New Year's Eve, the lull before the celebration
It's New Year's Eve. Hooray! We've made it. We've done it. It's time to wake up Uncle Ted from his mid- morning slumber. Time to wake up Auntie Nelly from her mid- morning snooze. In fact the whole family should be in the midst of a post- kip planning committee. Now how many packets of crisps, boxes of chocolate biscuits, savouries, dainty sandwiches and lager have we got now?
I think you'll find that's the entire contents of Sainsbury's shelves, half of Asda, a considerable portion from Morrisons and not forgetting several lorryloads of booze from the Tesco Metro. Oh what a blissful evening it's going to be in Acacia Avenue. I think we ought to invite the whole neighbourhood. New Year's Eve hey? I think we ought to do this every day of the week and end up with nothing in the bank. But then that would be unforgivably stupid and senseless so best stick to New Year's Eve when it comes to parties and besides it's only once a year so let's throw caution to the wind.
You know what day it is today. It's the New Year's Honours list and guess who's been bestowed with the greatest of all honours. Well, there's Jessica Ennis Hill, undoubtedly one of the finest and most agile Olympian long jumpers in the history of the Olympic Games. Jessica almost jumped right out of the sand pit at the London Olympic Games of 2012 and promptly wrote her name in the record books. Jessica Ennis Hill is thoroughly deserving of her award. Dame Jessica Ennis Hill. It sounds almost ludicrously pompous and the kind of recognition you'd give to an ageing aristocrat or an elderly dowager on a country estate. And yet in the context of Jessica Ennis Hill's career I'm sure allowances can be made.
And now for the rest of the best. There's the delightfully snobbish and very haughty Hyacinth Bouquet(aka) Patricia Routledge, a lady of style, class and breeding. Patricia has been adorning stage and screen for a number of years now and none have merited the distinction of Dame quite so much.
Wait for it. Roll the drums and blow the bugles. Next up is one of Britain's most enduring of all rock icons. For the best part of almost five decades Ray Davies has produced some of the greatest and most entertaining pop music lyrics ever heard. Davies takes us on another nostalgic trip down memory lane, a man who came to both represent and embrace the sound of the 1960s,
There was the charmingly lyrical Waterloo Sunset, a song that painted the most ornate of all landscapes and particularly London. Davies and the Kinks were, at times, almost inseparable and the music was both rich in meaning and stylish in its execution. Davies told us stories from his heart, the pain and anguish of growing up, the ups and downs, peaks and troughs of a colourful career, the whole panorama of his life, his relationships, the dubious agents and not forgetting those who were both loyal and distrustful.
My wife and I went to Sunny Afternoon, a classical West End musical that was just stunningly good and simply outstanding. Sunny Afternoon took us on a helter skelter journey through the life of Ray Davies, the initially supportive family and then the family who just seemingly dumped him when the chips were down.
Ray Davies, then quite wondrously, left one song to the very end when I thought he'd forgotten all about it Lola was a prostitute, a woman of the night and somebody who came to be immortalised in a Kinks song. It was a belter of a song, a real diamond of a ditty, a rousing, stirring song that always sounded like a good night out pub song. Lola had most, if not all of the audience, on their feet. The words were blasted out, echoing around our West End theatre and then rebounding off the walls and ceilings with certainty and conviction.
And now it's time to be upstanding for a showbiz legend. Arise Sir Ken Dodd. No. It's absolutely true. The merriment maker from Liverpool Ken Dodd is now Sir Ken Dodd. Who saw that coming? Well on reflection it almost seems right and proper. For as long as any of us can remember Ken Dodd has been the master of the chuckle, the gag meister, the laugh out loud practitioner, the joking jester, the amusing anecdotalist and a man who never really felt comfortable with the controversial or provocative.
While the likes of Dave Allen were dipping their toes into the contentious world of religion, Dodd easily steered himself away from the blue gags, the jokes that didn't really border on blasphemy and just left us laughing all the way into tomorrow, next month and next year. Dodd invented Notty Ash and the Jam Butty mines, the tickling stick and the fantastic Diddy Men. Dodd extolled the virtues of happiness and had no time for the crude vulgarity. Dodd still performs at the age of 89 because he loves the roar of the crowd, the audience laughter, the thrill of the magical joke perfectly timed and delivered.
Some of us may mock Sir Ken Dodd but perhaps they should know better. Any man who can stroll onto a holiday camp stage at 8pm and still be there at 1.00 in the morning has to be commended. Of course the jokes are corny and medieval but that's why we love Sir Ken Dodd. I think Sir Ken Dodd should accept the sword from Her Majesty the Queen in dignified fashion and sail off into the sunset with a beaming grin on his face. Congrats Sir Ken Dodd, A national treasure, a giant of a comic.
Finally, take a bow Andy Murray. Yes, what a result! What a sportsman! For well over 70 years now British tennis has been praying every night for a player who could single-handledly transform the fortunes of his country's tennis. They've all come and gone. Tim Henman, Buster Mottram, John Lloyd and all of those other worthy pretenders to the throne. Now Andy Murray has just won an even bigger prize and no amount of praise may ever be good enough. The tributes are so fitting.
But now it's Sir Andy Murray. What about that? Murray is no revolutionary, nor is he the saviour of the world but none deserve the ultimate in all Establishment acknowledgment. Andy Murray will wander around his house with wife Kim and his new daughter, smiling from ear to ear because here was a man who stopped the rot, who kicked back all of the sporting boundaries into touch and never flinched when the going got tough.
Murray is driven, powerful, aggressive, ruthless, clinical and wonderfully dismissive of his opponent. Murray plays every game of tennis with the full burners on, a total and disdainful swipe of the racket. At Wimbledon he did it again. He picked up his second Wimbledon's men singles title because he just had to prove that his first Wimbledon was no mere fluke.
By several country miles Murray has now established himself as the best tennis player has ever produced. True Fred Perry did set the precedent back in the 1930s but now Murray has all the trappings of greatness. Murray, is fully pumped up and motivated, a player who tells himself off quite strongly at every imperfection, chastises himself when vital points are lost and then roars with self reproach when a match is lost.
Murray is the perfectionist, a player with all of the applicable forehand returns and passing winners down the line, a player of impeccable technique and flair. The backhand remains his most devastating and dangerous weapon, the cross court shots fluently effortless and the Murray serve can still remind you of a firing range. I think we should all take our hat off to Sir Andy Murray because I can think of nobody who has fully restored our faith in British tennis. Congrats Sir Andy.
So there you have it folks. The Sirs, Dames, OBE's, MBE's have been handed out. There were the famous and not so famous, the community leaders, the diligent and tireless voluntary workers, the men and women who modestly took the applause and plaudits. With only several hours to the end of 2016 you may be blowing up the New Year's Eve balloons, finishing off the vol au vents, shaking the crisps and nuts into their respective bowls and then dusting off our beloved vinyl LPs. But before I go, let's all be good and kind to each other and may mankind never even think of brandishing a gun or bomb. I think it's time for a year of peace and goodwill. Not much to ask for surely. Have a good one folks and don't forget. It's a beautiful world and Louis Armstrong was absolutely right.
Saturday 31 December 2016
Friday 30 December 2016
The New Year and the old one. 2016, what was that all about?
The New Year and the old one. 2016, what was that all about.
So here we are poised on the threshold of another year. We're speeding towards 2017 and wondering why the things that did happen in 2016 actually did take place. Yes you can rub your eyes with bemusement and disbelief. 2016 defied description and challenged our perceptions. How and why may never be known but 2016 was one long sequence of spectacular absurdities. You couldn't have made any of it up. And they did happen and maybe it's time to move on.
With the benefit of hindsight 2016 almost seems like some weird and wonderful dream, a Hollywood fantasy or some outrageous figment of our imagination. It hardly seemed possible and credible but that's how it all panned out. Maybe we'll all wake up on the first day of 2017 and find that, much to our surprise it did happen. Some events and incidents in life are somehow destined to happen while others just land on our front door like some unwelcome impostor.
Now here we are on the penultimate day of the year and outside all is once again a thick fog and mist hovering over the suburbs of London and Britain. At one point it seemed to settle on the ground itself rather like the most comfortable of blankets. There is something quite haunting and mystical about the fog. For years our American friends were convinced that London was permanently foggy regardless of the time of the year. Here in Britain we normally get fog and mists when least expected although this is far from being a pea souper.
Over 60 years ago London suffered the most horrendous of all weather conditions. Something known as a smog came swirling in from no fixed location, a choking, coughing, spluttering phenomena that wrapped itself mercilessly around the West End, the City and the suburbs. The smog was the direct result of noxious fumes from chimneys and the increasing intrusion of a thick white fog.
Thankfully there hasn't been any snow although to a world of children, snow is pretty, beautiful, playful and enormous fun. You can skip, jump, slide, somersault and generally lark about in the white stuff. Still it's time to sit down reflectively and ponder the year of 2016 in all its splendid incredulity, its magnificent unpredictability and its superlative drama. Nobody could have possibly written that script because none would have believed you.
Anyway. it's time to turn back the clock and try to make sense of it all. Of course 2016 had its familiar patterns, rhythms, colours, shapes and conventions. When all is said and done though it may not be any more unusual than any other year in recent history. But it was crazy, slightly potty and almost endlessly controversial. It had the traditional excitements, the everyday dramas and those shocking traumas that might have caught us on the hop when least expected.
We knew there was something in the air when the EU referendum announcement hit us between the eyes. From that point onwards every news bulletin, newspaper, TV broadcast and media outlet was charged and ready to explode on our consciousness like a lethal grenade. You could almost smell the cordite in the air. Battle lines were formed and politicians of every colour suddenly broke into the most heated of all bust ups. It was the kind of confrontation that almost broke the whole of Britain and left most of us speechless and dumbfounded.
Now the dust has settled perhaps we can get back to the everybody business of living and rationalising the whole event. Britain will be leaving Europe and will somebody remember to turn out the lights and lock up afterwards? Britain wants to escape from the bureaucratic clutches of its European neighbours and carve out a quite astonishing independence from Europe. It wants to be widely respected and feel even better about itself than it already does.
No longer does Britain want to be held to account by those wretched and faceless law makers in Brussels. Britain wants to feel a greater sense of belonging to its global allies, the countries with big plans, admirable ambitions and forward thinking projects. Britain wants to feel part of the bigger picture rather than that little squiggle in the corner of Europe. Britain wants to trade with her international partners in the hope that one day we too can command the respect of the whole globe.
It is of course all about world domination or perhaps that's just some silly notion. Seriously Britain wants to be that powerful and recognisable country that always does prosperous business with no interference from its European neighbours. Just let us get on with it and forge lasting friendships with China, Japan, Australia, Africa, the Far East, the Middle East and every continent as far away from Europe as it's possible to be.
Who, we may ask, needs those efficient German cars, French cheese, Italian spaghetti, Russian vodka and Spanish paellas when there are so many more tempting culinary choices? Who needs Greek ouzo, Swiss chocolates or any of those meals they serve up in European restaurants. Britain has got its own lakes of wine, its very own chocolates and doesn't need any help or guidance from Europe. Good night Europe. It was nice knowing you but frankly those global frontiers have to be opened up as soon as possible.
But it was the immediate aftermath of the EU referendum that left most of us either scratching our heads or just glad that the whole thing was over once and all. On the day after Britain's withdrawal, there were furious arguments, fiercely accusing fingers and much questioning. In reality there was nothing to get all hot under the collar about. Once the decision had been made it was easy to believe that none of us would have any reason to worry about anything. And yet there seemed to be an uneasy tension that spread across the country, more disagreeements and more bloody recriminations.
Wasn't Britain happy with that final judgment and a line would be emphatically drawn in the sand? And yet there were indignant demonstrations from the people who wanted us to stay in the heart of Europe and not just walk away like sulking children. There seemed genuine blood or maybe not. But there was more anger, more angst, more teeth clenching, more soul baring, more nonsensical comments from those in the know. There were attacks and counter attacks, corners and free kicks, what a palaver. Sorry that's football not politics although the two do cross over quite compatibly at times.
Still we've all had quite enough of the Brexit theatrical production and is that Nigel Farage slinking his way back to his pantomime dressing room with a broad grin on his face. On the subject of politics 2016 signalled the end of David Cameron's reign as British Prime Minister. You had to feel desperately sorry for a decent and principled man who always felt he had Britain's best interests at heart. Cameron was adamant that Britain had to be a European city in every sense of the word. And yet he had to fall on his sword because the rest of the nation turned their backs on him. It seemed like the most unjust of all betrayals and for a few brief moments even he must have felt lost and deserted.
Anyway in that other hotly divisive political hot potato, America also went to the polls and here was the point where any sense of reality ran away from the White House. The appointment of Donald Trump as the next President of the United States still leaves us perplexed and, if truth be told, terribly worried for the future of the free world.
How did a man with no political experience at all suddenly find himself launched into one of the most high profile and important jobs in the world. Here was a ruthless, corrupt, multi millionaire businessman preaching and pontificating on Syria, Iraq and all manner of foreign policies. Here was a a man faced with one of the most unenviable jobs of all time. What does Trump know about a country's economy, its housing and education problems, its hospitals, its disaffected youngsters, its dreadful poverty? And yet here's a man who will have to learn on the job, who will have to acquire the relevant political skills fairly sharpish because now is the time for Trump to roll up his sleeves and get cracking with due haste.
We shall watch this ruthless and perhaps too opinionated man. We shall watch him slowly shaping and moulding his policies with considerable assistance from his back room team because you sense they will be essential cogs in the new American administration and vital influences to boot. It may be that Trump will have to quickly bury those rather unfortunate and tactless remarks on women, Muslims and walls in Mexico. Time I think for Don to don the clothes of sensible politics not some wildly silly and impassioned rant about something and nothing. Time for Donald to get real.
And so it is that we move into those last couple of days of the year and mourn the loss of those who we once idolised. The passing of David Bowie at the beginning of the year still seems like a vicious rumour. Regrettably Bowie could have been, and perhaps was. one of the archetypal heroes in one of his songs. Of course Bowie lived out the definitive life of sex, drugs and rock and roll but when the curtain drops on 2016 most of us will bow our heads deeply and respectfully hoping that the rock legends of our generation will continue to keep us richly entertained.
In the last couple days of this festive period more giants have fallen. There was Carrie Fisher, an actress of some standing, repute and renown. Fisher will forever be remembered and perhaps immortalised for services to Star Wars and then celebrated for being the daughter of Debbie Reynolds whose own death the day after her daughter now sends a sinister shiver down the spine.
And then there was the tragic and heartbreaking passing of the incomparable George Michael, a singer of enormous gifts and a gloriously resonant voice. The harsh truth of course was that the self destructive path that led to his downfall is now just a painfully cautionary tale rather than a terrible accident. When the post mortems are fully conducted and those affectionate tributes have been made, we may think we've lost much more than a true legend. Time to draw a veil over 2016 and dig out the crystal ball. Any New Year's resolutions? Me? Well this is my own lifelong mantra. To quote the great Liverpool manager Bill Shankly's mother. If you've got your health everyday is a holiday. My mantra is that my health is my wealth. A happy and healthy New Year folks.
So here we are poised on the threshold of another year. We're speeding towards 2017 and wondering why the things that did happen in 2016 actually did take place. Yes you can rub your eyes with bemusement and disbelief. 2016 defied description and challenged our perceptions. How and why may never be known but 2016 was one long sequence of spectacular absurdities. You couldn't have made any of it up. And they did happen and maybe it's time to move on.
With the benefit of hindsight 2016 almost seems like some weird and wonderful dream, a Hollywood fantasy or some outrageous figment of our imagination. It hardly seemed possible and credible but that's how it all panned out. Maybe we'll all wake up on the first day of 2017 and find that, much to our surprise it did happen. Some events and incidents in life are somehow destined to happen while others just land on our front door like some unwelcome impostor.
Now here we are on the penultimate day of the year and outside all is once again a thick fog and mist hovering over the suburbs of London and Britain. At one point it seemed to settle on the ground itself rather like the most comfortable of blankets. There is something quite haunting and mystical about the fog. For years our American friends were convinced that London was permanently foggy regardless of the time of the year. Here in Britain we normally get fog and mists when least expected although this is far from being a pea souper.
Over 60 years ago London suffered the most horrendous of all weather conditions. Something known as a smog came swirling in from no fixed location, a choking, coughing, spluttering phenomena that wrapped itself mercilessly around the West End, the City and the suburbs. The smog was the direct result of noxious fumes from chimneys and the increasing intrusion of a thick white fog.
Thankfully there hasn't been any snow although to a world of children, snow is pretty, beautiful, playful and enormous fun. You can skip, jump, slide, somersault and generally lark about in the white stuff. Still it's time to sit down reflectively and ponder the year of 2016 in all its splendid incredulity, its magnificent unpredictability and its superlative drama. Nobody could have possibly written that script because none would have believed you.
Anyway. it's time to turn back the clock and try to make sense of it all. Of course 2016 had its familiar patterns, rhythms, colours, shapes and conventions. When all is said and done though it may not be any more unusual than any other year in recent history. But it was crazy, slightly potty and almost endlessly controversial. It had the traditional excitements, the everyday dramas and those shocking traumas that might have caught us on the hop when least expected.
We knew there was something in the air when the EU referendum announcement hit us between the eyes. From that point onwards every news bulletin, newspaper, TV broadcast and media outlet was charged and ready to explode on our consciousness like a lethal grenade. You could almost smell the cordite in the air. Battle lines were formed and politicians of every colour suddenly broke into the most heated of all bust ups. It was the kind of confrontation that almost broke the whole of Britain and left most of us speechless and dumbfounded.
Now the dust has settled perhaps we can get back to the everybody business of living and rationalising the whole event. Britain will be leaving Europe and will somebody remember to turn out the lights and lock up afterwards? Britain wants to escape from the bureaucratic clutches of its European neighbours and carve out a quite astonishing independence from Europe. It wants to be widely respected and feel even better about itself than it already does.
No longer does Britain want to be held to account by those wretched and faceless law makers in Brussels. Britain wants to feel a greater sense of belonging to its global allies, the countries with big plans, admirable ambitions and forward thinking projects. Britain wants to feel part of the bigger picture rather than that little squiggle in the corner of Europe. Britain wants to trade with her international partners in the hope that one day we too can command the respect of the whole globe.
It is of course all about world domination or perhaps that's just some silly notion. Seriously Britain wants to be that powerful and recognisable country that always does prosperous business with no interference from its European neighbours. Just let us get on with it and forge lasting friendships with China, Japan, Australia, Africa, the Far East, the Middle East and every continent as far away from Europe as it's possible to be.
