of that wizard of a Festival Director and long-time friend, Anthony Hose. Tongue-in-cheek, he translated it; his fellow sorcerer producer Jamie Hayes set it in pre-1914 Chatsworth and made the Duke of Devonshire of the day one of the clowns in a very funny production.
Voltaire would have loved it; the present Duke was delighted and the audience adored it. Buxton Opera House rocked with their helpless laughter and recurring ovations.
Predictably, the critics hated it. They emerged shell-shocked and horrified at the blasphemy.
The Observer critic gave it the ultimate critical put down. "The audience loved it," he wrote in proof of how bad it was.
Can one take opera seriously? Enjoyable, yes. Seriously? I doubt it, We are talking about an art form where people who are languishing in dungeons or dying of consumption, or who are about to be gored by a bull or turned into a stone statue, spend their last moments singing. I saw a production of a deeply serious opera where the heroine emerged from what looked like a pink cement souffle, a lady so vast that when she and the equally round hero embraced they had to do it at arms' length.
It was nevertheless hugely enjoyable, greatly moving and the music by Haydn unforgettable. It is never a bad thing when the audience enjoys something, though often it is when the critics do.
I prefer to forget a production of Il Seraglio set round a giant rose penis, but is it not curious that Voltaire is a stranger to the heady brew of Lemsip?
WORD PICTURES
I was saddened to hear that the BBC has added a fresh dimension of horror to the Japanese earthquake by sending James Naughtie to drown it afresh in a tsunami of words. I wish he had paused in his generous pouring of platitudes to ask who authorised the building of four nuclear power stations above a fault in the earth's crust. It was not to be.
Instead we were treated to Naughtie and a reporter in Tokyo asking a diplomat on London for the casualty figures.
For some reason, I was reminded of the incident in his book, “Arabia Deserta”, in which the Arabist James Doughty told of an English traveller on a camel who was distressed to see another traveller on a camel travelling in his direction. Being puzzled what to say to him, he decided on: “You will no doubt be interested to hear the figures of the plague in Cairo,” before they passed like ships in the night.
Naughtie felt it necessary to alert us to photos taken by their sound engineers but on the whole I prefer to watch it on TV because this was one instance of the pictures NOT being better on radio.
Naughtie is the verbal equivalent of an old fried Arthur Brooks who wrote extensively. His description of Todmorden in the snow as the white hell of Stalingrad is treasured in the wallets of his many friends. I can just hear Naughtie repeating the words of Arthur to a more controlled colleague: “You supply the facts and I will do the word artistry.“
Better news on TV later in the week when archaeologist Dr. Francesca Stavrakopoulou disclosed evidence that God had a wife, a pagan goddess Ashera, whom He married under the name of Jahweh, one supposes to avoid gossip. Such a relief that He is not after all an adulterer. Joseph will be pleased.
The BBC is sending its staff on a course that it is hoped will "acclimatise" them to life in Manchester. Staff who have to move up north will be given a day's training on how to use transport in Manchester such as the tram link to Salford. The training is called "Transport to MediaCityUK Briefing Day". No news yet on whether staff will be taught how to wear flat caps, drink Boddingtons or race pigeons. - Daily Telegraph,
A BLUNTER SERPENT'S TOOTH
I am a bit miffed in a matter of personal artistry. I have two grand- daughters working among the Mighty Host which is the Ministry of Defence. Has either of them offered to pay me £150,000 to pulp any one of the four books I am currently writing in a lull in the onset of senility? The answer is a resounding “No”.
TWEET TWEET
Ken Ashton, my man in Wales writes:
A Welsh councillor has been ordered to pay what is believed to be the first libel damages to a political rival as a result of comments posted to Twitter.
Caerphilly county councillor Colin Elsbury was ordered to pay £3,000 damages, plus costs, after using the social network to wrongly claim Eddie Talbot had been removed from a polling station by police during a by-election in 2009.
Cardiff Crown Court made the order against the Plaid Cymru politician on Friday. He will tweet an apology and faces a costs bill of around £50,000 after acknowledging that he defamed Talbot.
One cannot be too careful.
ONE CONSTABLE WHO SHOULD BE CHIEF
When Pc Phil Richardson found out Doddington residents were too afraid to identify the culprits, he sent a letter out to hundreds of homes.
(Doddington is a village in Cambridgeshire just up the road from us.)
He told them: “I can turn the tables, the people causing the nuisances and carrying out the criminal damage can spend some quality time in my cells.
“I will see if I can get them some time at court where they can explain themselves to a magistrate.
“I will work with partner agencies such as housing associations to see if we can end tenancies and get families moved away.
“We can apply for anti-social behaviour orders against offenders – these are publicised so YOU know who they are and what they are doing. The community can then keep an eye on them and let us know if they step out of line.”
His direct approach comes after a number of anti-social incidents in the village targeted against people who cannot defend themselves. Incidents have also included damage to gardens and repeated vandalism to the scout hall.
Pc Richardson told residents: “I want to disrupt and put a stop to as much of this anti-social behaviour as possible.
“I do not care who is causing the problems or what families they come from. YOU, the residents of Doddington, DO NOT have to suffer persecution from people who do not have the social skills to interact within their community.
“No one should fear reprisals other than the people who for so long have felt they rule the roost – they don’t, the residents do.”
Pc Richardson has promised villagers that anything they report will be treated in confidence.
Saturday, 19 March 2011
Thursday, 10 March 2011
intermess
Until the advent of Diana the Huntress one would have hesitated to breed from the royal family. Earlier litters haveincluded two murderers, three bigamists, at least one barking madman (see History of the Court of England), a traitor, Prince Andrew the Salty,Duke of Pork and Prince Edward of sex known in an earlier incarnation as a tea boyto Lloyd Webber as Dockland Daisy. The Prince of Wales is too old to breed, though Camilla comes from sound stock with a good breeding record. I am a Monarchist solely because of the two young princes by Charles out of Diana. Doesn't always work. The darling Queen Mother, who many believe was the daughter of a Welsh maidservant (See Majesty by Judith Kelley), only threw off one decent foals though. I have the highest hopes of Prince William and the Middleton filly.
I am deeply worried about the country they will inherit after reading the Independent this week; This has become such an intermess that a world in which the internet suddenly goes down or is switched off is hard to imagine. The Hollywood-sized scenario reads like this: email, telephone and television services would go dark; media organisations become unable to gather and disseminate news; governments struggle to communicate emergency information; commerce grinds to a halt, shops run out of food; the transport system collapses and electricity supplies are severely disrupted. Within months, gangs of feral youths would take over the towns, cannibalising the weak and elderly, while citizens trembled behind barricaded doors. In Britain, apparently, there are two pieces of legislation which give the Government power to order the suspension of the internet and, in theory, bring about web Armageddon. The Civil Contingencies Act and the 2003 Communications Act can both be used to suspend internet services, either by ordering internet service providers (ISPs) to shut down their operations or by closing internet exchanges. Under the protocol of the Communications Act, the switch-flicking would be done by the Culture Secretary. In the eyes of the legislature, Jeremy Hunt is the man invested with the power to send us back to the dark ages. Not a particularly long journey. About as far back as Callaghan's Labour Govt. but it's nice to know we can accept with impunity China's kindly offer of a £50 million spy system for the Tube. Just as long as they show us the off switch.
