At times like this- how I wished I'd taken more interest in cricket, tennis, rugby union or anything but football.
There are times when I wished I'd taken a more active interest in other sports. After the Gooners thrashing of the Hammers at the London Stadium all I wanted to do was lock myself in a dark room, weep uncontrollably, eat several bars of Bournville chocolate, drink a couple of bottles of Beaujolais and just drown my sorrows in a veritable brewery of beer.
Hold on Joe! You don't mean that. Football is just a game, a mere weekend diversion, an abiding interest. And yet it's painful, excruciatingly painful, deeply uncomfortable and awkward. I know the football season in England lasts for only nine months but this is just a cruel punishment, a terrible imposition. I mean there must be more pleasurable hobbies than supporting a football team who regularly underachieve, always leave you on anxious tenterhooks and do nothing for your heart. It's damaging to the health and should be stopped right now.
But, tell the truth I wouldn't have it any other way. When you support West Ham United and all of the emotional investment that that entails you do become very conditioned to permanent failure. Last season West Ham finished a commendable seventh in the Premier League and for those of a cynical disposition it must have felt that it could never ever happen again. But it happened and upon reflection that last season at Upton Park was rather like a supernatural occurrence.
When the whistle went for that famous last game against Manchester United last season it almost felt like some romantic film or some memorable social event. It was almost like that moment in Sleepless in Seattle when Tom Hanks meets Meg Ryan for the first time. It just felt like the right moment and the right time.
Now of course roll forward to December 2016 and everything has just gone disastrously wrong for West Ham as perhaps we feared it might. Maybe I should have had a premonition that things would just hit the buffers, go haywire and just crumble around our ears. There were times during the late 1970s and early 80s when every week was a major crisis at Upton Park. Towards the end of that first relegation to the old Second Division in 1978 you somehow knew that it would all end in tears. Defeats for West Ham were an almost a regular occurrence and when relegation was confirmed you could almost smell that impending sense of gloom.
They were counter balanced by the wins at Upton Park which were great fun to watch but torturous all the same because you would never know when they would come. But here am I back in the present moment and wondering whether West Ham will ever get it right. Or maybe they'll never find that winning formula again, maybe the chemistry is wrong, the structure isn't right, the manager Slaven Bilic isn't quite what West Ham had in mind. Maybe it's something they put in their tea.
Do you know something? There are times when I feel sorely tempted to follow a rugby union or league team, maybe follow tennis, cricket on a more frequent basis. Why I ask myself, do I have to put myself through this anguish, this trauma, this dreadful sinking of the heart. I should be used to it by now but such is the nature of things that you can never truly find the reasons for it all. There has to be a psychological explanation for the Hammers yearly battle against the odds.
And then you find yourself yearning for a sport that doesn't involve first halves, half time and full time because they're just nerve shredding. Why set yourself up for a fall and then find yourself pleasantly surprised when you do win? Why did I stand on freezing November terraces in the South Bank at West Ham, stamping my feet and then just praying for the final whistle because the Hammers had been so awful. I must have been a masochist or perhaps there was just a small part of me that hoped that because the BBC or London Weekend TV cameras were there that might be the right omen.
But oh no. All around me loyal and hardened Hammers spilled out the grievances, Here we had abuse, offensive language, full throated obscenities and deep dissatisfaction. Burgers and cups of Bovril were launched onto the pitch like heat seeking missiles. West Ham had lost once again when they should have won convincingly and here was I a victim of circumstances. I just couldn't do it again and yet I could because of the atmosphere, the vocal crowds, the horses outside Upton Park, the programme sellers devoted to their cause, the peanut sellers with their regular bags of peanuts, the terrace wisdom, the lively banter, the cheeky comments but above all I loved their unwavering support and I had to go back. Every fortnight. Without fail.
Then the Upton Park floodlights flickered on at half time almost reluctantly and season ticket holders on the South Bank would light up a thousand cigarettes. You breathed out the cold air of a late November afternoon and plumes of smoke would drift into the air almost casually. When the defeats became too much I could have decided to call it a day and never set foot inside Upton Park again and yet the tug of loyalty was still there. How could I desert my football team for the ruck, maul and line out of rugby, the wonderful ebb and flow of tennis or the peacefully sedate world of cricket. There was hockey or lacrosse perhaps. Maybe boxing but that was just violent and brutal. Maybe cliff diving, motor sport, darts, snooker, bowls, sk-ing. There had to be a logical alternative to all of that nervous tension, the constant nail biting, the teeth chattering, the checking of watches, that numbing sensation you get when the final whistle goes and the Hammers have lost again. Why do I do this to myself? I know why I do this. It's that sense of belonging, that allegiance to something special, that sentimental attachment to my football team and just Blowing Bubbles that nearly reach the sky.
In many ways it is rather like watching a medieval execution. Here are the huge crowds baying for blood, hurling contempt at the referee, all fired up venom, bile and vitriol. And then the game is over and you look around you and find that the world is still there. Life goes on, the shops are still open, the buses and trains still running. There is though, a sharp intake of breath and the slow realisation that once again all of those delusional hopes have gone by the wayside, like a puff of smoke. You flick through the claret and blue programme and convince yourself that maybe West Ham will win again at Upton Park, It's just that you don't know when or how. The uncertainty in a sense maybe good for your soul.