Who, we may ask, needs those efficient German cars, French cheese, Italian spaghetti, Russian vodka and Spanish paellas when there are so many more tempting culinary choices? Who needs Greek ouzo, Swiss chocolates or any of those meals they serve up in European restaurants. Britain has got its own lakes of wine, its very own chocolates and doesn't need any help or guidance from Europe. Good night Europe. It was nice knowing you but frankly those global frontiers have to be opened up as soon as possible.
But it was the immediate aftermath of the EU referendum that left most of us either scratching our heads or just glad that the whole thing was over once and all. On the day after Britain's withdrawal, there were furious arguments, fiercely accusing fingers and much questioning. In reality there was nothing to get all hot under the collar about. Once the decision had been made it was easy to believe that none of us would have any reason to worry about anything. And yet there seemed to be an uneasy tension that spread across the country, more disagreeements and more bloody recriminations.
Wasn't Britain happy with that final judgment and a line would be emphatically drawn in the sand? And yet there were indignant demonstrations from the people who wanted us to stay in the heart of Europe and not just walk away like sulking children. There seemed genuine blood or maybe not. But there was more anger, more angst, more teeth clenching, more soul baring, more nonsensical comments from those in the know. There were attacks and counter attacks, corners and free kicks, what a palaver. Sorry that's football not politics although the two do cross over quite compatibly at times.
Still we've all had quite enough of the Brexit theatrical production and is that Nigel Farage slinking his way back to his pantomime dressing room with a broad grin on his face. On the subject of politics 2016 signalled the end of David Cameron's reign as British Prime Minister. You had to feel desperately sorry for a decent and principled man who always felt he had Britain's best interests at heart. Cameron was adamant that Britain had to be a European city in every sense of the word. And yet he had to fall on his sword because the rest of the nation turned their backs on him. It seemed like the most unjust of all betrayals and for a few brief moments even he must have felt lost and deserted.
Anyway in that other hotly divisive political hot potato, America also went to the polls and here was the point where any sense of reality ran away from the White House. The appointment of Donald Trump as the next President of the United States still leaves us perplexed and, if truth be told, terribly worried for the future of the free world.
How did a man with no political experience at all suddenly find himself launched into one of the most high profile and important jobs in the world. Here was a ruthless, corrupt, multi millionaire businessman preaching and pontificating on Syria, Iraq and all manner of foreign policies. Here was a a man faced with one of the most unenviable jobs of all time. What does Trump know about a country's economy, its housing and education problems, its hospitals, its disaffected youngsters, its dreadful poverty? And yet here's a man who will have to learn on the job, who will have to acquire the relevant political skills fairly sharpish because now is the time for Trump to roll up his sleeves and get cracking with due haste.
We shall watch this ruthless and perhaps too opinionated man. We shall watch him slowly shaping and moulding his policies with considerable assistance from his back room team because you sense they will be essential cogs in the new American administration and vital influences to boot. It may be that Trump will have to quickly bury those rather unfortunate and tactless remarks on women, Muslims and walls in Mexico. Time I think for Don to don the clothes of sensible politics not some wildly silly and impassioned rant about something and nothing. Time for Donald to get real.
And so it is that we move into those last couple of days of the year and mourn the loss of those who we once idolised. The passing of David Bowie at the beginning of the year still seems like a vicious rumour. Regrettably Bowie could have been, and perhaps was. one of the archetypal heroes in one of his songs. Of course Bowie lived out the definitive life of sex, drugs and rock and roll but when the curtain drops on 2016 most of us will bow our heads deeply and respectfully hoping that the rock legends of our generation will continue to keep us richly entertained.
In the last couple days of this festive period more giants have fallen. There was Carrie Fisher, an actress of some standing, repute and renown. Fisher will forever be remembered and perhaps immortalised for services to Star Wars and then celebrated for being the daughter of Debbie Reynolds whose own death the day after her daughter now sends a sinister shiver down the spine.
And then there was the tragic and heartbreaking passing of the incomparable George Michael, a singer of enormous gifts and a gloriously resonant voice. The harsh truth of course was that the self destructive path that led to his downfall is now just a painfully cautionary tale rather than a terrible accident. When the post mortems are fully conducted and those affectionate tributes have been made, we may think we've lost much more than a true legend. Time to draw a veil over 2016 and dig out the crystal ball. Any New Year's resolutions? Me? Well this is my own lifelong mantra. To quote the great Liverpool manager Bill Shankly's mother. If you've got your health everyday is a holiday. My mantra is that my health is my wealth. A happy and healthy New Year folks.
Monday 26 December 2016
Boxing Day- oh yes it is!
Boxing Day- oh yes it is! Pantomimes and more telly.
It's Boxing Day folks. Oh yes it is. Oh no it isn't. Oh please make up your mind. The indecision of it all. Yes, in all seriousness, it is Boxing Day and it is pantomime season or day. These are extraordinary times. Outside it feels like high summer and, I kid you not, it feels like July out there. It's time to give an airing to my beach shirt and shorts. Let me see now. I've just smothered yet more sun factor 45 on me and are those wasps and bees I can see in the rosebushes or have those petunias come up a treat? Hold on somebody's having a barbecue next door. I thought I could smell chicken burgers coming from somewhere. This is picnic weather. I'm sure those tulips are in full bloom. Listen to those lawn mowers. Surely not the dulcet tones of the cuckoo. This is just surreal. Somebody wake me up. This isn't happening. And yet it is.
It's at times like this that the whole of Britain begins to believe the rumours of global warming are perfectly correct. We saw the weather forecast last night and those isobars look distinctly promising. In fact I'm willing to bet that by New Year's Day we'll all be wearing those humorous T-shirts and basking in 100 degrees of sweltering, baking heat and hiding in the shade. Maybe we'll all converge on our wonderful seaside resorts and then tuck into a hundred ice-creams. Will somebody get those deckchairs?
On second thoughts it is still ever so slightly nippy and windy out there so it's time to batten down the hatches in case we get some turbulent storms from the continent or perhaps the Atlantic. Inevitably by late this afternoon darkness will fall like a silky black cloth and the whole fabric of the day will take on an entirely different complexion.
It will feel like mid- night and by 4pm the afternoon will no longer hold the same kind of fascination as it might during the summer. There will be a distinct bleakness and gloominess relieved only by chinks of grey, fading light and tiny patches of blue sky. The clouds will turn a sumptuous shade of salmon and it may or may not rain. But none of us can really have any justifiable cause for complaint. What a December! If the rest of the winter is like this then I'll smile all the way to the first day of spring. It's picture post card weather and without any of that snow we may be privately dreading. Great stuff. But hey who cares it's winter. There's a cosy intimacy about being indoors, eating yesterday's turkey sandwiches and playing Scrabble again. Fantastic game Scrabble.
Meanwhile back here in Britain families are bracing themselves for the yearly pantomime when all of the children wrap up warmly in their coats and everybody becomes very cheerful and feels glad to be alive. And why ever not? You've got to enjoy the festivities haven't you? You can't beat a good pantomime. Boxing Day and pantomimes have been with us for almost as long as anybody can remember. They're designed for children exclusively but if mum and dad want to feel some kind of emotional attachment then there can be nothing wrong with a Boxing Day pantomime.
My pantomime days are now sadly over for the time being anyway. While our children were growing up, my wife and I used to take our kids on regular trips to the yearly pantomime. It was that staple diet of Aladdin, Dick Whittington, Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty without fail. Pantomimes had all the trappings of good old fashioned entertainment and childish inoffensiveness. Occasionally it seemed to get quite fruity, naughty, salacious, full of mischievous characters and funny remarks. Then there were those sillly moments, the outrageous language, the double entendres and innocent innuendos.
But hey come on we loved Window Twankey dressed up like some ridiculous fancy dress party figure, a riot of ragged and tattered costumes, nonsensical and preposterous but gloriously bright and colourful. There were the evil characters lurking behind the good guys, Dick Whittington slapping his thighs with all the reckless abandon of somebody who doesn't feel pain and sing a long frivolity.
Anyway it's time to throw some more logs on the roaring log fire and sip that final glass of Christmas Day brandy. Time to put my feet up and hope that the happy Hammers can well and truly forget that 8-2 battering they took on Boxing Day 53 years ago. It's Swansea today at the Liberty Stadium. I think I'll try and close my eyes and hope for the best. Now where's my claret and blue scarf. I'm forever blowing bubbles!
It's Boxing Day folks. Oh yes it is. Oh no it isn't. Oh please make up your mind. The indecision of it all. Yes, in all seriousness, it is Boxing Day and it is pantomime season or day. These are extraordinary times. Outside it feels like high summer and, I kid you not, it feels like July out there. It's time to give an airing to my beach shirt and shorts. Let me see now. I've just smothered yet more sun factor 45 on me and are those wasps and bees I can see in the rosebushes or have those petunias come up a treat? Hold on somebody's having a barbecue next door. I thought I could smell chicken burgers coming from somewhere. This is picnic weather. I'm sure those tulips are in full bloom. Listen to those lawn mowers. Surely not the dulcet tones of the cuckoo. This is just surreal. Somebody wake me up. This isn't happening. And yet it is.
It's at times like this that the whole of Britain begins to believe the rumours of global warming are perfectly correct. We saw the weather forecast last night and those isobars look distinctly promising. In fact I'm willing to bet that by New Year's Day we'll all be wearing those humorous T-shirts and basking in 100 degrees of sweltering, baking heat and hiding in the shade. Maybe we'll all converge on our wonderful seaside resorts and then tuck into a hundred ice-creams. Will somebody get those deckchairs?
On second thoughts it is still ever so slightly nippy and windy out there so it's time to batten down the hatches in case we get some turbulent storms from the continent or perhaps the Atlantic. Inevitably by late this afternoon darkness will fall like a silky black cloth and the whole fabric of the day will take on an entirely different complexion.
It will feel like mid- night and by 4pm the afternoon will no longer hold the same kind of fascination as it might during the summer. There will be a distinct bleakness and gloominess relieved only by chinks of grey, fading light and tiny patches of blue sky. The clouds will turn a sumptuous shade of salmon and it may or may not rain. But none of us can really have any justifiable cause for complaint. What a December! If the rest of the winter is like this then I'll smile all the way to the first day of spring. It's picture post card weather and without any of that snow we may be privately dreading. Great stuff. But hey who cares it's winter. There's a cosy intimacy about being indoors, eating yesterday's turkey sandwiches and playing Scrabble again. Fantastic game Scrabble.
Meanwhile back here in Britain families are bracing themselves for the yearly pantomime when all of the children wrap up warmly in their coats and everybody becomes very cheerful and feels glad to be alive. And why ever not? You've got to enjoy the festivities haven't you? You can't beat a good pantomime. Boxing Day and pantomimes have been with us for almost as long as anybody can remember. They're designed for children exclusively but if mum and dad want to feel some kind of emotional attachment then there can be nothing wrong with a Boxing Day pantomime.
My pantomime days are now sadly over for the time being anyway. While our children were growing up, my wife and I used to take our kids on regular trips to the yearly pantomime. It was that staple diet of Aladdin, Dick Whittington, Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty without fail. Pantomimes had all the trappings of good old fashioned entertainment and childish inoffensiveness. Occasionally it seemed to get quite fruity, naughty, salacious, full of mischievous characters and funny remarks. Then there were those sillly moments, the outrageous language, the double entendres and innocent innuendos.
But hey come on we loved Window Twankey dressed up like some ridiculous fancy dress party figure, a riot of ragged and tattered costumes, nonsensical and preposterous but gloriously bright and colourful. There were the evil characters lurking behind the good guys, Dick Whittington slapping his thighs with all the reckless abandon of somebody who doesn't feel pain and sing a long frivolity.
Anyway it's time to throw some more logs on the roaring log fire and sip that final glass of Christmas Day brandy. Time to put my feet up and hope that the happy Hammers can well and truly forget that 8-2 battering they took on Boxing Day 53 years ago. It's Swansea today at the Liberty Stadium. I think I'll try and close my eyes and hope for the best. Now where's my claret and blue scarf. I'm forever blowing bubbles!
Saturday 24 December 2016
Christmas Eve- it's almost time to party.
Christmas Eve- it's almost time to party.
Now let me see. Have we got everything? It's that final day before the world stops spinning, cars, buses, lorries and vans briefly disappear from our roads and all you can hear is the rustling of Christmas wrapping paper, turkeys gently simmering in ovens and Uncle Jim snoring for England. Around Uncle Jim the kids are running around your home and people are dashing in and out of their homes with an almost gleeful absent mindedness. Where are we going? Have we forgotten the keys? Oh no I forgot to get the carrots and I must get Uncle Jim a woolly hat in the sales. No time to lose. Surely it can't get any better and yet it will and probably has by now.
There is a kind of delayed ecstasy about Christmas Eve, a suspension of belief, a sense of high voltage anticipation, a harum scarum urgency, a feeling that the hours and days during the day and night are never enough to think of everything before Christmas Day. There are 365 days in the year and yet in that last week or so we begin to believe that the worst case scenario will take place if we don't do everything at once. What would happen if all the shops suddenly decided to close at lunch? Of course there wouldn't be a state of emergency and of course the world wouldn't come to an end. Still we may be panicking and fretting in case the BBC or any of the TV channels overlook James Bond in their busy schedules.
Years ago of course Christmas Day stuck rigidly to its religious and spiritual traditions. There were the stirring church services where all the parishioners sung lustily at the tops of their voices. There were the hospitals on the big day where all of the latest Christmas telly celebrities would suddenly and happily reveal that jolly old bloke with the red coat and the white beard. The children were wide eyed and agog. This was the day they'd been waiting for since - let me see- last year.
Oooh it's Santa. complete with sack. Did he really tumble down the chimney and does he really live in Lapland? That's just silly, made up, a fallacy, a total fabrication. Where's the scientific evidence? Prove it conclusively. I bet you can't. Christmases were, and probably still are, wonderfully well intentioned and very emotional. And of course it was consistently heart- warming because that was what Christmas was all about.
Sadly those early morning visits to sick children in hospital more or less ran their course and can only be fondly remembered as something we used to watch on the box. While I was growing up the Top of the Pops review of the year was more or less compulsory and a permanent fixture. Sadly even Top of the Pops is no longer that adornment on top of the Christmas tree although Fern Cotton and Reggie Yates still delight us with that pop music misty eyed reminiscence show, that nostalgic journey down memory lane.
From a personal view the programme itself no longer seems relevant at all and on reflection, for me it just seems superfluous to requirements. Nothing personal you understand. I belong to the 1970s generation of Slade, Roy Wood, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Chris Rea, Paul McCartney and Wings Mull of Kintyre, Cliff Richard's lovely Mistletoe and Wine and Noel Edmonds literally smothered in tinsel from head to toe. It was all barmy, cosy, amusing and somehow timeless. Britain was a nation at one with itself, inhibitions scattered to the wind and shamelessly happy.
And yet here we are again. One day to go before those silly paper hats are worn, dad waits to cut up the turkey, the kids giggle and giggle mischievously, cousin Harry blows his nose, Auntie Irene makes sure her hair looks immaculate, brother Ben keeps sneaking off with the sweets and neighbour Norman asks whether he can have a look at the Radio Times again. If he hasn't asked for the Radio Times once he's probably asked for it a million times.
But then mum tells the children to take off their shoes off and to stop jumping on the sofa, Meanwhile the cats and dogs are creating merry hell and havoc with bits of paper in their teeth and loads of Christmas wrapping paper around their legs. Those kids will have to take their shoes off the sofa for the last time and Auntie Irene is insistent on her eighth glass of sherry, perhaps just a brandy for cousin Harry because he needs a reviving drink. He's just travelled right across the country just to be with his united family and he didn't want to miss a couple of glasses of grog, Bucks Fizz or something suitably alcoholic.
Then the door bell rings again almost vocally and vociferously. Get the door please. That's got to be the postman and then mum becomes her mutli tasking self, full of verve and versatility. She picks up the pillows on the sofa, plumping them up very elegantly and then juggles with a bag of sprouts. Then the dog launches into another deafening and cacophonous barking that can be heard at the other end of the road.
Then the whole family just slump on their settee just exhausted and it isn't even mid-day yet. The curtains are dusted and straightened, table cloths shaking and shivering with food. The mahogany cabinet resembles the local Off Licence and the old clock chimes predictably and a little wearily, perhaps acknowledging that Christmas is all about families and the preservation of lasting goodwill.
And so it is that Christmas Eve gazes longingly at Christmas Day with a very patient and wistful air. It looks as if everything is ready and prepared. The window shelves could do with a final dusting, the pictures on the wall look prettier than ever and everything looks dandy. Maybe that painting needs to be adjusted slightly and the carpet needs a quick Hoover. Apart from that it's time to for all of that whole- hearted slap stick humour, side splitting laughter and then partying all the way until the end of the year. Have a good one folks.
Now let me see. Have we got everything? It's that final day before the world stops spinning, cars, buses, lorries and vans briefly disappear from our roads and all you can hear is the rustling of Christmas wrapping paper, turkeys gently simmering in ovens and Uncle Jim snoring for England. Around Uncle Jim the kids are running around your home and people are dashing in and out of their homes with an almost gleeful absent mindedness. Where are we going? Have we forgotten the keys? Oh no I forgot to get the carrots and I must get Uncle Jim a woolly hat in the sales. No time to lose. Surely it can't get any better and yet it will and probably has by now.
There is a kind of delayed ecstasy about Christmas Eve, a suspension of belief, a sense of high voltage anticipation, a harum scarum urgency, a feeling that the hours and days during the day and night are never enough to think of everything before Christmas Day. There are 365 days in the year and yet in that last week or so we begin to believe that the worst case scenario will take place if we don't do everything at once. What would happen if all the shops suddenly decided to close at lunch? Of course there wouldn't be a state of emergency and of course the world wouldn't come to an end. Still we may be panicking and fretting in case the BBC or any of the TV channels overlook James Bond in their busy schedules.
Years ago of course Christmas Day stuck rigidly to its religious and spiritual traditions. There were the stirring church services where all the parishioners sung lustily at the tops of their voices. There were the hospitals on the big day where all of the latest Christmas telly celebrities would suddenly and happily reveal that jolly old bloke with the red coat and the white beard. The children were wide eyed and agog. This was the day they'd been waiting for since - let me see- last year.