The other thing that has bothered me this week is the Media jubilation at the recent misadventure of the SAS. wars. The Telegraph, which used to be known as the soldier's trade union, called the mission a humiliation. I loathe war because it is politics having a tantrum but I love service folk. I tried years ago to get my eldest daughter to join the Black Watch (RHR). Unfortunately the recruiting office across the road from our flat was closed, OR SO SHE SAID. I think an SAS man is the ultimate fighting machine but I don't expect him to win all the time. The French Foreign Legion has never won a battle in its history because it fights to the last man. What were the SAS to do in this case? The mission was to guard British diplomats - if that isn't an oxymoron - who were seeking contact with Libyan freedom fighters. A real diplomat, Christopher Meyer, wondered why they were there and why the diplomats didn't fly in to Benghazi airport. Crossed my mind, too.
Manchester United Chief Executive David Gill says he is "comfortable" with the club's financial situation, including debt and interest repayment levels. Mr Gill told a Commons committee hearing into football governance that net debt of £370m and annual interest of £45m was not hampering United. "We know it's there but it doesn't impact what we do," he said.
I am deeply worried about the country they will inherit after reading the Independent this week; This has become such an intermess that a world in which the internet suddenly goes down or is switched off is hard to imagine. The Hollywood-sized scenario reads like this: email, telephone and television services would go dark; media organisations become unable to gather and disseminate news; governments struggle to communicate emergency information; commerce grinds to a halt, shops run out of food; the transport system collapses and electricity supplies are severely disrupted. Within months, gangs of feral youths would take over the towns, cannibalising the weak and elderly, while citizens trembled behind barricaded doors. In Britain, apparently, there are two pieces of legislation which give the Government power to order the suspension of the internet and, in theory, bring about web Armageddon. The Civil Contingencies Act and the 2003 Communications Act can both be used to suspend internet services, either by ordering internet service providers (ISPs) to shut down their operations or by closing internet exchanges. Under the protocol of the Communications Act, the switch-flicking would be done by the Culture Secretary. In the eyes of the legislature, Jeremy Hunt is the man invested with the power to send us back to the dark ages. Not a particularly long journey. About as far back as Callaghan's Labour Govt. but it's nice to know we can accept with impunity China's kindly offer of a £50 million spy system for the Tube. Just as long as they show us the off switch.
The other thing that has bothered me this week is the Media jubilation at the recent misadventure of the SAS. wars. The Telegraph, which used to be known as the soldier's trade union, called the mission a humiliation. I loathe war because it is politics having a tantrum but I love service folk. I tried years ago to get my eldest daughter to join the Black Watch (RHR). Unfortunately the recruiting office across the road from our flat was closed, OR SO SHE SAID. I think an SAS man is the ultimate fighting machine but I don't expect him to win all the time. The French Foreign Legion has never won a battle in its history because it fights to the last man. What were the SAS to do in this case? The mission was to guard British diplomats - if that isn't an oxymoron - who were seeking contact with Libyan freedom fighters. A real diplomat, Christopher Meyer, wondered why they were there and why the diplomats didn't fly in to Benghazi airport. Crossed my mind, too.
Manchester United Chief Executive David Gill says he is "comfortable" with the club's financial situation, including debt and interest repayment levels. Mr Gill told a Commons committee hearing into football governance that net debt of £370m and annual interest of £45m was not hampering United. "We know it's there but it doesn't impact what we do," he said.
Saturday, 5 March 2011
CUCK WHO ?
There is not a lot to be said for death but at least it means I won't have to suffer another year of general electioneering. Pick your four favourite MPs? I couldn't pick four I would trust to take Taz, my long dog, for a walk. I don't just mean contemporary MPs. I mean since politicking started in the 17th century.
To digress: as a fully paid up Stoic, I have no fear of death because I won't know it has happened. Dying is a different matter and I am not looking forward to that. I just hope there is time for a witticism. There will never be a time when I have a more attentive audience. I think of the man who was dying surrounded by his family.
“Has he gone yet?” whispered one daughter.
“Feel his feet,” said another. “Nobody ever died with warm feet.”
At which point the dying man uttered his last whisper. “What about Joan of Arc?” he asked, and died with enormous satisfaction.
It is always of great value to have a nodding acquaintance with the past. Particularly useful as a CV for politicians. It would be difficult to argue against the execution of that poisonous dwarf King Charles One, which might with profit have been repeated on the priapic Charles Two, who wanted to sell us to the French. Forby that, the Cromwell parliament was a mistake. Very New Labour, banning plum pudding and Christmas.
Later on, giving America away was another error. They obviously long to have a king of their very own and I don't suppose black Americans and the Indian tribes welcomed an independent America. The French Revolution was a mess. Storming the Bastille was pure spin. There were only nine people in it at the time and the French couldn't wait to put a Bourbon back on the throne. The Russian Revolution was, perhaps, the greatest mistake. Most of the changes it sought to bring were already happening under the Czar, and the German High Command had to rush Lenin to Moscow in a special train or there would not have been any point in him making the journey. In the event, the peasants didn't lose the Czar: they just got Czars of a different dynasty. Josef Stalin versus Boris Godunov? No contest.
It is in the last two centuries that we see parliament at its very worst. The Great War, which began in 1914 and ended in 1945, dealt a death blow to Western Civilisation. Versailles has rightly been called the Peace that Passeth all Understanding. The present situation in the Middle East, which may yet turn into World War Three, was created by our betrayal of the Arabs. We promised them a homeland while at the same time signing the Sykes-Picot Agreement which carved up the Ottoman Empire between us and the French. The Balfour Declaration, which gave away Palestine (which we didn't own), has hardly brought harmony. The seeds of Nazism would never have flourished had we not insisted on reparations from Germany so excessive that the Weimar Republic collapsed and with it cultured Germany.
The postwar Labour Party had no sense of timing. They created the Welfare State at a time when Britain was bankrupt and fed the infant monster bureaucracy which has now gobbled us up.
A curse on both houses for their bellicosity. The ten-week war in Kosovo cost $100 million a day. The first Gulf War was even more expensive. It came in at $102 billion.
We were denied any advantage by refusing to join the Common Market at a time when we might have influenced it, at the same time gleefully handing over British proprietary rights. The Navy, humbled in 2007 when those 15 sailors surrendered to the Iranians and its subsequent failure to fight the rabble of Somali pirates, will soon be operating aircraft carriers devoid of aircraft. The diplomatic fall-out from the colonial adventure in Iraq will linger for generations. Nothing leaves a greater blot on our record that the genocide we launched in the partition of India.
I had high hopes of the Coalition, because I thought one party would keep an eye on the other. Some hopes. We send the prime of our youth to fight an unwinnable war in Afghanistan on behalf of a corrupt government and encourage them by promising that when the war is over they will have the holiday of their life - for the rest of their lives. One might set this threat of redundancy to music. Perhaps the World War One favourite which encouraged an earlier flowering of youth to fade: “We don't want to lose you but we think you ought to go.”
Meanwhile we are itching to help the rebels in the north Africa to usurp the leaders we have been propping up for years. Has no one noticed that fundamentalism already has Tunisia in its grip?
Most shaming of all. We cannot celebrate Trafalgar Day. It would upset
the French.
Efforts from the Establishment to destroy the English language proceed apace. Two news items from reader Ken Ashton:
“The coroner in charge of the 7/7 inquests criticised emergency services bosses today for using too much jargon.