Oooh it's Santa. complete with sack. Did he really tumble down the chimney and does he really live in Lapland? That's just silly, made up, a fallacy, a total fabrication. Where's the scientific evidence? Prove it conclusively. I bet you can't. Christmases were, and probably still are, wonderfully well intentioned and very emotional. And of course it was consistently heart- warming because that was what Christmas was all about.
Sadly those early morning visits to sick children in hospital more or less ran their course and can only be fondly remembered as something we used to watch on the box. While I was growing up the Top of the Pops review of the year was more or less compulsory and a permanent fixture. Sadly even Top of the Pops is no longer that adornment on top of the Christmas tree although Fern Cotton and Reggie Yates still delight us with that pop music misty eyed reminiscence show, that nostalgic journey down memory lane.
From a personal view the programme itself no longer seems relevant at all and on reflection, for me it just seems superfluous to requirements. Nothing personal you understand. I belong to the 1970s generation of Slade, Roy Wood, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Chris Rea, Paul McCartney and Wings Mull of Kintyre, Cliff Richard's lovely Mistletoe and Wine and Noel Edmonds literally smothered in tinsel from head to toe. It was all barmy, cosy, amusing and somehow timeless. Britain was a nation at one with itself, inhibitions scattered to the wind and shamelessly happy.
And yet here we are again. One day to go before those silly paper hats are worn, dad waits to cut up the turkey, the kids giggle and giggle mischievously, cousin Harry blows his nose, Auntie Irene makes sure her hair looks immaculate, brother Ben keeps sneaking off with the sweets and neighbour Norman asks whether he can have a look at the Radio Times again. If he hasn't asked for the Radio Times once he's probably asked for it a million times.
But then mum tells the children to take off their shoes off and to stop jumping on the sofa, Meanwhile the cats and dogs are creating merry hell and havoc with bits of paper in their teeth and loads of Christmas wrapping paper around their legs. Those kids will have to take their shoes off the sofa for the last time and Auntie Irene is insistent on her eighth glass of sherry, perhaps just a brandy for cousin Harry because he needs a reviving drink. He's just travelled right across the country just to be with his united family and he didn't want to miss a couple of glasses of grog, Bucks Fizz or something suitably alcoholic.
Then the door bell rings again almost vocally and vociferously. Get the door please. That's got to be the postman and then mum becomes her mutli tasking self, full of verve and versatility. She picks up the pillows on the sofa, plumping them up very elegantly and then juggles with a bag of sprouts. Then the dog launches into another deafening and cacophonous barking that can be heard at the other end of the road.
Then the whole family just slump on their settee just exhausted and it isn't even mid-day yet. The curtains are dusted and straightened, table cloths shaking and shivering with food. The mahogany cabinet resembles the local Off Licence and the old clock chimes predictably and a little wearily, perhaps acknowledging that Christmas is all about families and the preservation of lasting goodwill.
And so it is that Christmas Eve gazes longingly at Christmas Day with a very patient and wistful air. It looks as if everything is ready and prepared. The window shelves could do with a final dusting, the pictures on the wall look prettier than ever and everything looks dandy. Maybe that painting needs to be adjusted slightly and the carpet needs a quick Hoover. Apart from that it's time to for all of that whole- hearted slap stick humour, side splitting laughter and then partying all the way until the end of the year. Have a good one folks.
Thursday 22 December 2016
Three days before the arrival of Santa Claus and it all looks set for a good festive period.
Three days before the arrival of Santa Claus and it all looks set for a good festive period.
So here we are again. You've done it. I think you ought to put your feet up, slug back huge quantities of mulled wine, devour the mince pies as if they were going out of fashion and just relax. The uncles, aunties, cousins and of course the children have been notified and sufficiently informed. They can feel it in their bones. They'll be counting down their hours frantically as if barely able to control their excitement. It does though seem a shame to wake up Santa on Christmas Eve. Somebody should give that man or woman an alarm clock or maybe another beard to add to the increasingly expanding collection.
Yes folks it's Christmas. Christmas is this year sponsored by those wonderfully reputable chocolate companies, those big old turkey farms, those familiar brand names such as Coca Cola, the endless whisky manufacturers and the mince pie folk who tend to hog most of the headlines on our groaning Christmas tables. Then there are the festive cracker firms as well as the tree and decorations conglomerates- or whatever they call themselves these days.
Then there are the respectful nods to all those corporate concerns who stuff Santa's stocking every year. There are the now very high tech I-Pads, smart phones, Tablets and all manner of technologically dynamic computer games that none of us could have remotely imagined 50 years ago. What happened to those family favourites such as Ker Plunk, Mousetrap, Scrabble, Spirograph, Etch-A- Sketch, the Hornby railway set, Cluedo, Ludo, and the aforementioned Monopoly, Scrabble and what about that good old fashioned game of cards? Have we forgotten about chess, have we forgotten those fondly romantic throwbacks such as the walk in the local park after the festive feast or do we still venture out with the family and dogs?
It does seem that we've lost all connection with the essence and spirit of this festive celebration. I can still remember boldly setting out after the Christmas Day lunch with a purposeful step. I was determined to find out whether I could find any signs of civilisation on the local streets and anything that even vaguely resembled a car on the road. But my quest was inevitably a fruitless one so I returned home perhaps taken aback with wonder at the air of sheer emptiness outside the family home but in a sense quite uplifted by the solitude and serenity of it all. Much to my amazement there was nothing at all. Zilch, Rien. You had to see it to believe it. Not even a van or lorry although you might spot the occasional bike but that would have been unusual.
And yet it was strangely comforting in a way because nobody really needed to go anywhere. You had everything you wanted in your cosy domestic hearth and all that was required was a one enormous gastronomic adventure, one huge nosh on everything that's terribly bad for you, a wild abandonment of our yearly diet and twelve months in the gym pumping iron.
Oh yes that's another thing. Every year we make the same promises, the same dietary pledges to kick the pizzas, fish and chips and kebabs into touch and never set eyes on another pudding again. And every year we never seem to remember why so many healthy sacrifices were made. Then on New Year's Day we fall into that same trap. It's that yearly commitment to health and fitness that we keep insisting that one day we'll get round to carrying out.
Oh mum and dad, I'm really full and I must have put on at least 53 stones since the beginning of the year so therefore I'm going to lock myself in a gym, row frenetically on the rowing machine for at least six months, run 68 marathons, stop eating junk food altogether and just watch the weight fall off me. The reality of course is starkly different and of course it's quite a sobering reality check. Perhaps you were listening to that reproachful voice tapping you on the shoulder and the guilt was just too much.
Personally I'm back on my running and tennis regime and for me that's very personally satisfying. I'll never be the next Mo Farrah or indeed Andy Murray but I can now look myself in the eye and be proud that I'm making my personal contribution in the name of fitness. I hope to stick it and persevere in all weathers.
And yet we subject to ourselves to the same dilemmas every year without fail. We make that yearly pilgrimage to the gym, coughing up the subscription fee and then change our minds at the beginning of February because it doesn't seem worth the effort and besides it's all that unnecessary expenditure of sweat and athletic dedication for what? Just the miserable realisation that everything had to be done in moderation. But hey, what fun we had at the time.
Well, the answer can never really be found because Christmas is our way of giving ourselves the most mammoth guilty conscience. Of course there's nothing wrong with eating and drinking in excess but by the time Christmas is over we begin to wonder why we did it in the first place and just fill ourselves with more remorse. Why, we ask ourselves, do we consume a hundred farmyards of turkey, a hundred whisky distilleries, 80 thousand bars of cocoa chocolate, biscuits by the barrowload and then we repeat the same exercise every December. And let's not forget the brewery of booze with shorts and without shorts. It doesn't seem to matter.
I know. Let's go crazy. It's not as if we have to get up for work, school and university the following day or even the next week. Treat yourself to a fortnight of joyous celebration, Have a lie in every day. Don't get up until mid-day. In fact have breakfast and lunch in bed and then reluctantly join everybody for tea in your pyjamas. Now that sounds a great idea. It's time for laziness and indiscipline. It only happens once a year after all. Kick off those party shoes and drape yourself with tinsel. This is what Christmas is all about.
That's it. I've got it. Christmas is just a conspiracy or perhaps a conspiracy theory. Maybe Christmas is our way of rewarding our efforts throughout the year and then just beating ourselves up because it wasn't eminently sensible and advisable. Let's face it Christmas is that golden opportunity to drink youself into a stupor and eat fit to burst. There's no self control involved, no laws, rules and regulations, boundaries and taboos. You can do whatever you like within reason, you can sing and dance the night away with unashamed vigour and zest.
It's time to give yourself permission to be good and kind to yourself. It's time to blow up as many balloons as possible, to listen to all of your favourite I tunes or Spotify to your hearts content. Now ladies and gentlemen I'm off to drink a barrel of brandy and a several gallons of lager. On second thoughts that's just madness and besides I very rarely touch the hard stuff. No I'm looking forward to that usual appointment with Her Majesty the Queen at 3pm on both the BBC and ITV. Merry Christmas and a Happy Chanukah my friends. Those latkes my wife made me were wonderful. Have a great time everyone.
So here we are again. You've done it. I think you ought to put your feet up, slug back huge quantities of mulled wine, devour the mince pies as if they were going out of fashion and just relax. The uncles, aunties, cousins and of course the children have been notified and sufficiently informed. They can feel it in their bones. They'll be counting down their hours frantically as if barely able to control their excitement. It does though seem a shame to wake up Santa on Christmas Eve. Somebody should give that man or woman an alarm clock or maybe another beard to add to the increasingly expanding collection.
Yes folks it's Christmas. Christmas is this year sponsored by those wonderfully reputable chocolate companies, those big old turkey farms, those familiar brand names such as Coca Cola, the endless whisky manufacturers and the mince pie folk who tend to hog most of the headlines on our groaning Christmas tables. Then there are the festive cracker firms as well as the tree and decorations conglomerates- or whatever they call themselves these days.
Then there are the respectful nods to all those corporate concerns who stuff Santa's stocking every year. There are the now very high tech I-Pads, smart phones, Tablets and all manner of technologically dynamic computer games that none of us could have remotely imagined 50 years ago. What happened to those family favourites such as Ker Plunk, Mousetrap, Scrabble, Spirograph, Etch-A- Sketch, the Hornby railway set, Cluedo, Ludo, and the aforementioned Monopoly, Scrabble and what about that good old fashioned game of cards? Have we forgotten about chess, have we forgotten those fondly romantic throwbacks such as the walk in the local park after the festive feast or do we still venture out with the family and dogs?
It does seem that we've lost all connection with the essence and spirit of this festive celebration. I can still remember boldly setting out after the Christmas Day lunch with a purposeful step. I was determined to find out whether I could find any signs of civilisation on the local streets and anything that even vaguely resembled a car on the road. But my quest was inevitably a fruitless one so I returned home perhaps taken aback with wonder at the air of sheer emptiness outside the family home but in a sense quite uplifted by the solitude and serenity of it all. Much to my amazement there was nothing at all. Zilch, Rien. You had to see it to believe it. Not even a van or lorry although you might spot the occasional bike but that would have been unusual.
And yet it was strangely comforting in a way because nobody really needed to go anywhere. You had everything you wanted in your cosy domestic hearth and all that was required was a one enormous gastronomic adventure, one huge nosh on everything that's terribly bad for you, a wild abandonment of our yearly diet and twelve months in the gym pumping iron.
Oh yes that's another thing. Every year we make the same promises, the same dietary pledges to kick the pizzas, fish and chips and kebabs into touch and never set eyes on another pudding again. And every year we never seem to remember why so many healthy sacrifices were made. Then on New Year's Day we fall into that same trap. It's that yearly commitment to health and fitness that we keep insisting that one day we'll get round to carrying out.
Oh mum and dad, I'm really full and I must have put on at least 53 stones since the beginning of the year so therefore I'm going to lock myself in a gym, row frenetically on the rowing machine for at least six months, run 68 marathons, stop eating junk food altogether and just watch the weight fall off me. The reality of course is starkly different and of course it's quite a sobering reality check. Perhaps you were listening to that reproachful voice tapping you on the shoulder and the guilt was just too much.
Personally I'm back on my running and tennis regime and for me that's very personally satisfying. I'll never be the next Mo Farrah or indeed Andy Murray but I can now look myself in the eye and be proud that I'm making my personal contribution in the name of fitness. I hope to stick it and persevere in all weathers.
And yet we subject to ourselves to the same dilemmas every year without fail. We make that yearly pilgrimage to the gym, coughing up the subscription fee and then change our minds at the beginning of February because it doesn't seem worth the effort and besides it's all that unnecessary expenditure of sweat and athletic dedication for what? Just the miserable realisation that everything had to be done in moderation. But hey, what fun we had at the time.
Well, the answer can never really be found because Christmas is our way of giving ourselves the most mammoth guilty conscience. Of course there's nothing wrong with eating and drinking in excess but by the time Christmas is over we begin to wonder why we did it in the first place and just fill ourselves with more remorse. Why, we ask ourselves, do we consume a hundred farmyards of turkey, a hundred whisky distilleries, 80 thousand bars of cocoa chocolate, biscuits by the barrowload and then we repeat the same exercise every December. And let's not forget the brewery of booze with shorts and without shorts. It doesn't seem to matter.
I know. Let's go crazy. It's not as if we have to get up for work, school and university the following day or even the next week. Treat yourself to a fortnight of joyous celebration, Have a lie in every day. Don't get up until mid-day. In fact have breakfast and lunch in bed and then reluctantly join everybody for tea in your pyjamas. Now that sounds a great idea. It's time for laziness and indiscipline. It only happens once a year after all. Kick off those party shoes and drape yourself with tinsel. This is what Christmas is all about.
That's it. I've got it. Christmas is just a conspiracy or perhaps a conspiracy theory. Maybe Christmas is our way of rewarding our efforts throughout the year and then just beating ourselves up because it wasn't eminently sensible and advisable. Let's face it Christmas is that golden opportunity to drink youself into a stupor and eat fit to burst. There's no self control involved, no laws, rules and regulations, boundaries and taboos. You can do whatever you like within reason, you can sing and dance the night away with unashamed vigour and zest.
It's time to give yourself permission to be good and kind to yourself. It's time to blow up as many balloons as possible, to listen to all of your favourite I tunes or Spotify to your hearts content. Now ladies and gentlemen I'm off to drink a barrel of brandy and a several gallons of lager. On second thoughts that's just madness and besides I very rarely touch the hard stuff. No I'm looking forward to that usual appointment with Her Majesty the Queen at 3pm on both the BBC and ITV. Merry Christmas and a Happy Chanukah my friends. Those latkes my wife made me were wonderful. Have a great time everyone.
Tuesday 20 December 2016
My Christmas message- My plea to end all of the bloodshed. Let there be peace for ever more.
My Christmas message- My plea to end all of the bloodshed and hate. Let their be peace for ever more.
I know. You've probably heard this message a million times throughout the decades and centuries but I think it's time to offer my end of year message, my heartfelt plea for peace, stability, a concerted attempt to end war for ever more. Surely it has to end once and for all. It's time to put down arms, guns, bombs, artillery, missiles, rockets and try to get on with each other. It's time to end the naked hostility, the barbaric bloodshed, the savage and sickening pain, the outrageous aggression and murder, the calculated hostility, the bloodthirsty brutality, the anger, the endless hatred and division.
Now of course I'm a pathetic, lily livered pacifist but here's my personal Christmas message to the world. Please please there can be no future for humanity and civilisation if we continue to attack each other. There must be an end to this continuous escalation of violence on a monumental scale, this relentless bombardment of shells and grenades and the death of millions of families and children on quite the most obscene scale. I know I'm a subdued voice in the darkness but there has to be a solution to this vile and despicable regime of terror, this sickening genocide, this appalling suffering. Is there anybody out there who can watch this constant attack on our civil liberties without pleading for something better? Do we have to live in fear of forces that are completely beyond us? Next year has to be the year when we all wake up one morning and just shake the hand of eternal friendship.
This is not a bitter condemnation of any terrorist network because that would be a pointless exercise. But for what it's worth I think it's time for all the most influential prime ministers, presidents, foreign secretaries and powerful governmental voices to flex their muscles. Once and for all. It must stop please. Please I must speak for everybody around the world when I think it's fairly obvious that we have to stop this. There has to be room for discussion, negotiation and agreement because if we don't rally together then the future of the vast loveliness that is the world will no longer have any kind of viable future. I think I speak on behalf of the universe when I say that global conflict and evil savagery has to be stop for the sake of mankind.
The events in Berlin yesterday. Paris and Nice this year have only served to reinforce the sheer futility of it all. Now I'm no benevolent humanitarian and I can have no influence in the highest of political circles but this is sheer madness. This is not the answer to settle old scores, but it is time to rebuild broken religious bridges, to heal wounded animosities, to aggravate old injuries, to make life impossible and unbearable.
I would like to say here that this is not a party political broadcast, nor is it the voice of wishful thinking but this has to be a time for agreement, consensus, reconciliation. We've seen the graphic documentary images, the daily news bulletins that have been almost unspeakably horrid and harrowing. Some of us can barely bring ourself to watch the wasted lives, the torn hearts, the weeping mothers, the sobbing fathers, the extended families who can only look on with absolute horror. It is just the most ruthless of all violations, a lasting threat to our freedoms, possibilities and opportunities.
Their lives are now over, wiped out by the fist of terror, the raucous shriek of missiles, the shuddering force of tank and military invasion that so criminally scar the global landscape. When the smoking and charred ruins of shops, restaurants, hotels, houses and all properties are cleared maybe somebody will come forward to just heal this festering resentment, this age old bitterness. Is their a voice of sanity out there? Please come forward.
Will Germany's prime minister Angela Merkel, prime minister Theresa May, American president elect Donald Trump, quite possibly Russian supremo Vladimir Putin please try to bash heads together, reaching positive and constructive conclusions, eliminating all dictatorships and tyrannies. We all have to sing from the same hymn sheet even though that may begin to sound like a tired cliche.
Over 40 years ago a distinguished gentleman and peace broker by the name of Henry Kissinger stepped forward onto the world stage. When the Middle East crisis was at its height, Kissinger was the man who intervened quite decisively when all seemed lost. He,single handledly. or so it seemed, brought the whole of the Middle East together and did his utmost to bring sanity and peace. His mission was an admirable one and in the cold light of day Kissinger may sleep with perfect comfort knowing that he did his utmost to achieve that objective. And to Kissinger the world offers its eternal gratitude.