Lady Justice Hallett said some terms were so cumbersome and complex that one 999 worker might not know what a counterpart did when arriving at an emergency scene. Lady Justice Hallett let fly at Gary Reason, assistant commissioner of London Fire Brigade. She spoke out as mention was made of "a conference demountable unit from a management centre" - which is a portable incident room. Ambulances took an hour to get to Tavistock Square because the officer in the control room couldn't reach the top of the whiteboard detailing operations.”
A 34 per cent turnout is a 'resounding success', says BBC Wales of the Celtic Referendum...Turnout, below 30% in some areas, was described by First Minister Carwyn Jones as "not brilliant, but then not apocalyptic, which some people predicted."
Deputy First Minister and Plaid Cymru leader Ieuan Wyn Jones said: "The rest of the world can now sit up and take notice of the fact that our small nation, here on the western edge of the continent of Europe, has demonstrated pride in who we are, and what we all stand for." (Well, almost three-quarters of the population didn't.)
AND IN THE NEST
studies variously showed between 5 and 30 percent of American and British babies to have been adulterously conceived. Again, the proportion of the tested couples of whom at least the wife had practiced adultery must have been higher for the same ... reasons as in Dr. X's study."
Author: Jared Diamond
Title: The Third Chimpanzee
Publisher: Harper Perennial
Date: Copyright 1992 by Jared Diamond
Pages: 85-86
On the whole I wonder if I am doing the right thing in keeping Alzheimer's at bay? My doctor has already told me not to worry because I won't know I have got it. No use. I will not be deterred. I have others to consider.
'tis a far, far nobler thing that I do now than I have ever done before - but I Must Be Firm. My duty, however unpleasant, is clear. I will firmly tread the path of the martyr. Recent research has shown that 38 per cent of us will escape Alzheimer's if we drink a glass of wine a day.
I MUST GIVE UP TEETOTALISM.
To digress: as a fully paid up Stoic, I have no fear of death because I won't know it has happened. Dying is a different matter and I am not looking forward to that. I just hope there is time for a witticism. There will never be a time when I have a more attentive audience. I think of the man who was dying surrounded by his family.
“Has he gone yet?” whispered one daughter.
“Feel his feet,” said another. “Nobody ever died with warm feet.”
At which point the dying man uttered his last whisper. “What about Joan of Arc?” he asked, and died with enormous satisfaction.
It is always of great value to have a nodding acquaintance with the past. Particularly useful as a CV for politicians. It would be difficult to argue against the execution of that poisonous dwarf King Charles One, which might with profit have been repeated on the priapic Charles Two, who wanted to sell us to the French. Forby that, the Cromwell parliament was a mistake. Very New Labour, banning plum pudding and Christmas.
Later on, giving America away was another error. They obviously long to have a king of their very own and I don't suppose black Americans and the Indian tribes welcomed an independent America. The French Revolution was a mess. Storming the Bastille was pure spin. There were only nine people in it at the time and the French couldn't wait to put a Bourbon back on the throne. The Russian Revolution was, perhaps, the greatest mistake. Most of the changes it sought to bring were already happening under the Czar, and the German High Command had to rush Lenin to Moscow in a special train or there would not have been any point in him making the journey. In the event, the peasants didn't lose the Czar: they just got Czars of a different dynasty. Josef Stalin versus Boris Godunov? No contest.
It is in the last two centuries that we see parliament at its very worst. The Great War, which began in 1914 and ended in 1945, dealt a death blow to Western Civilisation. Versailles has rightly been called the Peace that Passeth all Understanding. The present situation in the Middle East, which may yet turn into World War Three, was created by our betrayal of the Arabs. We promised them a homeland while at the same time signing the Sykes-Picot Agreement which carved up the Ottoman Empire between us and the French. The Balfour Declaration, which gave away Palestine (which we didn't own), has hardly brought harmony. The seeds of Nazism would never have flourished had we not insisted on reparations from Germany so excessive that the Weimar Republic collapsed and with it cultured Germany.
The postwar Labour Party had no sense of timing. They created the Welfare State at a time when Britain was bankrupt and fed the infant monster bureaucracy which has now gobbled us up.
A curse on both houses for their bellicosity. The ten-week war in Kosovo cost $100 million a day. The first Gulf War was even more expensive. It came in at $102 billion.
We were denied any advantage by refusing to join the Common Market at a time when we might have influenced it, at the same time gleefully handing over British proprietary rights. The Navy, humbled in 2007 when those 15 sailors surrendered to the Iranians and its subsequent failure to fight the rabble of Somali pirates, will soon be operating aircraft carriers devoid of aircraft. The diplomatic fall-out from the colonial adventure in Iraq will linger for generations. Nothing leaves a greater blot on our record that the genocide we launched in the partition of India.
I had high hopes of the Coalition, because I thought one party would keep an eye on the other. Some hopes. We send the prime of our youth to fight an unwinnable war in Afghanistan on behalf of a corrupt government and encourage them by promising that when the war is over they will have the holiday of their life - for the rest of their lives. One might set this threat of redundancy to music. Perhaps the World War One favourite which encouraged an earlier flowering of youth to fade: “We don't want to lose you but we think you ought to go.”
Meanwhile we are itching to help the rebels in the north Africa to usurp the leaders we have been propping up for years. Has no one noticed that fundamentalism already has Tunisia in its grip?
Most shaming of all. We cannot celebrate Trafalgar Day. It would upset
the French.
Efforts from the Establishment to destroy the English language proceed apace. Two news items from reader Ken Ashton:
“The coroner in charge of the 7/7 inquests criticised emergency services bosses today for using too much jargon.
Lady Justice Hallett said some terms were so cumbersome and complex that one 999 worker might not know what a counterpart did when arriving at an emergency scene. Lady Justice Hallett let fly at Gary Reason, assistant commissioner of London Fire Brigade. She spoke out as mention was made of "a conference demountable unit from a management centre" - which is a portable incident room. Ambulances took an hour to get to Tavistock Square because the officer in the control room couldn't reach the top of the whiteboard detailing operations.”
A 34 per cent turnout is a 'resounding success', says BBC Wales of the Celtic Referendum...Turnout, below 30% in some areas, was described by First Minister Carwyn Jones as "not brilliant, but then not apocalyptic, which some people predicted."
Deputy First Minister and Plaid Cymru leader Ieuan Wyn Jones said: "The rest of the world can now sit up and take notice of the fact that our small nation, here on the western edge of the continent of Europe, has demonstrated pride in who we are, and what we all stand for." (Well, almost three-quarters of the population didn't.)
AND IN THE NEST
studies variously showed between 5 and 30 percent of American and British babies to have been adulterously conceived. Again, the proportion of the tested couples of whom at least the wife had practiced adultery must have been higher for the same ... reasons as in Dr. X's study."
Author: Jared Diamond
Title: The Third Chimpanzee
Publisher: Harper Perennial
Date: Copyright 1992 by Jared Diamond
Pages: 85-86
On the whole I wonder if I am doing the right thing in keeping Alzheimer's at bay? My doctor has already told me not to worry because I won't know I have got it. No use. I will not be deterred. I have others to consider.
'tis a far, far nobler thing that I do now than I have ever done before - but I Must Be Firm. My duty, however unpleasant, is clear. I will firmly tread the path of the martyr. Recent research has shown that 38 per cent of us will escape Alzheimer's if we drink a glass of wine a day.