So although I may be a lone voice in the wilderness, the world implores that commonsense and rationality come forward and introduce themselves. It is time to remember and never forget both the First and Second World War, Vietnam, Suez, the IRA and so many more aching atrocities. But now the battlegrounds and gruesome theatres of war have have to become ancient history and people have to live in simple harmony. to be united. This never endingly depressing sequence of fatalities have to be the last. His wish may have been fondly uttered but to quote John Lennon all those decades ago. Please give peace us a chance for the sake of humanity. Merry Christmas and Happy Chanukah everybody.
I know. You've probably heard this message a million times throughout the decades and centuries but I think it's time to offer my end of year message, my heartfelt plea for peace, stability, a concerted attempt to end war for ever more. Surely it has to end once and for all. It's time to put down arms, guns, bombs, artillery, missiles, rockets and try to get on with each other. It's time to end the naked hostility, the barbaric bloodshed, the savage and sickening pain, the outrageous aggression and murder, the calculated hostility, the bloodthirsty brutality, the anger, the endless hatred and division.
Now of course I'm a pathetic, lily livered pacifist but here's my personal Christmas message to the world. Please please there can be no future for humanity and civilisation if we continue to attack each other. There must be an end to this continuous escalation of violence on a monumental scale, this relentless bombardment of shells and grenades and the death of millions of families and children on quite the most obscene scale. I know I'm a subdued voice in the darkness but there has to be a solution to this vile and despicable regime of terror, this sickening genocide, this appalling suffering. Is there anybody out there who can watch this constant attack on our civil liberties without pleading for something better? Do we have to live in fear of forces that are completely beyond us? Next year has to be the year when we all wake up one morning and just shake the hand of eternal friendship.
This is not a bitter condemnation of any terrorist network because that would be a pointless exercise. But for what it's worth I think it's time for all the most influential prime ministers, presidents, foreign secretaries and powerful governmental voices to flex their muscles. Once and for all. It must stop please. Please I must speak for everybody around the world when I think it's fairly obvious that we have to stop this. There has to be room for discussion, negotiation and agreement because if we don't rally together then the future of the vast loveliness that is the world will no longer have any kind of viable future. I think I speak on behalf of the universe when I say that global conflict and evil savagery has to be stop for the sake of mankind.
The events in Berlin yesterday. Paris and Nice this year have only served to reinforce the sheer futility of it all. Now I'm no benevolent humanitarian and I can have no influence in the highest of political circles but this is sheer madness. This is not the answer to settle old scores, but it is time to rebuild broken religious bridges, to heal wounded animosities, to aggravate old injuries, to make life impossible and unbearable.
I would like to say here that this is not a party political broadcast, nor is it the voice of wishful thinking but this has to be a time for agreement, consensus, reconciliation. We've seen the graphic documentary images, the daily news bulletins that have been almost unspeakably horrid and harrowing. Some of us can barely bring ourself to watch the wasted lives, the torn hearts, the weeping mothers, the sobbing fathers, the extended families who can only look on with absolute horror. It is just the most ruthless of all violations, a lasting threat to our freedoms, possibilities and opportunities.
Their lives are now over, wiped out by the fist of terror, the raucous shriek of missiles, the shuddering force of tank and military invasion that so criminally scar the global landscape. When the smoking and charred ruins of shops, restaurants, hotels, houses and all properties are cleared maybe somebody will come forward to just heal this festering resentment, this age old bitterness. Is their a voice of sanity out there? Please come forward.
Will Germany's prime minister Angela Merkel, prime minister Theresa May, American president elect Donald Trump, quite possibly Russian supremo Vladimir Putin please try to bash heads together, reaching positive and constructive conclusions, eliminating all dictatorships and tyrannies. We all have to sing from the same hymn sheet even though that may begin to sound like a tired cliche.
Over 40 years ago a distinguished gentleman and peace broker by the name of Henry Kissinger stepped forward onto the world stage. When the Middle East crisis was at its height, Kissinger was the man who intervened quite decisively when all seemed lost. He,single handledly. or so it seemed, brought the whole of the Middle East together and did his utmost to bring sanity and peace. His mission was an admirable one and in the cold light of day Kissinger may sleep with perfect comfort knowing that he did his utmost to achieve that objective. And to Kissinger the world offers its eternal gratitude.
So although I may be a lone voice in the wilderness, the world implores that commonsense and rationality come forward and introduce themselves. It is time to remember and never forget both the First and Second World War, Vietnam, Suez, the IRA and so many more aching atrocities. But now the battlegrounds and gruesome theatres of war have have to become ancient history and people have to live in simple harmony. to be united. This never endingly depressing sequence of fatalities have to be the last. His wish may have been fondly uttered but to quote John Lennon all those decades ago. Please give peace us a chance for the sake of humanity. Merry Christmas and Happy Chanukah everybody.
Sunday 18 December 2016
Brick Lane- one of London's finest of Sunday street markets.
Brick Lane- an East End Sunday market treasure.
Brick Lane is undoubtedly the finest of all Sunday's street markets. Who says so? I do. It knocks the spots off other markets. It's the bees knees, a supremely wonderful Sunday market and there can be no higher praise. Of course the Portobello has its virtues and merits but I think the gold should go to Brick Lane. Ladies and Gentlemen I give you Brick Lane, one of the jewels in the East End crown. It's a prince among Sunday markets and, surely one of the best if not the best. If I had a trophy or medal to give Brick Lane it would certainly give me enormous pleasure to hand one over to them.
At the moment Brick Lane is one of the hippest, coolest and loveliest of London streets. On Sunday it bursts into a kaleidoscope of colour, a livng, breathing organism that pulses and throbs with life and vitality. At the moment it is the place to be seen and heard at. It's fashionable, arty, bohemian, culturally diverse, full of atmosphere and vibrancy, character and charm. It bubbles and hums with lively chatter, market traders shouting at a bristlingly boisterous full voice, chattering, gossiping, laughing and just fascinating. But that's the way it's always been so this was unarguable.
And yet this is the way it's always been. Since the beginning of the 20th century the Sunday market in Brick Lane has characterised everything the East End has been renowned for. There was our wonderful Jewish community with its juicy humour, the salt beef and beigel folk. its charismatic fruit and veg stalls, the clatter of cutlery echoing around Brick Lane,the cheek and chutzpah, the banter and bonhomie and the constant sound of 1960s music blaring out from old tapes and transistor radios. It was the most heartwarming sight and sound of the week and none could have failed not to notice it nor be enchanted by it.
Now though Brick Lane is brighter, bigger, happier and more contented than it's ever been before. Those tourists come from all over the world, mingling delightedly among the latest art galleries, wine bars and organic cafes that have suddenly sprung up all over Brick Lane. But then Brick Lane on a Sunday is unlike any Sunday street market you're ever likely to see. It's just overwhelmingly friendly, welcoming, surprising and almost totally engrossing. It's arresting on the eye and just a joy to behold.
You can't help but be drawn into its mouth watering variety of stalls, its earthy charisma, its down to earth authenticity. Nothing posh or superficial about Brick Lane. You can feel it in the air, the warmth, the sounds and colours almost floating in the air with an effortless ease. It has electricity, magnetism, feeling, sentimentality, a permanent soundtrack, people strolling, stopping, considering, peering, gazing with admiration before falling in love with it. Yes you can become besotted with Brick Lane and that's why it's so perenially popular. You have to be part of it, be connected it.
But there is something much deeper under the surface here. My wife, daughter and father in law decided that the week before Christmas seemed an ideal opportunity to get up close and personal with Brick Lane. What a market! I have to tell you Brick Lane did just the trick again. Sometimes there are occasions when everything feels absolutely right. Brick Lane ticked all of the right boxes It just felt as if Brick Lane were showing off, flaunting its finest colours, looking at itself in the mirror and striding into the distance in its smartest suit. It's bold, modern, now very mainstream and artistically absorbing. It was buzzy, sparky, life enhancing, funky, positive, atmospheric in the extreme and excellent entertainment.
For instance there were the stalls with their rich profusion of everything. There were the novelties, the stalls that groaned and overflowed with all manner of merchandise. There were the curios, curiosities, the things you may have seen a hundred times and never tired of. There were the hundreds of tomatoes, butternut squashes, marrows and the richly red apples that gleamed fiercely in the fading December gloom. There were the thousands of oranges and clementines splendidly displayed like soldiers on parade. There is something very special about Brick Lane and maybe that appeal will never ever vanish.
As we continued our Brick Lane stroll down memory lane we saw yet more confirmation that the Sunday market in Brick Lane remains an essential part of our great British heritage. The faces may have changed through the years and decades but the stalls are wonderfully charged and ready to embrace you with the most affectionate of all hugs.
There were lamp shades, sewing machines, bottles that looked as though they'd last seen service on the great naval ships of history, Aztec tribal carvings, picture frames hidden away in discreet boxes and much more. There were the priceless porcelain ornaments, handsome pieces of pottery, the trinkets, the jewellery, the trivia, the ephemera, the gentleman who grabbed hold of a guitar and sat down on the floor as if the spirit of Eric Clapton had suddenly visited him.And then there was the grafitti! Now that was very striking. In fact it blew your mind away. I don't think I'd seen so much grafitti. It was a riot of colour, a wild combination of the sublime and ridiculous, surreal letters in the most exaggerated of styles. Just stunning.
Now I'm not sure how long this effusive tribute to creative art has been around for but I'd like to personally thank you grafitti artists around the world. Wherever you looked in Brick Lane grafitti ruled the roost. Every wall in Brick Lane seemed to be dripping with grafitti. There was the grafitti that seemed to speak a thousand languages, grafitti that clearly proclaimed and pronounced, graffiti that broadly suggested the political and controversial. There was grafitti that was outrageous, emblazoned across the East End like some very profound statement of truth. Then there was the grafitti that was stark, vivid and truly expressive.
And then there was the grafitti that certainly looked angry and rebellious, the grafitti that had the most obvious messages, the grafitti that had a fierce and dissenting voice, the grafitti that was brash. bolshy and belligerent, the grafitti that drove home the home truths, that was provocative, aghast and plainly furious.
So wherever we went in Brick Lane we saw the new face of the East End. We saw the tiny pop up shops that briefly dominate the Shoreditch end of Brick Lane before moving off to another venue. We saw the familiar row upon row of old records, old clothes, the warmly nostalgic items, the charming bric a brac, the ebb and flow of passing trade, There is a timelessness and uniqueness about Brick Lane that may always live in the soul of the East End of London. I'd like to raise a toast to Brick Lane, a Sunday market in a class of its own.
Brick Lane is undoubtedly the finest of all Sunday's street markets. Who says so? I do. It knocks the spots off other markets. It's the bees knees, a supremely wonderful Sunday market and there can be no higher praise. Of course the Portobello has its virtues and merits but I think the gold should go to Brick Lane. Ladies and Gentlemen I give you Brick Lane, one of the jewels in the East End crown. It's a prince among Sunday markets and, surely one of the best if not the best. If I had a trophy or medal to give Brick Lane it would certainly give me enormous pleasure to hand one over to them.
At the moment Brick Lane is one of the hippest, coolest and loveliest of London streets. On Sunday it bursts into a kaleidoscope of colour, a livng, breathing organism that pulses and throbs with life and vitality. At the moment it is the place to be seen and heard at. It's fashionable, arty, bohemian, culturally diverse, full of atmosphere and vibrancy, character and charm. It bubbles and hums with lively chatter, market traders shouting at a bristlingly boisterous full voice, chattering, gossiping, laughing and just fascinating. But that's the way it's always been so this was unarguable.
And yet this is the way it's always been. Since the beginning of the 20th century the Sunday market in Brick Lane has characterised everything the East End has been renowned for. There was our wonderful Jewish community with its juicy humour, the salt beef and beigel folk. its charismatic fruit and veg stalls, the clatter of cutlery echoing around Brick Lane,the cheek and chutzpah, the banter and bonhomie and the constant sound of 1960s music blaring out from old tapes and transistor radios. It was the most heartwarming sight and sound of the week and none could have failed not to notice it nor be enchanted by it.
Now though Brick Lane is brighter, bigger, happier and more contented than it's ever been before. Those tourists come from all over the world, mingling delightedly among the latest art galleries, wine bars and organic cafes that have suddenly sprung up all over Brick Lane. But then Brick Lane on a Sunday is unlike any Sunday street market you're ever likely to see. It's just overwhelmingly friendly, welcoming, surprising and almost totally engrossing. It's arresting on the eye and just a joy to behold.
You can't help but be drawn into its mouth watering variety of stalls, its earthy charisma, its down to earth authenticity. Nothing posh or superficial about Brick Lane. You can feel it in the air, the warmth, the sounds and colours almost floating in the air with an effortless ease. It has electricity, magnetism, feeling, sentimentality, a permanent soundtrack, people strolling, stopping, considering, peering, gazing with admiration before falling in love with it. Yes you can become besotted with Brick Lane and that's why it's so perenially popular. You have to be part of it, be connected it.
But there is something much deeper under the surface here. My wife, daughter and father in law decided that the week before Christmas seemed an ideal opportunity to get up close and personal with Brick Lane. What a market! I have to tell you Brick Lane did just the trick again. Sometimes there are occasions when everything feels absolutely right. Brick Lane ticked all of the right boxes It just felt as if Brick Lane were showing off, flaunting its finest colours, looking at itself in the mirror and striding into the distance in its smartest suit. It's bold, modern, now very mainstream and artistically absorbing. It was buzzy, sparky, life enhancing, funky, positive, atmospheric in the extreme and excellent entertainment.
For instance there were the stalls with their rich profusion of everything. There were the novelties, the stalls that groaned and overflowed with all manner of merchandise. There were the curios, curiosities, the things you may have seen a hundred times and never tired of. There were the hundreds of tomatoes, butternut squashes, marrows and the richly red apples that gleamed fiercely in the fading December gloom. There were the thousands of oranges and clementines splendidly displayed like soldiers on parade. There is something very special about Brick Lane and maybe that appeal will never ever vanish.
As we continued our Brick Lane stroll down memory lane we saw yet more confirmation that the Sunday market in Brick Lane remains an essential part of our great British heritage. The faces may have changed through the years and decades but the stalls are wonderfully charged and ready to embrace you with the most affectionate of all hugs.
There were lamp shades, sewing machines, bottles that looked as though they'd last seen service on the great naval ships of history, Aztec tribal carvings, picture frames hidden away in discreet boxes and much more. There were the priceless porcelain ornaments, handsome pieces of pottery, the trinkets, the jewellery, the trivia, the ephemera, the gentleman who grabbed hold of a guitar and sat down on the floor as if the spirit of Eric Clapton had suddenly visited him.And then there was the grafitti! Now that was very striking. In fact it blew your mind away. I don't think I'd seen so much grafitti. It was a riot of colour, a wild combination of the sublime and ridiculous, surreal letters in the most exaggerated of styles. Just stunning.
Now I'm not sure how long this effusive tribute to creative art has been around for but I'd like to personally thank you grafitti artists around the world. Wherever you looked in Brick Lane grafitti ruled the roost. Every wall in Brick Lane seemed to be dripping with grafitti. There was the grafitti that seemed to speak a thousand languages, grafitti that clearly proclaimed and pronounced, graffiti that broadly suggested the political and controversial. There was grafitti that was outrageous, emblazoned across the East End like some very profound statement of truth. Then there was the grafitti that was stark, vivid and truly expressive.
And then there was the grafitti that certainly looked angry and rebellious, the grafitti that had the most obvious messages, the grafitti that had a fierce and dissenting voice, the grafitti that was brash. bolshy and belligerent, the grafitti that drove home the home truths, that was provocative, aghast and plainly furious.
So wherever we went in Brick Lane we saw the new face of the East End. We saw the tiny pop up shops that briefly dominate the Shoreditch end of Brick Lane before moving off to another venue. We saw the familiar row upon row of old records, old clothes, the warmly nostalgic items, the charming bric a brac, the ebb and flow of passing trade, There is a timelessness and uniqueness about Brick Lane that may always live in the soul of the East End of London. I'd like to raise a toast to Brick Lane, a Sunday market in a class of its own.
Saturday 17 December 2016
That final week before Christmas
The final week before Christmas, the fall of the Berlin wall and the Premier League bunfight.
The early morning fog and mist have slowly lifted in this part of the world. Phew what a relief! I can see clearly now the rain has gone. Now there's a famous song lyric I've heard before. Anyway that early morning blanket of mist is drifting to somewhere else and around here all is quiet and peaceful. It could be that people have run out of money. Or maybe we're just skint and destitute. Where did that year go? Or maybe its time to chill out, relax, re-charge the batteries and look forward to that family day of rest, leisure and sober re-appraisal, looking back on quite the most extraordinary year of our lives. There were so many momentous events that maybe we should stop time and try to take it all in.
Either that or the country has closed down for the day. Still I expect the supermarkets will be rushed off their feet shortly. There's bound to be a commercial stampede sooner or later. Now have we forgotten anything? The twentieth box of mince pies, the crackers without which no Christmas gathering would be complete. Or maybe another set of lights for the tree. What about another stack of presents, toys and games for the children, woolly hats, scarves, reindeer decorated pullovers or just any old festive cliche that comes into our possession. I know. Let's dig out all of those traditional board games. Now that would be cool. In an age of breakneck technology and Play Stations why don't we play Monopoly, Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit. So refreshingly old fashioned but the greatest fun you could ever have when the shops are closed for a couple of Christmas days.
Now let me see. The trains are on strike in London and it's almost Christmas. Now where have I heard that before?. Is it Southern trains? I can see it now. Boxing Day in London will be absolutely insufferable and intolerable. In fact I think the whole country will grind to a complete standstill. There will be a state of stagnation and total immobility that may just grip the country. Imagine Waterloo, Paddington and King's Cross St Pancras. It doesn't bear thinking about. Suddenly whole platforms will be mobbed with heaving masses of people or maybe my imagination is working overtime.
Meanwhile back in the very serious world of the Premier League the footballing giants, sleeping giants, mid table occupants and relegation strugglers are sharpening their ammunition. My team West Ham United are hoping that mid week victory over what seemed a very poor and limited Burnley team was no mere flash in the pan. Hull City are the latest visitors to the new London Stadium and for those who believe that the new Hammers domain could be the club's ruination it may be time to review your judgment.
Now the optimists are still confident that nothing catastrophic will happen to West Ham. Of course there are teething problems but then look at Arsenal and the Emirates and to a lesser extent Manchester City at the Etihad? It could be just a very awkward settling in period but you suspect that sooner or later the club will have to hit the ground running. There can be no time for anxiety, nervousness or hesitation. This is not a dress rehearsal so manager Slaven Bilic may find that when he wakes up on Christmas morning the only presents he'll be getting are a P45 and temporary unemployment.
Still the Hammers, although hovering over the relegation trapdoor may find that the teams around them have also got problems and deficiencies. Anyway today's opposition Hull City reminds me of a deliciously pleasant game between the two teams a couple of decades ago when the Premier League was just a daydream in the FA hierarchy.
It was a family holiday and I seem to remember it was Lake Lugano in Switzerland. Now for reasons best known perhaps to myself I was just consumed with curiosity. I suppose I had get my priorities right but the temptation was too much. I had to find out the result of the game and did my utmost to find out. These, after all, were historic times for the both the world and Europe.
At roughly the same time we were told that the Berlin Wall was about to come down and the relationship between East and West Germany would be altogether more amicable. Suddenly the coldness and frostiness betweeen East and West would be thawed out and soon both would become the best of buddies.
In the hotel where we were staying, overlooking the most stunning mountain range, plans were in place for a major knees up, the kind of celebration that both countries probably felt they'd never witness again. And yet they did. A group of Germans sat down for a jubilant dinner. I can still see and hear the clinking of beer glasses, the joy on their faces and the flickering candles on the table. It was humanity at its most civilised and a moment in time that had to be cherished.
So here we were back in circa 1989, West Ham were playing Hull City in the old Second Division and the quaint market town in Lugano, Switzerland could hardly have been less interested. It was though at its prettiest. I'm not sure who told me but somehow the West Ham result had percolated through to me. In the day before the Internet you had to look to alternative sources for your news and information. Then somebody did tell me. It was quite the most astonishing football result I'd ever heard. And even now it hardly seems credible. But to my absolute amazement it did happen.
West Ham had beaten Hull 7-1. It was nothing short of sensational and yet somehow it had taken me by complete surprise. Privately I'd hoped for a positive result against a team who were trapped in obscurity at the time but 7-1 beggared belief. I don't think I'd ever seen or experienced this feeling in football. Before your team emerge from the tunnel for a game you always believe that in the best of all possible worlds that one day a rugby or cricket score would leave you speechless and dumbfounded. But 7-1. It was too good to be true. Yet it had come to pass. Hull hammered at the home of the Hammers. The icing on a very piquant cake with loads of cream and sugar. My cup had runneth over.
What was less noteworthy at the time and probably completely overlooked was the achievement of one West Ham player. Steve Potts, an ultra reliable full back and dedicated defender, scored his one and only goal for West Ham. Now I'm not sure why that statistic has never deserted me. Potts, by his own admission, was a safe pair of hands at the back, a yeomen servant for the claret and blue of West Ham but surely that day against Hull, Potts entered the pantheon of greats for one solitary day in the history of West Ham.
So it is back in the present day that both West Ham and Hull meet up again on an early wintry December afternoon. In a sense both clubs, although on a much higher plateau than they were on that far distant day two decades ago, are still essentially kindred spirits. West Ham although more buoyant than they were last Saturday, are far from out of trouble at the wrong end of the Premier League and Hull are teetering on the precipice. It could be an uncomfortably hard and gruelling season for both teams.
This is the last footballing weekend before Christmas. There remain some very relevant West Ham related facts and figures. On Boxing Day 1963 the old First Division yielded a bumper record crop of 66 goals, a figure that may never ever be surpassed. West Ham, of course had to be one of the victims of circumstances as Blackburn accumulated eight goals at the Hammers expense. West Ham had been beaten 8-2 by a very skilful and lethal Blackburn side featuring the England winger Bryan Douglas and the honest, hard working Ronnie Clayton. On a heavy mudbath of an Upton Park pitch Blackburn tore West Ham to shreds and perhaps the Hammers only consolation was the final whistle. That couldn't have arrived quickly enough. It was the most mind blowing and demoralising of defeats for West Ham although they did achieve some measure of revenge when at Ewood Park a couple of days later, the Hammers won 3-1 against Blackburn. So there Rovers. Take that.
Then there was the Boxing Day local derby against neighbours Leyton Orient circa 1978. West Ham had only recently been relegated to the old Second Division and suddenly the neighbours had dropped in for a cup of tea and sugar. Up until that point West Ham had never been beaten by Orient but this day was entirely and shockingly different. It was almost as if the ground had been shifted from under us From my very rare vantage point on the old Upton Park Chicken Run I can still see the horror show unravelling in front of me. Orient won 2-0 and John Chiedozie sprinting the length of the Upton Park to score the easiest goal he'll ever score still sends cold shivers down my spine.
Anyway time to look out of our window again. A heavy mist and fog has once again descended on the streets, roads and cities of Britain, like the greyest of blankets. This December is turning into a tale of two contrasting halves. You might even call it a contradiction of terms. The first half of December was marvellously and stupendously mild. Sure the chill was noticeably raw at times but it was easy to believe that the Costa Blanca had now sent over its warmest current. So no complaints from any of us. Now though autumn is beginning to fade into the distance and winter is creeping stealthily over the hills and dales. It's time to dig out those thick pullovers and gloves. Or maybe not. Isn't it good to be alive? Oh absolutely. Besides it's the Strictly final and that's a must.
Outside a whitish mist hangs heavily in the air like a static curtain. The trees are like empty hands, like thin human fingers pointing in different directions. Those enormous blackbirds may have decided to up and leave for the time being and all I can hear is silence. What this country needs is one uplifting street carnival to spark it into life. Perhaps Christmas will do the trick. Or Chanukah with its jam doughnuts and abundant cholesterol. Time to go for a walk in a claret and blue wonderland. Come on West Ham United.
The early morning fog and mist have slowly lifted in this part of the world. Phew what a relief! I can see clearly now the rain has gone. Now there's a famous song lyric I've heard before. Anyway that early morning blanket of mist is drifting to somewhere else and around here all is quiet and peaceful. It could be that people have run out of money. Or maybe we're just skint and destitute. Where did that year go? Or maybe its time to chill out, relax, re-charge the batteries and look forward to that family day of rest, leisure and sober re-appraisal, looking back on quite the most extraordinary year of our lives. There were so many momentous events that maybe we should stop time and try to take it all in.
Either that or the country has closed down for the day. Still I expect the supermarkets will be rushed off their feet shortly. There's bound to be a commercial stampede sooner or later. Now have we forgotten anything? The twentieth box of mince pies, the crackers without which no Christmas gathering would be complete. Or maybe another set of lights for the tree. What about another stack of presents, toys and games for the children, woolly hats, scarves, reindeer decorated pullovers or just any old festive cliche that comes into our possession. I know. Let's dig out all of those traditional board games. Now that would be cool. In an age of breakneck technology and Play Stations why don't we play Monopoly, Scrabble or Trivial Pursuit. So refreshingly old fashioned but the greatest fun you could ever have when the shops are closed for a couple of Christmas days.
Now let me see. The trains are on strike in London and it's almost Christmas. Now where have I heard that before?. Is it Southern trains? I can see it now. Boxing Day in London will be absolutely insufferable and intolerable. In fact I think the whole country will grind to a complete standstill. There will be a state of stagnation and total immobility that may just grip the country. Imagine Waterloo, Paddington and King's Cross St Pancras. It doesn't bear thinking about. Suddenly whole platforms will be mobbed with heaving masses of people or maybe my imagination is working overtime.
Meanwhile back in the very serious world of the Premier League the footballing giants, sleeping giants, mid table occupants and relegation strugglers are sharpening their ammunition. My team West Ham United are hoping that mid week victory over what seemed a very poor and limited Burnley team was no mere flash in the pan. Hull City are the latest visitors to the new London Stadium and for those who believe that the new Hammers domain could be the club's ruination it may be time to review your judgment.
Now the optimists are still confident that nothing catastrophic will happen to West Ham. Of course there are teething problems but then look at Arsenal and the Emirates and to a lesser extent Manchester City at the Etihad? It could be just a very awkward settling in period but you suspect that sooner or later the club will have to hit the ground running. There can be no time for anxiety, nervousness or hesitation. This is not a dress rehearsal so manager Slaven Bilic may find that when he wakes up on Christmas morning the only presents he'll be getting are a P45 and temporary unemployment.
Still the Hammers, although hovering over the relegation trapdoor may find that the teams around them have also got problems and deficiencies. Anyway today's opposition Hull City reminds me of a deliciously pleasant game between the two teams a couple of decades ago when the Premier League was just a daydream in the FA hierarchy.
It was a family holiday and I seem to remember it was Lake Lugano in Switzerland. Now for reasons best known perhaps to myself I was just consumed with curiosity. I suppose I had get my priorities right but the temptation was too much. I had to find out the result of the game and did my utmost to find out. These, after all, were historic times for the both the world and Europe.
At roughly the same time we were told that the Berlin Wall was about to come down and the relationship between East and West Germany would be altogether more amicable. Suddenly the coldness and frostiness betweeen East and West would be thawed out and soon both would become the best of buddies.
In the hotel where we were staying, overlooking the most stunning mountain range, plans were in place for a major knees up, the kind of celebration that both countries probably felt they'd never witness again. And yet they did. A group of Germans sat down for a jubilant dinner. I can still see and hear the clinking of beer glasses, the joy on their faces and the flickering candles on the table. It was humanity at its most civilised and a moment in time that had to be cherished.
So here we were back in circa 1989, West Ham were playing Hull City in the old Second Division and the quaint market town in Lugano, Switzerland could hardly have been less interested. It was though at its prettiest. I'm not sure who told me but somehow the West Ham result had percolated through to me. In the day before the Internet you had to look to alternative sources for your news and information. Then somebody did tell me. It was quite the most astonishing football result I'd ever heard. And even now it hardly seems credible. But to my absolute amazement it did happen.
West Ham had beaten Hull 7-1. It was nothing short of sensational and yet somehow it had taken me by complete surprise. Privately I'd hoped for a positive result against a team who were trapped in obscurity at the time but 7-1 beggared belief. I don't think I'd ever seen or experienced this feeling in football. Before your team emerge from the tunnel for a game you always believe that in the best of all possible worlds that one day a rugby or cricket score would leave you speechless and dumbfounded. But 7-1. It was too good to be true. Yet it had come to pass. Hull hammered at the home of the Hammers. The icing on a very piquant cake with loads of cream and sugar. My cup had runneth over.
What was less noteworthy at the time and probably completely overlooked was the achievement of one West Ham player. Steve Potts, an ultra reliable full back and dedicated defender, scored his one and only goal for West Ham. Now I'm not sure why that statistic has never deserted me. Potts, by his own admission, was a safe pair of hands at the back, a yeomen servant for the claret and blue of West Ham but surely that day against Hull, Potts entered the pantheon of greats for one solitary day in the history of West Ham.
So it is back in the present day that both West Ham and Hull meet up again on an early wintry December afternoon. In a sense both clubs, although on a much higher plateau than they were on that far distant day two decades ago, are still essentially kindred spirits. West Ham although more buoyant than they were last Saturday, are far from out of trouble at the wrong end of the Premier League and Hull are teetering on the precipice. It could be an uncomfortably hard and gruelling season for both teams.
This is the last footballing weekend before Christmas. There remain some very relevant West Ham related facts and figures. On Boxing Day 1963 the old First Division yielded a bumper record crop of 66 goals, a figure that may never ever be surpassed. West Ham, of course had to be one of the victims of circumstances as Blackburn accumulated eight goals at the Hammers expense. West Ham had been beaten 8-2 by a very skilful and lethal Blackburn side featuring the England winger Bryan Douglas and the honest, hard working Ronnie Clayton. On a heavy mudbath of an Upton Park pitch Blackburn tore West Ham to shreds and perhaps the Hammers only consolation was the final whistle. That couldn't have arrived quickly enough. It was the most mind blowing and demoralising of defeats for West Ham although they did achieve some measure of revenge when at Ewood Park a couple of days later, the Hammers won 3-1 against Blackburn. So there Rovers. Take that.
Then there was the Boxing Day local derby against neighbours Leyton Orient circa 1978. West Ham had only recently been relegated to the old Second Division and suddenly the neighbours had dropped in for a cup of tea and sugar. Up until that point West Ham had never been beaten by Orient but this day was entirely and shockingly different. It was almost as if the ground had been shifted from under us From my very rare vantage point on the old Upton Park Chicken Run I can still see the horror show unravelling in front of me. Orient won 2-0 and John Chiedozie sprinting the length of the Upton Park to score the easiest goal he'll ever score still sends cold shivers down my spine.
Anyway time to look out of our window again. A heavy mist and fog has once again descended on the streets, roads and cities of Britain, like the greyest of blankets. This December is turning into a tale of two contrasting halves. You might even call it a contradiction of terms. The first half of December was marvellously and stupendously mild. Sure the chill was noticeably raw at times but it was easy to believe that the Costa Blanca had now sent over its warmest current. So no complaints from any of us. Now though autumn is beginning to fade into the distance and winter is creeping stealthily over the hills and dales. It's time to dig out those thick pullovers and gloves. Or maybe not. Isn't it good to be alive? Oh absolutely. Besides it's the Strictly final and that's a must.
Outside a whitish mist hangs heavily in the air like a static curtain. The trees are like empty hands, like thin human fingers pointing in different directions. Those enormous blackbirds may have decided to up and leave for the time being and all I can hear is silence. What this country needs is one uplifting street carnival to spark it into life. Perhaps Christmas will do the trick. Or Chanukah with its jam doughnuts and abundant cholesterol. Time to go for a walk in a claret and blue wonderland. Come on West Ham United.
Thursday 15 December 2016
The Two Ronnies- what a team, double the fun.
The Two Ronnies- what a team!
British TV never had it so good. British TV was like a pampered pet. It had been spoilt something rotten. 40 years ago another superb British comedy double act graced our living rooms and stayed there for another 40 years which meant that we were all very privileged. At exactly the same time as Morecambe and Wise, the Two Ronnies were performing before millions of people on the BBC. Surely Auntie Beeb has never felt quite so humble and smug. The Two Ronnies, two of comedy's most eloquent of word masters, were quite literally painting word pictures.
Back in the now hazy days of black and white TV comedy Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett were learning their trade alongside the intellectuals and academics. Barker and Corbett were serving their apprenticeship at the coal face of British TV. Alongside the esteemed likes of John Cleese, David Frost and Michael Palin, Barker and Corbett were honing their craft and stitching together their unique brand of wonderful observational comedy and great sketches that will stick in the mind for ever more never to go away.
We can probably remember where we were when Ronnie Corbett and Ronnie Barker started out. They were those two characters who featured in that famous sketch where the the very core of the English class system was ridiculed and held up to account. Ronnie Barker stood proudly next to Ronnie Corbett while the tall, imposing John Cleese. complete in upper class City bank attire, turned up his condescending nose at both Barker and Corbett. Cleese maintained that he was far superior than both Corbett and Barker.
Now the turning point had been reached for Ronnie Corbett. and Ronnie Barker. It was a memorably seminal moment in British double act land. Both men promptly grabbed hold of the baton and ran with it as far as they could. Soon they would become British comedy's most articulate act of all time. Up until then we'd had Flanagan and Allen but none had seemingly possessed that special quality, that indefinable something that made them just stand out from the rest.
Before embarking on a distinguished and well garlanded career on the telly, Barker had worked very diligently and confidently in a bank. But privately he'd been harbouring an ambition to use his considerable vocabulary to a most constructive use. Then it all began to fit together. Find a partner to share your love of words with and then create the most splendid tapestry of comic sketches that were both witty and hugely intelligent.
By the early 1970s both Ronnie Corbett and Ronnie Barker were sitting next together like two very earnest newsreaders ad libbing and improvising as if it were going out of fashion. There were the wonderful news items spiced with more word play. Then there were sketches which depicted everything from posh office parties and ice- cream parlour tomfoolery with a definite emphasis on the use of words.
Then there were sketches that imprinted themselves on our consciousness for ever more. What genius, what perfection, what a memory and how did they remember that? You know the one I'm talking about and then the others come flooding back to me and you. They were some of the most brilliantly conceived and executed comedy sketches, fashioned and tailored by two of the most creative minds in the world of British comedy. Even now they leave you with the broadest smile on your face.
It was the Fork Handles sketches where the Two Ronnies find themselves in a haberdashery. Ronnie Barker, in what looked like a village idiot's clothes, bumbles and blunders his way into a shop and requests every day household appliances. He wanted garden forks, hoes, plugs and everything that begged for hilarious responses from Ronnie Corbett. But then it all went disastrously wrong because communication had got slightly muddled and then there was misunderstanding. Fork Handles of course became lost in the translation and ended as Four Candles, the garden water hose assumed another life form as the letter O and everybody just crumpled into helpless laughter.
Now the Two Ronnies were established family favourites with spectacular song and dance acts and much more. How we'll miss them.
British TV never had it so good. British TV was like a pampered pet. It had been spoilt something rotten. 40 years ago another superb British comedy double act graced our living rooms and stayed there for another 40 years which meant that we were all very privileged. At exactly the same time as Morecambe and Wise, the Two Ronnies were performing before millions of people on the BBC. Surely Auntie Beeb has never felt quite so humble and smug. The Two Ronnies, two of comedy's most eloquent of word masters, were quite literally painting word pictures.
Back in the now hazy days of black and white TV comedy Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett were learning their trade alongside the intellectuals and academics. Barker and Corbett were serving their apprenticeship at the coal face of British TV. Alongside the esteemed likes of John Cleese, David Frost and Michael Palin, Barker and Corbett were honing their craft and stitching together their unique brand of wonderful observational comedy and great sketches that will stick in the mind for ever more never to go away.
We can probably remember where we were when Ronnie Corbett and Ronnie Barker started out. They were those two characters who featured in that famous sketch where the the very core of the English class system was ridiculed and held up to account. Ronnie Barker stood proudly next to Ronnie Corbett while the tall, imposing John Cleese. complete in upper class City bank attire, turned up his condescending nose at both Barker and Corbett. Cleese maintained that he was far superior than both Corbett and Barker.
Now the turning point had been reached for Ronnie Corbett. and Ronnie Barker. It was a memorably seminal moment in British double act land. Both men promptly grabbed hold of the baton and ran with it as far as they could. Soon they would become British comedy's most articulate act of all time. Up until then we'd had Flanagan and Allen but none had seemingly possessed that special quality, that indefinable something that made them just stand out from the rest.
Before embarking on a distinguished and well garlanded career on the telly, Barker had worked very diligently and confidently in a bank. But privately he'd been harbouring an ambition to use his considerable vocabulary to a most constructive use. Then it all began to fit together. Find a partner to share your love of words with and then create the most splendid tapestry of comic sketches that were both witty and hugely intelligent.