I MUST GIVE UP TEETOTALISM.
Friday, 25 February 2011
Dr Jekyll but what happened to make Hyde hide?
Here they come, struck by a coup de foudre, hand in hand, dancing down the years, benignity and senility.
It's a transformation. I don't get mad any more. Not even when: "I- have- just- lost- three- quarters- of- the- mss- of- a - book - I am writing - I- bought - three-data- recovery- services- none- of- which worked -so- I tried- to- get- back- a system- I- used- to- have- on- my- computer- which- retained- all- my- output- but I- have- been- on- the- phone- this morning -to- every- known- bloody- continent - interrupted-by-my-wife-seeking-my-opinion-on-the-fourth-new-outfit-she-has-bought-this-week-(which-is-puzzling-because-whenever-I-ask-about-an-outfit-which-is-new-to-me-it-is-always something-she-bought-years-ago)- and- until- the- last-call-l could-not- find- anyone- among-the-thousands-of-staff-in- the- bt-shops-worldwide- who-knew-what-I-was-talking-about-an d-when I tried-as-they-suggested-to-email- them-I-got-a-failed-message-which-said-their-email-box- was-full-so-they-weren't-taking-any-more-messages!!!!”
Don't feel envy any more; no twitches of resentment, not even distaste.
Dammit, I have even begun to like Anne Robinson. Only met her briefly forty years ago when the insecurity which is at her core was still bubbling on the surface. Didn't like her, which was odd because I was champagne chums with one of her ex-hubbies, Charlie Wilson, who once when he edited The Times called over to a sub: “C'm here, fingers.” When the sub asked why he called him fingers he said, “Because that is what you are holding on to your job by.”
I met him when he was news editing The Daily Mail and I went in to do a casual shift, and he said: “We must be scraping the bottom of the bucket.” And I said: “Well, you know how it is with buckets. All the shit floats to the top.”
When I really went off Ms Robinson was when she became quiz mistress on “The Weakest Link” and adopted this faux-dominatrix role, coupled with the weakest wink in show business. Also I couldn't understand how every time she was photographed she got younger.
What changed my mind? It was her transformation on “My Life in Books”, which is high on my list of favourite programmes. You may have noticed that the BBC has discovered literature and the hills are alive with the sound of readers. Not the bogus Notting Hill intellectuals who put you off reading by their carefully assumed, just for the broadcast, views. The unlikeable in full pursuit of the unreadable.
Ms R clearly loves books and it shows. She picks guests who share her love and skilfully gets from them trenchant comment. She has found from somewhere an attractive smile and a look that says she cares. The guests blossom as they realise this, and their choice of favourite books is commendable: ”Wind in the Willows”, “Alice in Wonderland”, “Great Expectations“, “Nicholas Nickleby”, as well as books unknown which always sound worth reading.
I do not always agree with them, though. I even, Buddha Forgive Me, disagreed with the saintly P.D. James. She said - and I was sad to hear that Ms R agreed with her - that she liked books by their touch and their smell. Dammit, all that's what I used to like about women. Books I read as portals to another world.
They were very rude about E-books. I cannot think why. I have two which means that I can carry 7,000 books in my pocket. In the old days I knew chaps who wore two raincoats for extra book portage.
At which point I will take advantage of the liberty of senility to digress.
Two warriors whom I admire are among the signatories to a letter warning that the dismantling of the Harrier fleet and the Ark Royal will rob us of the ability to defend ourselves from the Wahabi-driven Middle East which is emerging like Ovid's dragon's teeth. Not worried about the Chinese. They dominate cyber space and will beat anyone by hacking into their nerve centres. As usual, a weak response from a defence secretary without a jot of the letter writer's experience of battle. “We have no money,” he bleated.
I was in Lewis's this week hovering over a demonstration of Ipads, longing to know how they work but afraid to touch them. As I hovered, a selection of sundry teenagers, even ten-and-below-agers, rushed up, waved their hands and all sorts of things began to happen. Greatly daring, I asked one young man in the throes of virulent acne whether since I had an E-book I needed to get an Ipad. “Not really,” he said. “I have an Ipad and a computer and a Kindle. The trouble with the Ipad is that the batteries need recharging every eight hours.”
Not only did he save me £400: he could save the country countless millions. What is this fuss over library closures>? Close them all. The argument in their favour is outdated. Certainly I was educated in them and the best moment in my young life was when I qualified for an adult ticket and could borrow four books at a time. Today you can download around two million books free of charge and buy new ones online at a greatly reduced price. Second-hand paperbacks are available for the price of an ice cream or a lollipop. The few people who haven't got assorted computers could be given them free. Couple that saving with the money you would save by closing down the universities and replacing them with an Open University network and we would be literally quids in. Think of it. Streets free of feral student mobs, parents no longer having to scrimp and save to give their children the right to drop out in their second expensive year.
“Ah Bliss! Ah Toot, Toot!” to echo the magnificent Mr Toad.
It's a transformation. I don't get mad any more. Not even when: "I- have- just- lost- three- quarters- of- the- mss- of- a - book - I am writing - I- bought - three-data- recovery- services- none- of- which worked -so- I tried- to- get- back- a system- I- used- to- have- on- my- computer- which- retained- all- my- output- but I- have- been- on- the- phone- this morning -to- every- known- bloody- continent - interrupted-by-my-wife-seeking-my-opinion-on-the-fourth-new-outfit-she-has-bought-this-week-(which-is-puzzling-because-whenever-I-ask-about-an-outfit-which-is-new-to-me-it-is-always something-she-bought-years-ago)- and- until- the- last-call-l could-not- find- anyone- among-the-thousands-of-staff-in- the- bt-shops-worldwide- who-knew-what-I-was-talking-about-an d-when I tried-as-they-suggested-to-email- them-I-got-a-failed-message-which-said-their-email-box- was-full-so-they-weren't-taking-any-more-messages!!!!”
Don't feel envy any more; no twitches of resentment, not even distaste.
Dammit, I have even begun to like Anne Robinson. Only met her briefly forty years ago when the insecurity which is at her core was still bubbling on the surface. Didn't like her, which was odd because I was champagne chums with one of her ex-hubbies, Charlie Wilson, who once when he edited The Times called over to a sub: “C'm here, fingers.” When the sub asked why he called him fingers he said, “Because that is what you are holding on to your job by.”
I met him when he was news editing The Daily Mail and I went in to do a casual shift, and he said: “We must be scraping the bottom of the bucket.” And I said: “Well, you know how it is with buckets. All the shit floats to the top.”
When I really went off Ms Robinson was when she became quiz mistress on “The Weakest Link” and adopted this faux-dominatrix role, coupled with the weakest wink in show business. Also I couldn't understand how every time she was photographed she got younger.
What changed my mind? It was her transformation on “My Life in Books”, which is high on my list of favourite programmes. You may have noticed that the BBC has discovered literature and the hills are alive with the sound of readers. Not the bogus Notting Hill intellectuals who put you off reading by their carefully assumed, just for the broadcast, views. The unlikeable in full pursuit of the unreadable.
Ms R clearly loves books and it shows. She picks guests who share her love and skilfully gets from them trenchant comment. She has found from somewhere an attractive smile and a look that says she cares. The guests blossom as they realise this, and their choice of favourite books is commendable: ”Wind in the Willows”, “Alice in Wonderland”, “Great Expectations“, “Nicholas Nickleby”, as well as books unknown which always sound worth reading.
I do not always agree with them, though. I even, Buddha Forgive Me, disagreed with the saintly P.D. James. She said - and I was sad to hear that Ms R agreed with her - that she liked books by their touch and their smell. Dammit, all that's what I used to like about women. Books I read as portals to another world.
They were very rude about E-books. I cannot think why. I have two which means that I can carry 7,000 books in my pocket. In the old days I knew chaps who wore two raincoats for extra book portage.
At which point I will take advantage of the liberty of senility to digress.
Two warriors whom I admire are among the signatories to a letter warning that the dismantling of the Harrier fleet and the Ark Royal will rob us of the ability to defend ourselves from the Wahabi-driven Middle East which is emerging like Ovid's dragon's teeth. Not worried about the Chinese. They dominate cyber space and will beat anyone by hacking into their nerve centres. As usual, a weak response from a defence secretary without a jot of the letter writer's experience of battle. “We have no money,” he bleated.
I was in Lewis's this week hovering over a demonstration of Ipads, longing to know how they work but afraid to touch them. As I hovered, a selection of sundry teenagers, even ten-and-below-agers, rushed up, waved their hands and all sorts of things began to happen. Greatly daring, I asked one young man in the throes of virulent acne whether since I had an E-book I needed to get an Ipad. “Not really,” he said. “I have an Ipad and a computer and a Kindle. The trouble with the Ipad is that the batteries need recharging every eight hours.”
Not only did he save me £400: he could save the country countless millions. What is this fuss over library closures>? Close them all. The argument in their favour is outdated. Certainly I was educated in them and the best moment in my young life was when I qualified for an adult ticket and could borrow four books at a time. Today you can download around two million books free of charge and buy new ones online at a greatly reduced price. Second-hand paperbacks are available for the price of an ice cream or a lollipop. The few people who haven't got assorted computers could be given them free. Couple that saving with the money you would save by closing down the universities and replacing them with an Open University network and we would be literally quids in. Think of it. Streets free of feral student mobs, parents no longer having to scrimp and save to give their children the right to drop out in their second expensive year.
“Ah Bliss! Ah Toot, Toot!” to echo the magnificent Mr Toad.
Friday, 18 February 2011
SURLY BATH TIME
To the ancient among those present, the cup of humiliation comes bucket size and this week I drained it to its bitter dregs.
I gave up writing comic fiction - as I mentioned - because life, as Oscar Wilde observed, imitates art. That is not entirely true. I no longer write comic happenings: I live them.
Last Wednesday morning I got stuck in the bath and my wife summoned the fire brigade. Through that brief sentence flows a river of tears. The fire brigade arrived on a fire engine but, thank God, not ringing the bell. A very comely neighbour, alarmed by the sight of a fire engine, rang to ask if she could help. My wife, who hates to see me enjoying myself, said no.
For reasons I will rehearse later, I am nervous about summoning fire brigades. For these gentlemen I have nothing but praise. Although I could see the effort it cost them, they did not laugh once. Unlike my wife.
No doubt the account of their rescue will be marked with a star in the fire station occurrence book and generations of firemen yet unborn will let the welkin ring with their laughter. The two firemen who answered the call were made of sterner stuff. They weighed up the job with becoming gravity - and silently summoned a third. I still puzzle why they said, “No use asking Larry. He's too tall.”
I explained I had entered the bath to shower, stepped on the soap, shot in the air and was now wedged like an egg in a cup. A spoon being out of a question, I feared their thoughts were running towards corks in bottles. I did them a disservice. In a trice I was entirely surrounded by firemen. Willing hands seized me round body parts previously fire brigade free. I rose like a Botticelli Venus from the waves, adopting much the same discreet posture with the bath an unconvincing shell at my feet. We parted with mutual expressions of goodwill. They said to call them any time and in the face of such kindness it seemed churlish to say I hoped not.
It was in Chester that I summoned a fire crew for the first time. I had a wardrobe-sized cupboard in which to keep my drinks that lit up when you opened the door - an occurrence so frequent that a lady in a flat across the river thought I was semaphoring her. I remember it was the next morning by the time I had corrected her.
On the day of the fire brigade I had opened the cupboard and found it smoking. My son, an imaginative child, immediately leapt to the phone and before I could stop him had summoned the brigade. I grabbed the phone and begged them not to arrive clanging their fire bell but they seemed quite hurt. They said they had to ring their bell: regulations, apparently. They may have added it was more than their job was worth not to but by this time my grip on reality was loosening and I replaced the phone with a nervous whinny. When the brigade arrived it was like a visitation from Westminster cathedral. So loud was the bell, so enthusiastic the fireman's tolling, that people a mile away rushed to the windows to see what was going on.
I told the leading firemen I thought it was a fuse in the door lock which triggered the light. He looked at me in a marked manner and said, “Please don't tell us how to do our job”, and pushed me brusquely aside.
They did their job by climbing into the eaves, inadvertently putting a foot through the ceiling in the process, and entered the drinks cupboard from above, wielding axes so enthusiastically that several bottles of spirits were damaged beyond repair. After an interval the chief fireman approached me, still glaring in an enhanced marked manner. “It was only a fuse in the switch mechanism,” he said. “An unnecessary call out and by rights I should be charging you for it.”
Some years later on Anglesey, my mother had come to spend Christmas with us. My mother held the course and distance record for immovability. Settled into a fireside armchair, she only got up to go to bed or to the lavatory. She didn't even move from her chair when the chimney caught fire. She sat like Patience on a Monument when the fire brigade arrived and they had virtually to climb over her to get at the blaze. She neither stirred nor spoke until the blaze was quelled, when she said: “Have you been offered something to drink?”
I have to tell you that a bottle of brandy goes nowhere among eight Anglesey firemen. I was relieved when, a little unsteadily, they left. Only for the chief firemen to return and say how he was sorry to bother me but the driver was upset because he was the only one who hadn't had a drink. Clearly the rest of the team believed in solidarity. They all came back with him and another bottle of Remy Martin bit the dust in their throats.
Mind you, our Chester postman was much worse. I joined a record club that sent out a Shakespeare play on a long player every month. It proved quite beyond the postman, who folded it double to get it through the letter box. I rang to complain and the girl on the other end said: “Are you sure it's unplayable?” I said not if you had a crescent-shaped turntable and didn't mind Lady Macbeth going mad in Act One. The claim was allowed and a man arrived with a cheque and a warning: “If you accept this cheque you must never play the record.”
HEADLINES
Liverpool Echo...
Swinger businesswoman who posed as stripagram accuses crossing-dressing Birkenhead man of rape
Daily Mail
Jewish football team get the red card for fielding players from other religions
I gave up writing comic fiction - as I mentioned - because life, as Oscar Wilde observed, imitates art. That is not entirely true. I no longer write comic happenings: I live them.
Last Wednesday morning I got stuck in the bath and my wife summoned the fire brigade. Through that brief sentence flows a river of tears. The fire brigade arrived on a fire engine but, thank God, not ringing the bell. A very comely neighbour, alarmed by the sight of a fire engine, rang to ask if she could help. My wife, who hates to see me enjoying myself, said no.
For reasons I will rehearse later, I am nervous about summoning fire brigades. For these gentlemen I have nothing but praise. Although I could see the effort it cost them, they did not laugh once. Unlike my wife.