By the early 1970s both Ronnie Corbett and Ronnie Barker were sitting next together like two very earnest newsreaders ad libbing and improvising as if it were going out of fashion. There were the wonderful news items spiced with more word play. Then there were sketches which depicted everything from posh office parties and ice- cream parlour tomfoolery with a definite emphasis on the use of words.
Then there were sketches that imprinted themselves on our consciousness for ever more. What genius, what perfection, what a memory and how did they remember that? You know the one I'm talking about and then the others come flooding back to me and you. They were some of the most brilliantly conceived and executed comedy sketches, fashioned and tailored by two of the most creative minds in the world of British comedy. Even now they leave you with the broadest smile on your face.
It was the Fork Handles sketches where the Two Ronnies find themselves in a haberdashery. Ronnie Barker, in what looked like a village idiot's clothes, bumbles and blunders his way into a shop and requests every day household appliances. He wanted garden forks, hoes, plugs and everything that begged for hilarious responses from Ronnie Corbett. But then it all went disastrously wrong because communication had got slightly muddled and then there was misunderstanding. Fork Handles of course became lost in the translation and ended as Four Candles, the garden water hose assumed another life form as the letter O and everybody just crumpled into helpless laughter.
Now the Two Ronnies were established family favourites with spectacular song and dance acts and much more. How we'll miss them.
Wednesday 14 December 2016
The Christmas TV comedy greats- will we ever see their like again.
Christmas Day and then the salad days of TV comedy greats - will we ever see their like again? First on the bill - Morecambe and Wise and then shortly The Two Ronnies.
So where are we? You've wrapped up your Christmas presents, plonked that huge turkey in the fridge, added the final touches to the Christmas tree and generally abandoned yourself to a rip roaringly good time of booze, telly, more booze and more telly plus a generous helping of festive jollity and joviality. But are you looking forward to the big day or simply dreading it? Do you wish you were on some sun kissed tropical isle where nobody has even heard of Christmas? The truth is that somehow the world will hold its breath, feast itself on excessive indulgence and then forget what day it is.
And then after an almost irrational consumption of turkey, roast potatoes, brussel sprouts, cranberry sauce, onion stuffing, plus anything that looks remotely edible, we all collapse in our sofas, puffing out our cheeks, glad that all of that painstaking preparation is finally over and murmurs of appreciation have been expressed. Uncle Tom can finally show off the socks the family have once again given him. He was so looking forward to adding to his extensive collection of handkerchiefs.
Then of course there are the beaming, red faced and angelic faces of children. Peter has got another X Box and Play Station, Jill just leapt up into the air when Auntie Barbara gave her another Russian doll and all of the nieces, cousins and uncles have been suitably rewarded. It is, after all, the season to be jolly and where would we be without Christmas, the Queen at 3pm in the afternoon and the traditional James Stewart classic 'It's a Wonderful Life'. It is a quintessentially English domestic scene and yet around the world they do exactly the same thing - over and over again. It is all about family solidarity, wholesome unity, wonderful togetherness and the most heartening of Christian festivals.
Of course we'll never tire of it, of course we'll sing, dance, joke and laugh joyously until the church bells ring out resoundingly in the shires and counties of Britain. The vicar has delivered his yearly sermon of peace on earth, his plea for harmonious relations in all communities, religious and spiritual goodwill to all mankind until once again a bomb goes off in some far off war torn zone and we all wonder whether it was worth all of the effort.
So we go back to the TV comedy of yesteryear. Four gentlemen of rich comic heritage and breeding gave us a perfectly plausible reason for just kicking off our shoes in the evening, flopping into our sofas and then rolling about on the floor with irresistible, belly aching laughter. We cried with laughter, we wept with laughter, we fell off our seats with laughter and we spent the best part of an hour trying not to make a spectacle of ourselves such was the intensity and sheer volume of comedy that had been put before us.
Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise were followed by the Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett. If anybody had sought the most perfect evening of entertainment to light up a dark, wintry Christmas night then this was your moment. Ladies and Gentlemen. We proudly give you Morecambe and Wise and the Two Ronnies. Sheer compulsive showbiz and box office, sheer magnificence, the BBC performing miracles and just exquisitely funny. We split our sides, rocked backwards and forwards at the unalloyed hilarity of it all, the sheer formidable beauty of TV at its very best. It was far too good to be true. We had to be dreaming it all. And yet we weren't because it was perfectly true.
On Christmas Day 40 years ago Britain was undeniably spoilt by firstly Bruce Forsyth's Generation Game at roughly tea time and then wonder of wonders Morecambe and Wise accompanied by The Two Ronnies. We'd barely digested our Christmas pud with lashings of custard before Eric and Ern launched into what amounted to an evening of heavenly comic genius.
From a personal point of view Morecambe and Wise were the embodiment of comic brilliance, rising to heights never previously scaled. Eric slapped Ern on the face unashamedly, Ern tried hard to keep a straight face and the audience were just convulsed with the giggles.Then there was an outburst of more breathtaking gags and sketches while Eric grabbed Ern by the shirt collar and chuckled superbly at Ern's knobbly knees.
There were the plays that Ern allegedly wrote and the bedroom scenes that in those days were regarded as perfectly acceptable. We could never understand why two adult men, happily married in real life, got into bed with each other and then cracked jokes as if it were some morally permissible activity. In retrospect it was not only outrageously silly it also challenged all the boundaries of taste and decency. Two men were in bed with each other, both in dressing gowns and both quite comfortable. It looked terribly inappropriate and horribly questionable. And yet none of us batted an eye lid because that's what TV was like 40 years ago.
But then there were the epic moments in the Eric and Ern Christmas spectacular. These were the end of show plays that turned into Hollywood style extravaganzas. There was the splendid sight of Penelope Keith climbing off a huge platform from a great height and Shirley Bassey somehow being expected to wear a pair of wellington boots after singing Hey Big Spender with barely controlled mirth. There was Glenda Jackson subjected to utter humiliation and degradation and then Angela Rippon, that most consummate of all BBC newsreaders revealing her long and glamorous legs before a stunned nation.
Then there was that final and unforgettable conclusion when everybody assumed, quite rightly, that Eric and Ern had finished their glorious frolics and hilarious wisecracking. Before the show there had been what seemed like an inexplicable shuffling of the curtains before the boys came out to perform. Nobody quite knew what was happening but by the time Eric flicked back the curtains for the last time it was abundantly clear that here was a piece of comic mastery that maybe Eric and Ern had perfected a million times in the war time music halls.
There was that much celebrated show where the great composer and classical conductor Andre Previn was asked to appear with Eric and Ern. To this day it has to be one of the finest pieces of comedy ever seen. Eric, complete in smart dress, top hat and tails, sat down on his piano chair, rolled his fingers, pulled up his shirt sleeves, adjusted his tails and then gave his rendition of a classical piece of music. What proceeded was some old pub tune that none of us could have anticipated. Previn demanded to know what was going on and then Eric once again, in all seriousness, insisted that he was playing all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order. None of us questioned Eric because he knew he was right and so perhaps privately did Previn.
So here we were at the end of the Morecambe and Wise show. The curtains had closed for the last time but not before one moment of magical TV. A gentleman called Arthur, in all innocence, darted in front of a microphone and tried valiantly to play the harmonica at which point he was whipped away from view and told by Eric that the show had finished and the bus stop was in that direction. Sorry Arthur harmonica playing wasn't part of the Eric and Ern fun factory. It was time to go home Arthur. You're superfluous to requirements. And yet Eric and Ern had satisfied the job description because that Christmas Day night we all knew that we'd been grandly entertained. The Two Ronnies- you're on up - next lads.
So where are we? You've wrapped up your Christmas presents, plonked that huge turkey in the fridge, added the final touches to the Christmas tree and generally abandoned yourself to a rip roaringly good time of booze, telly, more booze and more telly plus a generous helping of festive jollity and joviality. But are you looking forward to the big day or simply dreading it? Do you wish you were on some sun kissed tropical isle where nobody has even heard of Christmas? The truth is that somehow the world will hold its breath, feast itself on excessive indulgence and then forget what day it is.
And then after an almost irrational consumption of turkey, roast potatoes, brussel sprouts, cranberry sauce, onion stuffing, plus anything that looks remotely edible, we all collapse in our sofas, puffing out our cheeks, glad that all of that painstaking preparation is finally over and murmurs of appreciation have been expressed. Uncle Tom can finally show off the socks the family have once again given him. He was so looking forward to adding to his extensive collection of handkerchiefs.
Then of course there are the beaming, red faced and angelic faces of children. Peter has got another X Box and Play Station, Jill just leapt up into the air when Auntie Barbara gave her another Russian doll and all of the nieces, cousins and uncles have been suitably rewarded. It is, after all, the season to be jolly and where would we be without Christmas, the Queen at 3pm in the afternoon and the traditional James Stewart classic 'It's a Wonderful Life'. It is a quintessentially English domestic scene and yet around the world they do exactly the same thing - over and over again. It is all about family solidarity, wholesome unity, wonderful togetherness and the most heartening of Christian festivals.
Of course we'll never tire of it, of course we'll sing, dance, joke and laugh joyously until the church bells ring out resoundingly in the shires and counties of Britain. The vicar has delivered his yearly sermon of peace on earth, his plea for harmonious relations in all communities, religious and spiritual goodwill to all mankind until once again a bomb goes off in some far off war torn zone and we all wonder whether it was worth all of the effort.
So we go back to the TV comedy of yesteryear. Four gentlemen of rich comic heritage and breeding gave us a perfectly plausible reason for just kicking off our shoes in the evening, flopping into our sofas and then rolling about on the floor with irresistible, belly aching laughter. We cried with laughter, we wept with laughter, we fell off our seats with laughter and we spent the best part of an hour trying not to make a spectacle of ourselves such was the intensity and sheer volume of comedy that had been put before us.
Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise were followed by the Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett. If anybody had sought the most perfect evening of entertainment to light up a dark, wintry Christmas night then this was your moment. Ladies and Gentlemen. We proudly give you Morecambe and Wise and the Two Ronnies. Sheer compulsive showbiz and box office, sheer magnificence, the BBC performing miracles and just exquisitely funny. We split our sides, rocked backwards and forwards at the unalloyed hilarity of it all, the sheer formidable beauty of TV at its very best. It was far too good to be true. We had to be dreaming it all. And yet we weren't because it was perfectly true.
On Christmas Day 40 years ago Britain was undeniably spoilt by firstly Bruce Forsyth's Generation Game at roughly tea time and then wonder of wonders Morecambe and Wise accompanied by The Two Ronnies. We'd barely digested our Christmas pud with lashings of custard before Eric and Ern launched into what amounted to an evening of heavenly comic genius.
From a personal point of view Morecambe and Wise were the embodiment of comic brilliance, rising to heights never previously scaled. Eric slapped Ern on the face unashamedly, Ern tried hard to keep a straight face and the audience were just convulsed with the giggles.Then there was an outburst of more breathtaking gags and sketches while Eric grabbed Ern by the shirt collar and chuckled superbly at Ern's knobbly knees.
There were the plays that Ern allegedly wrote and the bedroom scenes that in those days were regarded as perfectly acceptable. We could never understand why two adult men, happily married in real life, got into bed with each other and then cracked jokes as if it were some morally permissible activity. In retrospect it was not only outrageously silly it also challenged all the boundaries of taste and decency. Two men were in bed with each other, both in dressing gowns and both quite comfortable. It looked terribly inappropriate and horribly questionable. And yet none of us batted an eye lid because that's what TV was like 40 years ago.
But then there were the epic moments in the Eric and Ern Christmas spectacular. These were the end of show plays that turned into Hollywood style extravaganzas. There was the splendid sight of Penelope Keith climbing off a huge platform from a great height and Shirley Bassey somehow being expected to wear a pair of wellington boots after singing Hey Big Spender with barely controlled mirth. There was Glenda Jackson subjected to utter humiliation and degradation and then Angela Rippon, that most consummate of all BBC newsreaders revealing her long and glamorous legs before a stunned nation.
Then there was that final and unforgettable conclusion when everybody assumed, quite rightly, that Eric and Ern had finished their glorious frolics and hilarious wisecracking. Before the show there had been what seemed like an inexplicable shuffling of the curtains before the boys came out to perform. Nobody quite knew what was happening but by the time Eric flicked back the curtains for the last time it was abundantly clear that here was a piece of comic mastery that maybe Eric and Ern had perfected a million times in the war time music halls.
There was that much celebrated show where the great composer and classical conductor Andre Previn was asked to appear with Eric and Ern. To this day it has to be one of the finest pieces of comedy ever seen. Eric, complete in smart dress, top hat and tails, sat down on his piano chair, rolled his fingers, pulled up his shirt sleeves, adjusted his tails and then gave his rendition of a classical piece of music. What proceeded was some old pub tune that none of us could have anticipated. Previn demanded to know what was going on and then Eric once again, in all seriousness, insisted that he was playing all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order. None of us questioned Eric because he knew he was right and so perhaps privately did Previn.
So here we were at the end of the Morecambe and Wise show. The curtains had closed for the last time but not before one moment of magical TV. A gentleman called Arthur, in all innocence, darted in front of a microphone and tried valiantly to play the harmonica at which point he was whipped away from view and told by Eric that the show had finished and the bus stop was in that direction. Sorry Arthur harmonica playing wasn't part of the Eric and Ern fun factory. It was time to go home Arthur. You're superfluous to requirements. And yet Eric and Ern had satisfied the job description because that Christmas Day night we all knew that we'd been grandly entertained. The Two Ronnies- you're on up - next lads.
Monday 12 December 2016
School Christmas parties
Oh for the days of school Christmas parties.
So here we are. We're just a fortnight away from that big day. Yes folks its almost Christmas yet again. Just when you thought Christmas had been postponed, banned and abolished. You can't keep a good festival down. It's one of life's inevitabilities rather like that very warm and reassuring BBC Christmas tree. It's here again in your living room. Bigger, bolder and brighter than ever before. Hold on didn't we do the same thing last year and every year since the beginning of time or maybe it just seems that way?
Anyway the fact is that Christmas has turned up on our doorstep again. Personally I'm looking forward to Chanukah where everybody eats doughnuts. What a mouth watering prospect but even so Christmas is not so much as a way of life at this time of the year more a yearly occurrence that just seems to happen and there can be no escaping it. A vast multitude of presents have been bought, budgets have been broken and by the time you've done that final shop there's nothing in your purse. Where did all of that money go? Christmas is that huge nod to commercialism, capitalism gone crazy. How did we spend that money and is there any left in the bank? Let's check.
But I think it's time to go back to the old days. Ah yes that famous old chestnut. Those simple, straightforward days when the BBC summoned its finest platoon of celebrities to visit sick children in hospital. Then at roughly 2pm Top of the Pops would sail into our living rooms like a good old fashioned Christmas cracker and the BBC would indulge in a nostalgic look back at the year with Roy Wood's I wish It Could be Christmas every day, Slade's glorious So Here It Is Merry Christmas Everybody, the equally as brilliant Jonah Lewie Stop the Cavalry and the delightful Chris Rea standard Driving Home for Christmas. That recurring theme is just so soothingly familiar. They're so heartwarming and uplifting and everybody feels so good about themselves. Which can be no bad thing at all.
Anyway back at our primary school most of us were getting ready for Christmas with a vengeance. In our class everything was chaos. There was a cheerful bedlam, a wild and frenzied surge of activity that in retrospect probably felt quite exciting at the time until we realised that it was just gentle, childish and inoffensive fun. And then we were all told to sit down, be quiet, remain silent and just listen to our teacher.
Then a booming voice would break the hushed silence. It was time children to stick things together and have a good old jolly time with paper. It was a golden moment that should have been recorded and savoured for ever more. A respectful silence temporarily reigned. Then madness took over and the whole classroom just exploded. Kids hollered at the top of their voices and order gave way to disorder.
In no time at all we were bombarded with scissors, a thousand pieces of crepe paper, glue and all of the paraphernalia. And then the teacher would stand at the front of the class as all of the kids were given very specific instructions. What we had to do was carefully cut out the multi coloured crepe paper into the shape of lanterns, stars and bell shaped decorations. It was a very precise military operation and if you got it wrong you were told quite firmly that it had to be done by the end of the morning. Even then children were set rigorous deadlines. Oh for the joys of the festive season.
Soon panicky pandemonium set in and there was a collective and sharp intake of breath. I can still see myself struggling desperately with crepe paper and glue and ending up in the most ridiculous tangle. And yet it all seemed so highly appropriate. We didn't question the status quo because they were a pop group anyway so who cared. We just got on with the job we were assigned to do and clocked off at the factory gates at 3.30 in the afternoon.
From what I can remember we were all blissfully satisfied with our endeavours. We hung our delicate lanterns across the classroom and they all seemed to fit like the proverbial jig saw puzzle. Remarkably my efforts were still clinging to the ceiling for our dear life and there was a warm glow of a job well done. Our teacher expressed their gratitude and then there was the end of term Christmas party, an extraordinary feat of organisation and painstaking planning.
Now the Christmas party was something else. It was normally held roughly a week before Christmas and normally had most of the kids in hysterics. Before the end of the day our teacher would tell us that we could bring in any toy or game of our choice and in those days all seemed to come in tattered boxes. Some of the kids felt this was open season. Shortly we had a whole variety of board games, plastic objects that took ages to assemble and in some cases music and vinyl LPs that crackled and jumped on the turntable.
The food of course was delicious, a confection of small cakes, biscuits and sweets neatly arranged on appetising cardboard plates. In no time the kids were confronted by masses of grub. Then there were the beautifully cut sandwiches with their traditional combination of cheese, egg mayonnaise and anything else that took our fancy. Then there were the mountain of crisps and savoury bits and pieces that were almost too good to be true.
And then at the end of the day when all of the kids were now pleading for the party to stop, there was a noticeable gear change, a gradual winding down and then utter exhaustion. Don't forget we were only about seven or eight at the time and our dwindling reserves of energy had begun to take their toll. Soon the day drew to a close and the kids slumped and slouched, paper lanterns drooping rather sadly from the ceiling and the day had run its natural course.
It all now seems a distant childhood memory. I can still see our school assembly hall with its nicely varnished floor, the yellowing hymn sheet almost crying out for salvation, the wooden frames for Physical Exercise, the mats for dong somersaults, the pommel horse, jumping over that pommel horse athletically and the record player that sounded as if it had last been used in 1932.