No doubt the account of their rescue will be marked with a star in the fire station occurrence book and generations of firemen yet unborn will let the welkin ring with their laughter. The two firemen who answered the call were made of sterner stuff. They weighed up the job with becoming gravity - and silently summoned a third. I still puzzle why they said, “No use asking Larry. He's too tall.”
I explained I had entered the bath to shower, stepped on the soap, shot in the air and was now wedged like an egg in a cup. A spoon being out of a question, I feared their thoughts were running towards corks in bottles. I did them a disservice. In a trice I was entirely surrounded by firemen. Willing hands seized me round body parts previously fire brigade free. I rose like a Botticelli Venus from the waves, adopting much the same discreet posture with the bath an unconvincing shell at my feet. We parted with mutual expressions of goodwill. They said to call them any time and in the face of such kindness it seemed churlish to say I hoped not.
It was in Chester that I summoned a fire crew for the first time. I had a wardrobe-sized cupboard in which to keep my drinks that lit up when you opened the door - an occurrence so frequent that a lady in a flat across the river thought I was semaphoring her. I remember it was the next morning by the time I had corrected her.
On the day of the fire brigade I had opened the cupboard and found it smoking. My son, an imaginative child, immediately leapt to the phone and before I could stop him had summoned the brigade. I grabbed the phone and begged them not to arrive clanging their fire bell but they seemed quite hurt. They said they had to ring their bell: regulations, apparently. They may have added it was more than their job was worth not to but by this time my grip on reality was loosening and I replaced the phone with a nervous whinny. When the brigade arrived it was like a visitation from Westminster cathedral. So loud was the bell, so enthusiastic the fireman's tolling, that people a mile away rushed to the windows to see what was going on.
I told the leading firemen I thought it was a fuse in the door lock which triggered the light. He looked at me in a marked manner and said, “Please don't tell us how to do our job”, and pushed me brusquely aside.
They did their job by climbing into the eaves, inadvertently putting a foot through the ceiling in the process, and entered the drinks cupboard from above, wielding axes so enthusiastically that several bottles of spirits were damaged beyond repair. After an interval the chief fireman approached me, still glaring in an enhanced marked manner. “It was only a fuse in the switch mechanism,” he said. “An unnecessary call out and by rights I should be charging you for it.”
Some years later on Anglesey, my mother had come to spend Christmas with us. My mother held the course and distance record for immovability. Settled into a fireside armchair, she only got up to go to bed or to the lavatory. She didn't even move from her chair when the chimney caught fire. She sat like Patience on a Monument when the fire brigade arrived and they had virtually to climb over her to get at the blaze. She neither stirred nor spoke until the blaze was quelled, when she said: “Have you been offered something to drink?”
I have to tell you that a bottle of brandy goes nowhere among eight Anglesey firemen. I was relieved when, a little unsteadily, they left. Only for the chief firemen to return and say how he was sorry to bother me but the driver was upset because he was the only one who hadn't had a drink. Clearly the rest of the team believed in solidarity. They all came back with him and another bottle of Remy Martin bit the dust in their throats.
Mind you, our Chester postman was much worse. I joined a record club that sent out a Shakespeare play on a long player every month. It proved quite beyond the postman, who folded it double to get it through the letter box. I rang to complain and the girl on the other end said: “Are you sure it's unplayable?” I said not if you had a crescent-shaped turntable and didn't mind Lady Macbeth going mad in Act One. The claim was allowed and a man arrived with a cheque and a warning: “If you accept this cheque you must never play the record.”
HEADLINES
Liverpool Echo...
Swinger businesswoman who posed as stripagram accuses crossing-dressing Birkenhead man of rape
Daily Mail
Jewish football team get the red card for fielding players from other religions
Saturday, 12 February 2011
where are gilbert and sullivan when you want them
I gave up writing satirical novels when no sooner had I thought of an absurdity than real life capped it with ease. I wrote of uniformed bobbies invading a mutinous Welsh island and within months the metropolitan police invaded an island in the Caribbean.
Since childhood I have had a sense that Britain as a society was collapsing round my ears. The maps in my school days were predominantly red to denote our empire. Nowadays, the red signifies embarrassment. Africa is in a state of collapse, Pakistan was apparently created to give the natives on the Indian sub-continent a good reason for killing each other. Marriage was discouraged by our government, discipline was a punishable offence, parent power spluttered and died. Ours is the century of universal education? In a pig's ear. Our universities are open to all? Rather like student demonstrations.
I am not clear why they are demonstrating. If they weren't, the mass unemployed would take to the streets in violent action. There was no time when the state could afford free education - and is paying for it so bad? Top weight it will cost a student £27,000 which he can borrow on no interest terms. A student will not be called upon to pay it back until he is earning £21,000 a year. Not a bad investment when after 14 months you are in profit.
Why when we have such excellent classes on the Open University do we need buildings of learning anyway? It is a medieval concept that went out with the Victorian penny. At least two thirds of degree courses were created as job opportunities for lecturers.
It looks as though we are going to lose our free libraries. Is that such a bad thing? When I was young I was educated by library ticket. Go into any library now and you will find little worth reading. Librarians combed their shelves for any book that was remotely literary and sold it. On the internet there are several sites offering a million books free. The public libraries are internet cafes that don't sell coffee.
Although we know it is wrong, we bow down to Europe and give murderers, thieves, paedophiles and fraudsters the right to vote and determine the society which they have abused. Two of my friends are furious. They have never had the vote in their adult lives. Peers of the Realm are barred.
Our prime minister's visits to America look more and more like a summons to the headmaster's study. Our Houses of Parliament have become houses of ill repute. When I was a boy, peace and fairness in our avenue was maintained by an unofficial coalition of fathers. Later on, irresponsible unions ran the country and ruined our industry.
The Speaker's chattel is photographed dressed only in a bed sheet; the new editor of The Lady, inevitably one of the ubiquitous Johnsons, feels obliged to announce to her genteel readership that her teenage daughter has shaved her pubic hair. There was a time when I felt the kingdom was a tragedy: I did not know it would become a farce.
I expect the reason the oak tree is joining the elm in oblivion is that it no longer wishes to symbolise the heap of rubbish that was once a country worth loving, even dying for. I can hardly wait to join them.
Which reminds me - my late chum Stanley Blenkinsop, once news editor of the Daily Express and the last man I knew to wear a monocle, has ordered his ashes to be scattered between the Express building and Yates's Wine Lodge.
Our lethal police force wouldn't have anyone saying, as foreigners were wont to say, “I think your policemen are wonderful”. Indeed they are Dixons more often in the dock than on the green. I have always thought there was something vaguely comic about the Peelers' hats. Pointed for the other ranks; and for the officers, peaked caps, dripping with silver lace like seagoing chauffeurs. Puzzling how our lethal police are so dexterous with automatic rifles, yet after five years of investigating they are still having difficulty with phones. They are quick to advise on the law: crime-ridden householders have been warned by them not to put wire over shed windows. The helpful police point out a burglar might injure himself breaking the windows AND WOULD SUE.
Understandable under the circumstances that a number of chief constables have put their heads together to write a 21-page manual on how to ride a bike, which also includes handy hints on how to eat lemon curd to boost energy levels, avoid swarming insects and cure chapped lips and sore bottoms.