I can still remember one particularly hilarious Christmas at our primary school. The school held its yearly Christmas play and concert in the hall. For weeks, months, seemingly decades, the kids in the classes exercised fully their musical and creative juices with a wonderful collection of musical instruments. There were the tantalising triangles just waiting for their turn, champing at the bit and then the reedy recorders that were almost essential listening at any school concert. Oh and then there were the vibrant violins, weeping at times but then very soulful and purposeful. It was a day our primary school will never ever forget.
Yours truly was assigned with a cymbal attached to a very threadbare piece of string. At the appointed moment I had to bash this cymbal with every sinew and muscle I had. It was quite the most vigorous thing I'd done at school since gluing the lanterns together. After moderately successful rehearsals, the violinists and recorders were now tuned to perfection and it was my responsibility to get it right on the cymbal. Needless to say it all went terribly wrong for me on the day and my horrendous clash of the cymbal sent it flying off into Outer Space never to be seen again. Oh what festive frivolity we had.
So here we are. We're just a fortnight away from that big day. Yes folks its almost Christmas yet again. Just when you thought Christmas had been postponed, banned and abolished. You can't keep a good festival down. It's one of life's inevitabilities rather like that very warm and reassuring BBC Christmas tree. It's here again in your living room. Bigger, bolder and brighter than ever before. Hold on didn't we do the same thing last year and every year since the beginning of time or maybe it just seems that way?
Anyway the fact is that Christmas has turned up on our doorstep again. Personally I'm looking forward to Chanukah where everybody eats doughnuts. What a mouth watering prospect but even so Christmas is not so much as a way of life at this time of the year more a yearly occurrence that just seems to happen and there can be no escaping it. A vast multitude of presents have been bought, budgets have been broken and by the time you've done that final shop there's nothing in your purse. Where did all of that money go? Christmas is that huge nod to commercialism, capitalism gone crazy. How did we spend that money and is there any left in the bank? Let's check.
But I think it's time to go back to the old days. Ah yes that famous old chestnut. Those simple, straightforward days when the BBC summoned its finest platoon of celebrities to visit sick children in hospital. Then at roughly 2pm Top of the Pops would sail into our living rooms like a good old fashioned Christmas cracker and the BBC would indulge in a nostalgic look back at the year with Roy Wood's I wish It Could be Christmas every day, Slade's glorious So Here It Is Merry Christmas Everybody, the equally as brilliant Jonah Lewie Stop the Cavalry and the delightful Chris Rea standard Driving Home for Christmas. That recurring theme is just so soothingly familiar. They're so heartwarming and uplifting and everybody feels so good about themselves. Which can be no bad thing at all.
Anyway back at our primary school most of us were getting ready for Christmas with a vengeance. In our class everything was chaos. There was a cheerful bedlam, a wild and frenzied surge of activity that in retrospect probably felt quite exciting at the time until we realised that it was just gentle, childish and inoffensive fun. And then we were all told to sit down, be quiet, remain silent and just listen to our teacher.
Then a booming voice would break the hushed silence. It was time children to stick things together and have a good old jolly time with paper. It was a golden moment that should have been recorded and savoured for ever more. A respectful silence temporarily reigned. Then madness took over and the whole classroom just exploded. Kids hollered at the top of their voices and order gave way to disorder.
In no time at all we were bombarded with scissors, a thousand pieces of crepe paper, glue and all of the paraphernalia. And then the teacher would stand at the front of the class as all of the kids were given very specific instructions. What we had to do was carefully cut out the multi coloured crepe paper into the shape of lanterns, stars and bell shaped decorations. It was a very precise military operation and if you got it wrong you were told quite firmly that it had to be done by the end of the morning. Even then children were set rigorous deadlines. Oh for the joys of the festive season.
Soon panicky pandemonium set in and there was a collective and sharp intake of breath. I can still see myself struggling desperately with crepe paper and glue and ending up in the most ridiculous tangle. And yet it all seemed so highly appropriate. We didn't question the status quo because they were a pop group anyway so who cared. We just got on with the job we were assigned to do and clocked off at the factory gates at 3.30 in the afternoon.
From what I can remember we were all blissfully satisfied with our endeavours. We hung our delicate lanterns across the classroom and they all seemed to fit like the proverbial jig saw puzzle. Remarkably my efforts were still clinging to the ceiling for our dear life and there was a warm glow of a job well done. Our teacher expressed their gratitude and then there was the end of term Christmas party, an extraordinary feat of organisation and painstaking planning.
Now the Christmas party was something else. It was normally held roughly a week before Christmas and normally had most of the kids in hysterics. Before the end of the day our teacher would tell us that we could bring in any toy or game of our choice and in those days all seemed to come in tattered boxes. Some of the kids felt this was open season. Shortly we had a whole variety of board games, plastic objects that took ages to assemble and in some cases music and vinyl LPs that crackled and jumped on the turntable.
The food of course was delicious, a confection of small cakes, biscuits and sweets neatly arranged on appetising cardboard plates. In no time the kids were confronted by masses of grub. Then there were the beautifully cut sandwiches with their traditional combination of cheese, egg mayonnaise and anything else that took our fancy. Then there were the mountain of crisps and savoury bits and pieces that were almost too good to be true.
And then at the end of the day when all of the kids were now pleading for the party to stop, there was a noticeable gear change, a gradual winding down and then utter exhaustion. Don't forget we were only about seven or eight at the time and our dwindling reserves of energy had begun to take their toll. Soon the day drew to a close and the kids slumped and slouched, paper lanterns drooping rather sadly from the ceiling and the day had run its natural course.
It all now seems a distant childhood memory. I can still see our school assembly hall with its nicely varnished floor, the yellowing hymn sheet almost crying out for salvation, the wooden frames for Physical Exercise, the mats for dong somersaults, the pommel horse, jumping over that pommel horse athletically and the record player that sounded as if it had last been used in 1932.
I can still remember one particularly hilarious Christmas at our primary school. The school held its yearly Christmas play and concert in the hall. For weeks, months, seemingly decades, the kids in the classes exercised fully their musical and creative juices with a wonderful collection of musical instruments. There were the tantalising triangles just waiting for their turn, champing at the bit and then the reedy recorders that were almost essential listening at any school concert. Oh and then there were the vibrant violins, weeping at times but then very soulful and purposeful. It was a day our primary school will never ever forget.
Yours truly was assigned with a cymbal attached to a very threadbare piece of string. At the appointed moment I had to bash this cymbal with every sinew and muscle I had. It was quite the most vigorous thing I'd done at school since gluing the lanterns together. After moderately successful rehearsals, the violinists and recorders were now tuned to perfection and it was my responsibility to get it right on the cymbal. Needless to say it all went terribly wrong for me on the day and my horrendous clash of the cymbal sent it flying off into Outer Space never to be seen again. Oh what festive frivolity we had.
Saturday 10 December 2016
Bob Dylan- deserving of the Nobel Prize for Literature- poet or wordsmith of our time.
Bob Dylan- poet, brilliant lyricist or talented song writer.
I was watching BBC Four's glowing tribute to Bob Dylan and it suddenly occurred to me. Now there's a man who deserved the Nobel Prize for Literature. There are two distinctly different schools of thought here. Was Dylan a gifted song writer or just some pretentious poet from the heart of America? Some of us believe that he transcended all popular music boundaries. He was there at the heart of everything, singing very openly about his own personal experiences and then perfectly touching the chord of a nation that may have been recovering from the very traumatic post- Kennedy era.
But Dylan, the critics might have suggested,was just an inveterate misery guts, full of morbidity, cynicism and edgy political commentaries. Throughout the Dylan history and repertoire, there was heartache, poignancy and the deepest frustration about everything and anything. And yet as last night's programme showed Dylan is still going strong, a political activist allegedly but nonetheless true to his roots and never straying far from the public eye. Dylan loves to whip up a minor controversy in all of his music but this is one hornet's nest that doesn't really sting.
Now in his early 70s Dylan belongs to the generation that howled with revolutionary zeal, constantly raging and ranting with moody menace. University students around the world set out on huge demonstrations. protesting vehemently against the Government of the day yet unscathed and untouched by the troubles around them.
Throughout the 1960s Dylan emerged as a fresh faced songwriter and singer, desperately sceptical of the mess that the world had got itself in and just plain angry at times. He slung a guitar around his neck, adjusted the harmonica and then belted out his distinctive style. I have to admit here that although an admirer of his natural talent Dylan never achieved a place in my record collection nor did he stir me to righteous indignation and outright fury. And yet he always knew had to handle a song, manipulating it and nurturing it with tender care. But Dylan played to the gallery with polish and understated modesty.
But Dylan carried around with him almost constantly- and still does- an extensive catalogue of masterly lyrics and an educated eloquence that never disappoints. The words are pearls and rubies, emeralds and amethyst, gleaming in the light of the day. Oh I hear you say that's just too gushing for words and yet there's an underlying truth in the statement. At the height of the 1960s Dylan perfectly captured the zeitgeist of the times, growling, wailing and disapproving but privately imagining brighter landscapes.
There was just a hint of radicalism in Dylan's music that did shake up the Establishment but that same Establishment began to listen to him because they too could identify with his sorrow and dissatisfaction. Rather like his late and contemporary Leonard Cohen, Dylan tried hard to communicate his anguish, his angst and occasional bitterness. Of course he could be positive and he could also make you feel good about yourself with an up tempo number of happiness and eternal optimism.
When the iconic 'Blowing in the Wind was released over 50 years or so ago, the public finally discovered a singer determined to defy any classification. Blowing in the Wind has folksy harmonies underscored by progressive messages about change and humanity.
I have to say that for somebody whose knowledge of the Dylan backstory is very limited, last night's BBC Four's flattering portrait of the man did convince me that I had seen a singer who'd lived life to the full and drunk from its overflowing cup. Here was, and still is, a man for all seasons and all tastes.
I was watching BBC Four's glowing tribute to Bob Dylan and it suddenly occurred to me. Now there's a man who deserved the Nobel Prize for Literature. There are two distinctly different schools of thought here. Was Dylan a gifted song writer or just some pretentious poet from the heart of America? Some of us believe that he transcended all popular music boundaries. He was there at the heart of everything, singing very openly about his own personal experiences and then perfectly touching the chord of a nation that may have been recovering from the very traumatic post- Kennedy era.
But Dylan, the critics might have suggested,was just an inveterate misery guts, full of morbidity, cynicism and edgy political commentaries. Throughout the Dylan history and repertoire, there was heartache, poignancy and the deepest frustration about everything and anything. And yet as last night's programme showed Dylan is still going strong, a political activist allegedly but nonetheless true to his roots and never straying far from the public eye. Dylan loves to whip up a minor controversy in all of his music but this is one hornet's nest that doesn't really sting.
Now in his early 70s Dylan belongs to the generation that howled with revolutionary zeal, constantly raging and ranting with moody menace. University students around the world set out on huge demonstrations. protesting vehemently against the Government of the day yet unscathed and untouched by the troubles around them.
Throughout the 1960s Dylan emerged as a fresh faced songwriter and singer, desperately sceptical of the mess that the world had got itself in and just plain angry at times. He slung a guitar around his neck, adjusted the harmonica and then belted out his distinctive style. I have to admit here that although an admirer of his natural talent Dylan never achieved a place in my record collection nor did he stir me to righteous indignation and outright fury. And yet he always knew had to handle a song, manipulating it and nurturing it with tender care. But Dylan played to the gallery with polish and understated modesty.
But Dylan carried around with him almost constantly- and still does- an extensive catalogue of masterly lyrics and an educated eloquence that never disappoints. The words are pearls and rubies, emeralds and amethyst, gleaming in the light of the day. Oh I hear you say that's just too gushing for words and yet there's an underlying truth in the statement. At the height of the 1960s Dylan perfectly captured the zeitgeist of the times, growling, wailing and disapproving but privately imagining brighter landscapes.
There was just a hint of radicalism in Dylan's music that did shake up the Establishment but that same Establishment began to listen to him because they too could identify with his sorrow and dissatisfaction. Rather like his late and contemporary Leonard Cohen, Dylan tried hard to communicate his anguish, his angst and occasional bitterness. Of course he could be positive and he could also make you feel good about yourself with an up tempo number of happiness and eternal optimism.
When the iconic 'Blowing in the Wind was released over 50 years or so ago, the public finally discovered a singer determined to defy any classification. Blowing in the Wind has folksy harmonies underscored by progressive messages about change and humanity.
I have to say that for somebody whose knowledge of the Dylan backstory is very limited, last night's BBC Four's flattering portrait of the man did convince me that I had seen a singer who'd lived life to the full and drunk from its overflowing cup. Here was, and still is, a man for all seasons and all tastes.
Friday 9 December 2016
Kirk Douglas- 100 today, surely not, Hollywood legend reaches century.
Kirk Douglas- Hollywood legend is 100 today.
Kirk Douglas! 100 today! Surely not. You've got to be joking. Happy Birthday Kirk. Yes legendary Hollywood star Kirk Douglas hits the century today. I'll stop rubbing my eyes and just try to treasure the moment. It isn't every day that a Hollywood great gets to 100. So it's time to put my hands together and clap for as long as I possibly can. Many happy returns to Kirk. You're a remarkable man and the epitome of manliness.
There's the equally as famous Olivia De Haviland, another Hollywood superstar and major celebrity who also hit that admirably venerable age. 100 hey. It hardly seems possible folks but it's true. Then there was the eternally cigar smoking George Burns, another Hollywood veteran who got to 100 but sadly passed away shortly afterwards. But hey come on 100 years of age on the planet Earth. It takes some doing. I'm just awe struck with admiration and can hardly believe the evidence of my eyes.
So what happened to our birthday party invitation Kirk? This is a forgivable oversight but we were all waiting for that big Hollywood bash Kirk. We'd packed our bags for Heathrow and were ready to board the plane. We'd bought the plane tickets and we couldn't wait to party the night away with Michael your son and a whole generation of actors and actresses who may have been told about your illustrious career but were just stunned by its longevity. Still maybe they'll save us something from what seems certain to be a glittering banquet. Perhaps a couple of pieces of chicken and legs of lamb will certainly not come amiss. Oh yes don't forget the champagne and those delectable cocktails.
If it's like some of the parties Hollywood is renowned for it could be one riotous night of booze and bacchanalia. The chandeliers will glisten powerfully from one Beverly Hills hotel to the next. And then the birthday boy will modestly appear in his best tuxedo suit and bow tie and the whole of Hollywood will applaud rapturously from the rooftops, cheering themselves hoarse. But what's all the fuss about? How often does the world get to celebrate the career and birthday of a man whose wondrous career has spanned sprawling decades, who lit up the silver screen with those huge and muscular performances,whose epic films will live in our memories for many a year to come?
So Kirk Douglas. How does it feel to be 100? You're not going to tell us are you? But I think I know. You feel like a teenager or do you just take every day at a time. You'll never tell us will you? We feel very honoured to have seen you on the silver screen, admiring from afar and recognising talent when we saw it. Perhaps we'll never know though and it'll remain his secret but if any of his most recent photos are anything to judge by then maybe it's best we not know.
Admittedly the face now resembles a beautifully preserved cliffside and that's meant as a compliment. The eyes are now narrow slits and the cheeks sunken beyond redemption. Of course Kirk Douglas looks old because he is 100 but doesn't he look good for his age? What a performer, what an actor, what a face. None of will ever forget that face. Of course he looks haggard, of course he looks well and truly weatherbeaten and just a pale shadow of his former majesty. His face may be a withered caricature of the man whose masculinity dominated his movies. But Douglas had the lot.
In his unforgettable Spartacus, Douglas was rugged, handsome,muscular and dominant. He commanded our attention because he just bestrode any film like a Colossus. Douglas was a powerful figure, a man who wanted to remind the rest of the world that here was a man of authority and impressive pre-eminence. Douglas swept aside all comers and challengers to his undoubted supremacy in the Holllywood hierarchy with one magnificent display of brute strength.
Who will ever forget that lantern jaw, that toned and always tanned torso, muscles the size of boulders and the chin from heaven? Douglas was the archetypal hero and his screen presence may never be matched by any another Hollywood wannabe. Maybe nobody will do nearly as well as Kirk Douglas because very few will touch his instant charisma, that Midas touch, delicate as a feather, fine as silk.
In Lust for Life, Douglas played the role of gifted and tormented artist Vincent Van Gough to absolute perfection. His attention to detail and sheer integrity lifted Douglas to the heights of the Hollywood Hall of Fame. And yet perhaps we've come to expect that hallmark of quality, that indisputable on screen genius because Kirk Douglas will always be one of the great Hollywood stars, an all conquering giant.
So what do you say? Mr Kirk Douglas. Does it feel good to be 100? Or does it feel like any other birthday? You can imagine the atmosphere in downtown Hollywood. They'll be gathering around Hollywood Boulevard like star struck teenagers, printing more names on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, yelling out USA USA! and then bellowing out their bouquets of praise. The A- List of Hollywood celebrities will be swanning and swaggering around with white teeth and forever glamorous poses.
They will then look at that splendid 100 year old gentleman and just gasp at one of Hollywood's greatest, one of Hollywood's finest. I'd love to blow out one of those candles on your birthday cake Kirk but I think I speak on behalf of the world. What an incredible life. At Lord's cricket ground they normally recognise centuries with a thunderous standing ovation. When his head touches the pillow for a well earned night of sleep, we may smile knowingly and just sigh with enormous respect. Kirk Douglas. A genuine Hollywood superstar. We salute you sir.
Kirk Douglas! 100 today! Surely not. You've got to be joking. Happy Birthday Kirk. Yes legendary Hollywood star Kirk Douglas hits the century today. I'll stop rubbing my eyes and just try to treasure the moment. It isn't every day that a Hollywood great gets to 100. So it's time to put my hands together and clap for as long as I possibly can. Many happy returns to Kirk. You're a remarkable man and the epitome of manliness.
There's the equally as famous Olivia De Haviland, another Hollywood superstar and major celebrity who also hit that admirably venerable age. 100 hey. It hardly seems possible folks but it's true. Then there was the eternally cigar smoking George Burns, another Hollywood veteran who got to 100 but sadly passed away shortly afterwards. But hey come on 100 years of age on the planet Earth. It takes some doing. I'm just awe struck with admiration and can hardly believe the evidence of my eyes.
So what happened to our birthday party invitation Kirk? This is a forgivable oversight but we were all waiting for that big Hollywood bash Kirk. We'd packed our bags for Heathrow and were ready to board the plane. We'd bought the plane tickets and we couldn't wait to party the night away with Michael your son and a whole generation of actors and actresses who may have been told about your illustrious career but were just stunned by its longevity. Still maybe they'll save us something from what seems certain to be a glittering banquet. Perhaps a couple of pieces of chicken and legs of lamb will certainly not come amiss. Oh yes don't forget the champagne and those delectable cocktails.