After explaining the use of hand signals, they advise riders to judge the time each signal should last by saying “one elephants, two elephants, three elephants”, as was done in the 1981 film “Gregory's Girl”. Were seven pages necessary to explain how to get off a cycle - bring your cycle to a halt before getting off, when cycling downhill do not put your feet down to slow down?- But how wise it was to warn them not to pursue suspects until they passed the advanced cycling course. And surely three pages on what to eat whilst cycling is excessive?
But you can see why I have given up writing satirical fiction.
Since childhood I have had a sense that Britain as a society was collapsing round my ears. The maps in my school days were predominantly red to denote our empire. Nowadays, the red signifies embarrassment. Africa is in a state of collapse, Pakistan was apparently created to give the natives on the Indian sub-continent a good reason for killing each other. Marriage was discouraged by our government, discipline was a punishable offence, parent power spluttered and died. Ours is the century of universal education? In a pig's ear. Our universities are open to all? Rather like student demonstrations.
I am not clear why they are demonstrating. If they weren't, the mass unemployed would take to the streets in violent action. There was no time when the state could afford free education - and is paying for it so bad? Top weight it will cost a student £27,000 which he can borrow on no interest terms. A student will not be called upon to pay it back until he is earning £21,000 a year. Not a bad investment when after 14 months you are in profit.
Why when we have such excellent classes on the Open University do we need buildings of learning anyway? It is a medieval concept that went out with the Victorian penny. At least two thirds of degree courses were created as job opportunities for lecturers.
It looks as though we are going to lose our free libraries. Is that such a bad thing? When I was young I was educated by library ticket. Go into any library now and you will find little worth reading. Librarians combed their shelves for any book that was remotely literary and sold it. On the internet there are several sites offering a million books free. The public libraries are internet cafes that don't sell coffee.
Although we know it is wrong, we bow down to Europe and give murderers, thieves, paedophiles and fraudsters the right to vote and determine the society which they have abused. Two of my friends are furious. They have never had the vote in their adult lives. Peers of the Realm are barred.
Our prime minister's visits to America look more and more like a summons to the headmaster's study. Our Houses of Parliament have become houses of ill repute. When I was a boy, peace and fairness in our avenue was maintained by an unofficial coalition of fathers. Later on, irresponsible unions ran the country and ruined our industry.
The Speaker's chattel is photographed dressed only in a bed sheet; the new editor of The Lady, inevitably one of the ubiquitous Johnsons, feels obliged to announce to her genteel readership that her teenage daughter has shaved her pubic hair. There was a time when I felt the kingdom was a tragedy: I did not know it would become a farce.
I expect the reason the oak tree is joining the elm in oblivion is that it no longer wishes to symbolise the heap of rubbish that was once a country worth loving, even dying for. I can hardly wait to join them.
Which reminds me - my late chum Stanley Blenkinsop, once news editor of the Daily Express and the last man I knew to wear a monocle, has ordered his ashes to be scattered between the Express building and Yates's Wine Lodge.
Our lethal police force wouldn't have anyone saying, as foreigners were wont to say, “I think your policemen are wonderful”. Indeed they are Dixons more often in the dock than on the green. I have always thought there was something vaguely comic about the Peelers' hats. Pointed for the other ranks; and for the officers, peaked caps, dripping with silver lace like seagoing chauffeurs. Puzzling how our lethal police are so dexterous with automatic rifles, yet after five years of investigating they are still having difficulty with phones. They are quick to advise on the law: crime-ridden householders have been warned by them not to put wire over shed windows. The helpful police point out a burglar might injure himself breaking the windows AND WOULD SUE.
Understandable under the circumstances that a number of chief constables have put their heads together to write a 21-page manual on how to ride a bike, which also includes handy hints on how to eat lemon curd to boost energy levels, avoid swarming insects and cure chapped lips and sore bottoms.
After explaining the use of hand signals, they advise riders to judge the time each signal should last by saying “one elephants, two elephants, three elephants”, as was done in the 1981 film “Gregory's Girl”. Were seven pages necessary to explain how to get off a cycle - bring your cycle to a halt before getting off, when cycling downhill do not put your feet down to slow down?- But how wise it was to warn them not to pursue suspects until they passed the advanced cycling course. And surely three pages on what to eat whilst cycling is excessive?
But you can see why I have given up writing satirical fiction.
Friday, 4 February 2011
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive but to be young in World War 2 was very heaven. Living like Mr Mole in underground air raid shelters, bombed every night like little Ernest Hemingways. Best of all, a Huckleberry Finn life of no school, which meant I could devote more time to books.
By the time I was four I had learned to read and could see no other point in education. At 82, I am still reading and it is the nearest I have ever come to spirited activity. I read as a schoolboy, as a printer's devil, as a soldier, in an army prison, through half a century as a reporter and a broadcaster. I read my way through two marriages, richer and poorer, and through cancer. I have sold books, bought books, stolen books, been a book critic and written twenty-seven of my own. I grew a Jimmy Edwards moustache to thank him for introducing me to Mr Jorrocks and his noble sentiment: “Pick me up, tie me to my chair and fill up my glass.”
Like Jorrocks, I took up marathon wine drinking. It didn't matter that my stories ended up wrapping fish and chips. It gave me something to read as I ate my suppers. When my father banished books from the dining room, I read the labels on sauce bottles. Broadcasting was to give a third dimension to the printed word.
Ah, the printed word! When the bubonic plague knocked the bottom out of his business making mirrors for pilgrims, Gutenberg invented the book by turning a borrowed wine press into a printing flatbed. Learning that moveable type was invented by a Chinese blacksmith sent me scurrying to Su Tung-po, the bibulous poet of the 11th century.
My family clubbed together to buy me an E Book-reader for my eightieth birthday and I was able to carry a library in my pocket. It was the first major change in the history of book-making and I couldn't wait to be part of it.
Now I am part of the automatic text-to-speak computer world. My autobiography “Forgive Us Our Press Passes” is winging out of cyberspace, never to yellow or disappear. I'm among the first to latch onto high tech communication, even though I started the job hardly able to change my own typewriter ribbons. I am a journalist from the hot metal Golden Age. Speaking with a new breed of Evian-drinking, brown-bagging desk-huggers who feel nothing farther than a screen away is a waste of time.
Oh brave new world that has such wonders in it.
For the first time in its long history this column welcomes a guest adornment. Neil Marr, co-founder of Bewrite Books who has put my book in E-land writes:
BRAND NEW LITERARY GENRE ... WITH WHISKERS ON IT!
Neil Marr
Journalists have been writing for the chap on the bus to work and the lord who pours over the carefully ironed pages of The Times in his study ever since Johannes Gensfleisch zur Laden zum Gutenburger (Gutenberg to thee and me) was just a messy thing in his pram and then a struggling young feller with a bright idea, knocking an old wine press into a primitive, hand-cranked printing engine, away from prying eyes in his cellar ... the written word’s first best-cellar?
I opened BeWrite Books ten years ago as a publishing venture. It’s been growing stronger ever since, with 2010 as a kind of watershed year for us. We always have at least 120 exclusive titles in our catalogue. Part of the reason it’s working is that we were among the first in the world to run ebooks alongside our paperback treebooks a decade ago. We’re well ahead of the digital game – and they say it might even turn a buck when it stops raining.
The first ebook title up, ‘Forgive Us Our Press Passes’ by Ian Skidmore, is released in all digital formats today and is available right now for instant download in all formats from all international major and minor ebook retailers and our own website at www.bewrite.net. A big bonus is cover price – little more than the cost of a couple of pints in tap-room currency.
Why kick off with Skiddy’s hilarious memoire? It was the first Revel Barker Publishing title, and Skiddy was the first of Revel’s authors to agree to give ebooks a fair crack o’ the whip. In fact, Skiddy, who has always been an avid reader of anything with words on it, turned to using a Sony ebook-dedicated reading device for recreational reading years ago. He has just opened a second library with a Kindle. Impresses me, does that. Mind you, where Skiddy’s concerned, I’ve always been impressed.
It took ebooks nearly six centuries to revolutionise Gutenberg’s wonderful basic model; all we have seen over subsequent centuries has been mere superficial refinement of the prototype. A book’s a book and, as Skiddy says, content is king. Story rules.
Now you can read Skiddy’s yarn – and soon many other RBP hack-lits – in beautifully prepared new digital editions, word-faithful to their print equivalent, on electronic platforms from PCs and laptops, through the entire range of new ebook-dedicated reading thingies and tablets, to iPods and ubiquitous Blackberries and smartphones. You can even read them on your TV screen if you know how. Somebody will, no doubt, be reading Skiddy whilst kicking his heels waiting for his train on the Tokyo subway tomorrow.
A reminder: even if you don’t have a Kindle and sadly found no other fancy new digital gizmo under the Christmas tree, you can read all BeWrite Books ebooks – so all ‘coming soon’ hack-lit – in PDF on your old-fashioned PC, laptop or netbook. Kindle Mobi editions can be read on your home computers and laptops by free download of the Kindle-for-PC app (www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_pc_mkt_lnd?docId=1000426311) and ePub can be read using free Calibre Library software (www.calibre-ebook.com). Just be sure when you want to buy or ask for a review copy to choose the digital format that’s best for you. Any questions or calls for help, simply email Revel or me (ntmarr@bewrite.net).
ALREADY AVAILABLE ON AMAZON. IF YOU BUY IT, OR EVEN IF YOU DON'T ,PLEASE WRITE A FAVOURABLE REVIEW. LYING IS PERMISSIBLE - xxxx skiddy
By the time I was four I had learned to read and could see no other point in education. At 82, I am still reading and it is the nearest I have ever come to spirited activity. I read as a schoolboy, as a printer's devil, as a soldier, in an army prison, through half a century as a reporter and a broadcaster. I read my way through two marriages, richer and poorer, and through cancer. I have sold books, bought books, stolen books, been a book critic and written twenty-seven of my own. I grew a Jimmy Edwards moustache to thank him for introducing me to Mr Jorrocks and his noble sentiment: “Pick me up, tie me to my chair and fill up my glass.”
Like Jorrocks, I took up marathon wine drinking. It didn't matter that my stories ended up wrapping fish and chips. It gave me something to read as I ate my suppers. When my father banished books from the dining room, I read the labels on sauce bottles. Broadcasting was to give a third dimension to the printed word.
Ah, the printed word! When the bubonic plague knocked the bottom out of his business making mirrors for pilgrims, Gutenberg invented the book by turning a borrowed wine press into a printing flatbed. Learning that moveable type was invented by a Chinese blacksmith sent me scurrying to Su Tung-po, the bibulous poet of the 11th century.
My family clubbed together to buy me an E Book-reader for my eightieth birthday and I was able to carry a library in my pocket. It was the first major change in the history of book-making and I couldn't wait to be part of it.
Now I am part of the automatic text-to-speak computer world. My autobiography “Forgive Us Our Press Passes” is winging out of cyberspace, never to yellow or disappear. I'm among the first to latch onto high tech communication, even though I started the job hardly able to change my own typewriter ribbons. I am a journalist from the hot metal Golden Age. Speaking with a new breed of Evian-drinking, brown-bagging desk-huggers who feel nothing farther than a screen away is a waste of time.
Oh brave new world that has such wonders in it.
For the first time in its long history this column welcomes a guest adornment. Neil Marr, co-founder of Bewrite Books who has put my book in E-land writes:
BRAND NEW LITERARY GENRE ... WITH WHISKERS ON IT!
Neil Marr
Journalists have been writing for the chap on the bus to work and the lord who pours over the carefully ironed pages of The Times in his study ever since Johannes Gensfleisch zur Laden zum Gutenburger (Gutenberg to thee and me) was just a messy thing in his pram and then a struggling young feller with a bright idea, knocking an old wine press into a primitive, hand-cranked printing engine, away from prying eyes in his cellar ... the written word’s first best-cellar?
I opened BeWrite Books ten years ago as a publishing venture. It’s been growing stronger ever since, with 2010 as a kind of watershed year for us. We always have at least 120 exclusive titles in our catalogue. Part of the reason it’s working is that we were among the first in the world to run ebooks alongside our paperback treebooks a decade ago. We’re well ahead of the digital game – and they say it might even turn a buck when it stops raining.
The first ebook title up, ‘Forgive Us Our Press Passes’ by Ian Skidmore, is released in all digital formats today and is available right now for instant download in all formats from all international major and minor ebook retailers and our own website at www.bewrite.net. A big bonus is cover price – little more than the cost of a couple of pints in tap-room currency.
Why kick off with Skiddy’s hilarious memoire? It was the first Revel Barker Publishing title, and Skiddy was the first of Revel’s authors to agree to give ebooks a fair crack o’ the whip. In fact, Skiddy, who has always been an avid reader of anything with words on it, turned to using a Sony ebook-dedicated reading device for recreational reading years ago. He has just opened a second library with a Kindle. Impresses me, does that. Mind you, where Skiddy’s concerned, I’ve always been impressed.
It took ebooks nearly six centuries to revolutionise Gutenberg’s wonderful basic model; all we have seen over subsequent centuries has been mere superficial refinement of the prototype. A book’s a book and, as Skiddy says, content is king. Story rules.
Now you can read Skiddy’s yarn – and soon many other RBP hack-lits – in beautifully prepared new digital editions, word-faithful to their print equivalent, on electronic platforms from PCs and laptops, through the entire range of new ebook-dedicated reading thingies and tablets, to iPods and ubiquitous Blackberries and smartphones. You can even read them on your TV screen if you know how. Somebody will, no doubt, be reading Skiddy whilst kicking his heels waiting for his train on the Tokyo subway tomorrow.
A reminder: even if you don’t have a Kindle and sadly found no other fancy new digital gizmo under the Christmas tree, you can read all BeWrite Books ebooks – so all ‘coming soon’ hack-lit – in PDF on your old-fashioned PC, laptop or netbook. Kindle Mobi editions can be read on your home computers and laptops by free download of the Kindle-for-PC app (www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html/ref=kcp_pc_mkt_lnd?docId=1000426311) and ePub can be read using free Calibre Library software (www.calibre-ebook.com). Just be sure when you want to buy or ask for a review copy to choose the digital format that’s best for you. Any questions or calls for help, simply email Revel or me (ntmarr@bewrite.net).
ALREADY AVAILABLE ON AMAZON. IF YOU BUY IT, OR EVEN IF YOU DON'T ,PLEASE WRITE A FAVOURABLE REVIEW. LYING IS PERMISSIBLE - xxxx skiddy
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