If it's like some of the parties Hollywood is renowned for it could be one riotous night of booze and bacchanalia. The chandeliers will glisten powerfully from one Beverly Hills hotel to the next. And then the birthday boy will modestly appear in his best tuxedo suit and bow tie and the whole of Hollywood will applaud rapturously from the rooftops, cheering themselves hoarse. But what's all the fuss about? How often does the world get to celebrate the career and birthday of a man whose wondrous career has spanned sprawling decades, who lit up the silver screen with those huge and muscular performances,whose epic films will live in our memories for many a year to come?
So Kirk Douglas. How does it feel to be 100? You're not going to tell us are you? But I think I know. You feel like a teenager or do you just take every day at a time. You'll never tell us will you? We feel very honoured to have seen you on the silver screen, admiring from afar and recognising talent when we saw it. Perhaps we'll never know though and it'll remain his secret but if any of his most recent photos are anything to judge by then maybe it's best we not know.
Admittedly the face now resembles a beautifully preserved cliffside and that's meant as a compliment. The eyes are now narrow slits and the cheeks sunken beyond redemption. Of course Kirk Douglas looks old because he is 100 but doesn't he look good for his age? What a performer, what an actor, what a face. None of will ever forget that face. Of course he looks haggard, of course he looks well and truly weatherbeaten and just a pale shadow of his former majesty. His face may be a withered caricature of the man whose masculinity dominated his movies. But Douglas had the lot.
In his unforgettable Spartacus, Douglas was rugged, handsome,muscular and dominant. He commanded our attention because he just bestrode any film like a Colossus. Douglas was a powerful figure, a man who wanted to remind the rest of the world that here was a man of authority and impressive pre-eminence. Douglas swept aside all comers and challengers to his undoubted supremacy in the Holllywood hierarchy with one magnificent display of brute strength.
Who will ever forget that lantern jaw, that toned and always tanned torso, muscles the size of boulders and the chin from heaven? Douglas was the archetypal hero and his screen presence may never be matched by any another Hollywood wannabe. Maybe nobody will do nearly as well as Kirk Douglas because very few will touch his instant charisma, that Midas touch, delicate as a feather, fine as silk.
In Lust for Life, Douglas played the role of gifted and tormented artist Vincent Van Gough to absolute perfection. His attention to detail and sheer integrity lifted Douglas to the heights of the Hollywood Hall of Fame. And yet perhaps we've come to expect that hallmark of quality, that indisputable on screen genius because Kirk Douglas will always be one of the great Hollywood stars, an all conquering giant.
So what do you say? Mr Kirk Douglas. Does it feel good to be 100? Or does it feel like any other birthday? You can imagine the atmosphere in downtown Hollywood. They'll be gathering around Hollywood Boulevard like star struck teenagers, printing more names on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, yelling out USA USA! and then bellowing out their bouquets of praise. The A- List of Hollywood celebrities will be swanning and swaggering around with white teeth and forever glamorous poses.
They will then look at that splendid 100 year old gentleman and just gasp at one of Hollywood's greatest, one of Hollywood's finest. I'd love to blow out one of those candles on your birthday cake Kirk but I think I speak on behalf of the world. What an incredible life. At Lord's cricket ground they normally recognise centuries with a thunderous standing ovation. When his head touches the pillow for a well earned night of sleep, we may smile knowingly and just sigh with enormous respect. Kirk Douglas. A genuine Hollywood superstar. We salute you sir.
Wednesday 7 December 2016
You may Brexit but I couldn't possibly comment.
You may Brexit but I couldn't possibly comment.
What on earth is happening to the English language? Could somebody please tell me what's going on. I'm at a complete loss and would love to know why the buzzword fraternity keep tampering and tinkering with those witty words of wisdom. Now I'm all for new fads, movements and innovative slogans but I'd be so grateful if you could explain both their origin and their relevance. Advertisers love to keep us guessing with their literary creations but I need to know which direction the language of Dickens and Shakespeare is heading. Oh for the labyrinthine complexities of the English language.
There are just a couple of words and phrases from both the present day and yesteryear that leave me in a state of complete incomprehension. Sooner or later I'll get the hang of them but at the moment they seem to hover around in my head just aching for some kind of explanation. I'd love somebody to take me to one side and just give me some much needed clarification because, for the time being these words are just completely off my radar. I'm none the wiser and no more enlightened than I was before.
Let's see. There's hard Brexit and soft Brexit. Sorry I'm clueless. They sound like two obscure Dutch washing up liquid products or some fragrant Swiss cheeses that have gone stale. I've now lost count of how many times both hard and soft Brexit have been mentioned in the drawing rooms of Islington or Westminster. Do they get rid of the coffee stains on your coffee table, do they actually get rid of bacteria? Can you use them in the kitchen or bathroom when those stubborn patches of dirt in the corner refuse to be removed? Can hard and soft Brexit help you work, rest and play? Do they come in different sizes? Are they the definitive cures for the common cold? Please tell me somebody. My curiosity has now reached its highest point. I'm going spare here. I'm determined to find out.
When the year began hard and soft Brexit were just the distant dream of some very imaginative ad man or woman. I'm not sure whether anybody had given a thought to the summer European Union referendum showdown. We knew it was going to happen sooner or later but there was a part of us that privately felt confused and baffled, wishing that that day in June would come sooner rather than later. But there was no detailed and simple explanation for what we were about to receive. It may just as well have been some complex scientific paper on Quantum Physics but we didn't know whether we were coming or going. We were dithering and indecisive. Then there were those who knew where their tick would be placed. They knew that the tide of opinion and the shift in mood had become very noticeable.
And then the day arrived. Oh joy of joys. Let's celebrate, hang out the bunting, dance around the fountains of Trafalgar Square. It was the height of summer. It was the end of June and Britain, in its most handsome democratic dress, decided to LEAVE the European Union. Do you know what? I was doing handstands and somersaults in Piccadilly, or leaping over the bollards in my local shopping centre. I was simply beside myself and barely able to control the ecstasy pouring out of me. All of that inner anguish over that final decision had now been taken away on one June day in 2016.
My conscience was now clear and I was a free, liberated man. I could breath again. I could once again venture out into the sylvan fields of lovely England, striding across the bridges of London town, darting urgently into Marks and Spencer, racing at top speed into Primark and then sauntering around Selfridges because, who cares, Britain had made up her mind. She'd gone in to the ballot box and stuck an emphatic LEAVE on your paper. So that was that. Take that David Cameron. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.
She'd voted to come out of the European Union and we could all sigh with relief, go back to cleaning our car, listening to Radio 4 or just doing the kind of things that came so naturally to us like walking through Hyde Park with a cheery demeanour, whistling the latest ditty from Justin Bieber or just lying languorously on a hot summer's day on a blanket. And just thinking of England. It could hardly have been better. And yet it got worse. Of course it did because the technocrats, the street poets and the political wordsmiths got going. They had to ruin everything didn't they? You knew they would but you were never sure when or how.
But then it all got rather silly and nonsensical. In the months that followed the people who voted to leave the European Union didn't quite know to handle those who wanted Britain to stay in Europe. Whole families went to war over it. Mum, dad, daughter and son were so divided and polarised that you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.
It was personal. petty, occasionally vindictive and suddenly Britain became a very argumentative nation, a confrontational nation and a nation that seemed terribly ill at ease with itself. It all dissolved into some rather messy disagreement. A boxing referee would have thrown in the towel in Round One.
Suddenly the two camps Leave and Remain were at each other's throats, not strangling each other but battling with each other, thrashing out the pros and cons. Were we more enlightened than we were? I'm not sure we were. Here we are at the end of the year and the two warring parties are still putting their respective cases before the jury, still wrangling, squabbling and bickering for no apparent reason. There has to be some resolution. Please ladies and gentlemen. A little decorum would be most welcome. I've got the most splitting headache. It's a deafening noise. Can we please move on? We've made our decision and there's no point in analysing why, how and if. Sometimes we all need a little quiet and civility. Time to get on with the everyday business of life.
But this is not just a case of right or wrong, guilty or not guilty because the issues go much deeper than that. Where's Perry Mason when you need him? And yet it seems to carry on and on like some stirring rendition of War and Peace. There are the Hard and Soft Brexit followers. Remoaners and Bitter Brexiteers. Is this the society of gobbledygook and drivel, of just unfathomable phrases that seem designed to irritate or maybe some calculated plot to drive us completely crazy.
Every time you turn on the TV or switch on your radio it's in your face, emphatically, forcefully and aggressively at times. I'm beginning to long for the day when Hard and Soft Brexit go back into the historical archives or are just plonked into some dusty box. They really are beginning to get on my nerves. But hold on. One day they will disappear from our radios phone ins or anguished discussions on BBC's Question Time. Sooner or later we'll all break out the champagne. I'll just run up and down the streets in a state of sheer exultation. I'll run up the flag of the Union Jack or maybe more advisably St George's. Feelings are still running high.
Question Time I fear seems to be descending into some lion's den of argument and counter argument. I worry for the health of David Dimbleby. You begin to think that sooner or longer Dimbleby's white, pasty face will just crumple into some desperate frown. Brexit and the EU have, seeminly, wrecked Dimbleby's once fresh faced and pristine features. It reminded me of what happened to Jeremy Paxman on Newsnight. Poor Jeremy's face looked very pale, eyes hooded and haunted but Jeremy wasn't David Dimbleby Dimbleby looks as if he's in need of complete rest and rehabilitation on some exotic Caribbean island. Go on David treat yourself. You deserve it my friend.
Before I leave you a word or several about the Left Wing and the Right Wing. There's the Left and Right. The Far Left and The Far Right. It's all geographically and preposterously unclear. For years I've always believed that the Left and Right Wing were occupied by the likes of the great Sir Stanley Matthews, Tom Finney, the snake hips of John Barnes and Stevie Coppell, slippery, sinuous and sinewy wing wizards for England, players of craft, ingenuity and cleverness. But surely not in the stuffy corridors of the House of Commons. Surely politicians can't score goals from the half way line or maybe they can. Or perhaps they're just frustrated footballers dreaming about an FA Cup Final appearance one day.
The right wing and left wing were the exclusive province of English football. They used to be called outside rights and outside lefts but then they were simply referred to as wingers, shuffling, jinking and shimmying down the flanks before cutting inside to cross to the far post where Dixie Dean, Tommy Lawton or Bob Latchford would send their powerful headers into the net. But then we discovered that the aforesaid wingers had always been employed in the equally hectic and controversial world of politics.
There are Conservative politicians on the left and Conservative politicians on the right, Labour ministers on the left and right and not forgetting Lib Dems on the left and right. Of course there's the middle ground which seems like a rational compromise. But then UKIP members join in with their telling interventions and much to your horror you also discover that their members are situated on both the right and left. Is there some kind of political dictionary I can consult or maybe I just need to watch Question Time over and over again. Any suggestions Mr Dimbleby. I know let's have a festive mince pie or have a word with Santa Claus. On second thoughts maybe not.
What on earth is happening to the English language? Could somebody please tell me what's going on. I'm at a complete loss and would love to know why the buzzword fraternity keep tampering and tinkering with those witty words of wisdom. Now I'm all for new fads, movements and innovative slogans but I'd be so grateful if you could explain both their origin and their relevance. Advertisers love to keep us guessing with their literary creations but I need to know which direction the language of Dickens and Shakespeare is heading. Oh for the labyrinthine complexities of the English language.
There are just a couple of words and phrases from both the present day and yesteryear that leave me in a state of complete incomprehension. Sooner or later I'll get the hang of them but at the moment they seem to hover around in my head just aching for some kind of explanation. I'd love somebody to take me to one side and just give me some much needed clarification because, for the time being these words are just completely off my radar. I'm none the wiser and no more enlightened than I was before.
Let's see. There's hard Brexit and soft Brexit. Sorry I'm clueless. They sound like two obscure Dutch washing up liquid products or some fragrant Swiss cheeses that have gone stale. I've now lost count of how many times both hard and soft Brexit have been mentioned in the drawing rooms of Islington or Westminster. Do they get rid of the coffee stains on your coffee table, do they actually get rid of bacteria? Can you use them in the kitchen or bathroom when those stubborn patches of dirt in the corner refuse to be removed? Can hard and soft Brexit help you work, rest and play? Do they come in different sizes? Are they the definitive cures for the common cold? Please tell me somebody. My curiosity has now reached its highest point. I'm going spare here. I'm determined to find out.
When the year began hard and soft Brexit were just the distant dream of some very imaginative ad man or woman. I'm not sure whether anybody had given a thought to the summer European Union referendum showdown. We knew it was going to happen sooner or later but there was a part of us that privately felt confused and baffled, wishing that that day in June would come sooner rather than later. But there was no detailed and simple explanation for what we were about to receive. It may just as well have been some complex scientific paper on Quantum Physics but we didn't know whether we were coming or going. We were dithering and indecisive. Then there were those who knew where their tick would be placed. They knew that the tide of opinion and the shift in mood had become very noticeable.
And then the day arrived. Oh joy of joys. Let's celebrate, hang out the bunting, dance around the fountains of Trafalgar Square. It was the height of summer. It was the end of June and Britain, in its most handsome democratic dress, decided to LEAVE the European Union. Do you know what? I was doing handstands and somersaults in Piccadilly, or leaping over the bollards in my local shopping centre. I was simply beside myself and barely able to control the ecstasy pouring out of me. All of that inner anguish over that final decision had now been taken away on one June day in 2016.
My conscience was now clear and I was a free, liberated man. I could breath again. I could once again venture out into the sylvan fields of lovely England, striding across the bridges of London town, darting urgently into Marks and Spencer, racing at top speed into Primark and then sauntering around Selfridges because, who cares, Britain had made up her mind. She'd gone in to the ballot box and stuck an emphatic LEAVE on your paper. So that was that. Take that David Cameron. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.
She'd voted to come out of the European Union and we could all sigh with relief, go back to cleaning our car, listening to Radio 4 or just doing the kind of things that came so naturally to us like walking through Hyde Park with a cheery demeanour, whistling the latest ditty from Justin Bieber or just lying languorously on a hot summer's day on a blanket. And just thinking of England. It could hardly have been better. And yet it got worse. Of course it did because the technocrats, the street poets and the political wordsmiths got going. They had to ruin everything didn't they? You knew they would but you were never sure when or how.
But then it all got rather silly and nonsensical. In the months that followed the people who voted to leave the European Union didn't quite know to handle those who wanted Britain to stay in Europe. Whole families went to war over it. Mum, dad, daughter and son were so divided and polarised that you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.
It was personal. petty, occasionally vindictive and suddenly Britain became a very argumentative nation, a confrontational nation and a nation that seemed terribly ill at ease with itself. It all dissolved into some rather messy disagreement. A boxing referee would have thrown in the towel in Round One.
Suddenly the two camps Leave and Remain were at each other's throats, not strangling each other but battling with each other, thrashing out the pros and cons. Were we more enlightened than we were? I'm not sure we were. Here we are at the end of the year and the two warring parties are still putting their respective cases before the jury, still wrangling, squabbling and bickering for no apparent reason. There has to be some resolution. Please ladies and gentlemen. A little decorum would be most welcome. I've got the most splitting headache. It's a deafening noise. Can we please move on? We've made our decision and there's no point in analysing why, how and if. Sometimes we all need a little quiet and civility. Time to get on with the everyday business of life.
But this is not just a case of right or wrong, guilty or not guilty because the issues go much deeper than that. Where's Perry Mason when you need him? And yet it seems to carry on and on like some stirring rendition of War and Peace. There are the Hard and Soft Brexit followers. Remoaners and Bitter Brexiteers. Is this the society of gobbledygook and drivel, of just unfathomable phrases that seem designed to irritate or maybe some calculated plot to drive us completely crazy.
Every time you turn on the TV or switch on your radio it's in your face, emphatically, forcefully and aggressively at times. I'm beginning to long for the day when Hard and Soft Brexit go back into the historical archives or are just plonked into some dusty box. They really are beginning to get on my nerves. But hold on. One day they will disappear from our radios phone ins or anguished discussions on BBC's Question Time. Sooner or later we'll all break out the champagne. I'll just run up and down the streets in a state of sheer exultation. I'll run up the flag of the Union Jack or maybe more advisably St George's. Feelings are still running high.
Question Time I fear seems to be descending into some lion's den of argument and counter argument. I worry for the health of David Dimbleby. You begin to think that sooner or longer Dimbleby's white, pasty face will just crumple into some desperate frown. Brexit and the EU have, seeminly, wrecked Dimbleby's once fresh faced and pristine features. It reminded me of what happened to Jeremy Paxman on Newsnight. Poor Jeremy's face looked very pale, eyes hooded and haunted but Jeremy wasn't David Dimbleby Dimbleby looks as if he's in need of complete rest and rehabilitation on some exotic Caribbean island. Go on David treat yourself. You deserve it my friend.
Before I leave you a word or several about the Left Wing and the Right Wing. There's the Left and Right. The Far Left and The Far Right. It's all geographically and preposterously unclear. For years I've always believed that the Left and Right Wing were occupied by the likes of the great Sir Stanley Matthews, Tom Finney, the snake hips of John Barnes and Stevie Coppell, slippery, sinuous and sinewy wing wizards for England, players of craft, ingenuity and cleverness. But surely not in the stuffy corridors of the House of Commons. Surely politicians can't score goals from the half way line or maybe they can. Or perhaps they're just frustrated footballers dreaming about an FA Cup Final appearance one day.
The right wing and left wing were the exclusive province of English football. They used to be called outside rights and outside lefts but then they were simply referred to as wingers, shuffling, jinking and shimmying down the flanks before cutting inside to cross to the far post where Dixie Dean, Tommy Lawton or Bob Latchford would send their powerful headers into the net. But then we discovered that the aforesaid wingers had always been employed in the equally hectic and controversial world of politics.
There are Conservative politicians on the left and Conservative politicians on the right, Labour ministers on the left and right and not forgetting Lib Dems on the left and right. Of course there's the middle ground which seems like a rational compromise. But then UKIP members join in with their telling interventions and much to your horror you also discover that their members are situated on both the right and left. Is there some kind of political dictionary I can consult or maybe I just need to watch Question Time over and over again. Any suggestions Mr Dimbleby. I know let's have a festive mince pie or have a word with Santa Claus. On second thoughts maybe not.
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