Now after 40 years of sheer bloody minded endurance and soul searching I still follow my team both on the radio and the highlights on Match of the Day. Not because I have to but because deep inside me there is some ridiculous compulsion to support your team come hell or high water. It's part of who you are because when you were a kid you woke up one day and you had to follow your football team because Uncle Pete did or it was a family attachment. Of course that was the reason why? It ran in the family, it was genetic, deeply embedded in your soul. That's it. You just supported your team because it felt good and you were persuaded into thinking that your team would always win Cups and Leagues. Every week, month and decade.
But I have to say that right now it doesn't feel that way. West Ham are a point above the relegation zone in the Premier League. I wonder what would happen if I did start watching more cricket and tennis to the total exclusion of everything else? I could tell myself that football is a wretched and abominable sport. I could just nip off to Saracens or London Irish and thrill to the sight of beefy prop forwards thundering into rucks, stampeding across the pitch and flinging the ball about with an almost instinctive telepathy. Rugby may be tough, rough and very physical at times but hey I could get used to that.
Then I could follow the recently crowned No 1 Andy Murray, Rafal Nadal or Roger Federer or any of those up and coming stars of the tennis court. Tennis is just inherently skilful, artistic on frequent occasions, fluent, flowing and seemingly continuous. Tennis seems to go on for days, weeks and months. Sets can last for ever. Tennis players have almost inexhaustible reserves of energy. Where do they get it from? Tennis is about outwitting your opponent, stretching your opponent to the point of no return, both mentally and physically uplifting. So why not tennis? There's always Wimbledon at the height of summer. But then I'd probably miss the winter pursuit, West Ham against Chelsea or Manchester City and United and wonder where the Hammers were in the Premier League.
What about cricket? Well I used to love watching cricket when the BBC had the rights to the Test matches. Cricket had a definite appeal. Cricket had and still has an immaculate dress sense, it had both skill and strategy, an intriguing mystique, a game that gradually unfolded like the first tulips of spring and then built up to an electrifying climax when there were run chases to be had and batsmen going hell for leather.
On second thoughts I'll stick to football. It can do no harm at all. And besides when it comes to supporting West Ham there is something very exhilarating about a relegation battle that is somehow indefinable. Without knowing it maybe it is doing me the world of good. Now where did I leave that claret and blue scarf? Oh, it's over there.
Monday, 5 December 2016
Saturday, 3 December 2016
Don't you love this time of the year- the telly adverts
Don't you love this time of the year- the telly adverts.
Hey don't you love this time of the year? We're now a couple of weeks away from that big festival where everybody gets wonderfully drunk, eats to bursting point and then regrets it all on New Year's Day. It's almost Christmas and the goose may be getting fat. The invitations have been sent out to distant uncles, aunties and cousins who you never see at all apart from Christmas and there is a a kind of warm anticipation of the imminent festivities.
But year after year. you can almost put your mortgage on it. Mum begins to dread the whole rigmarole of buying the turkey in September. Sorry that's a complete exaggeration. I meant August or maybe the middle of June because as we know the winter sales in London begin on a balmy day in June when the hyacinths, roses and begonias are in full bloom. But here we are in December and, it is, admittedly exciting.
In the middle of Trafalgar Square the yearly Christmas tree is here, towering into the early evening night sky with a considerable amount of pride. The tree comes from Norway which is full of pine forests and is renowned for its Christmas trees. Or maybe there aren't any pine forests in Norway and it's just an urban myth, Suffice it to say that the tree is a gift from the Norwegians after the War and we shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.
I would imagine that the roast chestnut brazier outside the British Museum will once again park itself outside the museum, one of the many traditional constants in Britain. Tourists love the roast chestnuts because they believe, quite rightly, that Britain does Christmas with a certain amount of flair.
The Christmas decorations are now up in Regent Street and they do look impressive and visually satisfying. Years ago the decorations were, quite frankly pathetic and hardly visible. But this year London has pushed the boat out. There is a vivid and spectacular brightness about the stars draped across Regent Street. I've always been fascinated by Regent Street because there is something charmingly old fashioned and antiquated about it. And when the Christmas lights go on you feel that privately even Hamley's toy shop jumps for joy, a welcoming smile on its face.
Then shortly Oxford Street switch on the lights and we all get very jolly, festive and ho- ho- ho because that's what we've always done since time immemorial. The office party season is well under way, the dancing gets a bit too personal at times and the filing cabinets are alive with the sound of kissing under the mistletoe. Then everybody drinks mulled wine by the gallon accompanied with several shots of Jack Daniels whisky, a hundred cans of Foster's lager and then embarrassingly strangle the life out of Slade's 'Here it is Merry Christmas' Or maybe not.
It is a time of unashamed celebration and rejoicing, for thinking back over the year and trying to put all of the year into some kind of sober perspective. We all reflect on the news of the year before flopping languidly back into our sofas and armchairs with a silly paper hat on our head. We then slump in front of the telly, slowly digesting the superabundance of food we've just consumed and gradually nodding off in front of a Bond film we must have seen a million times if not 999,999 times before. You know the one. The one where Roger Moore goes ski-ing surrounded by some of the most beautiful mountains in the world. And that's just the opening credits.
Then Uncle Sid and Aunt Maggie start snoring, the children complain about their presents because the batteries only lasted five minutes and they're desperately bored. Too much consumerism and materialism I hear you cry. You're right. Shortly after the War and the 1950s our parents told us that because of severe rationing we had to be content with an orange or a pencil. Britain had to be grateful for small mercies so the kids were gently reprimanded with a sharp ticking off.
There is a wonderful laziness and lethargy about Christmas. The roads and streets are silenced, the cars turn off their engines and everybody gets very cosy and sentimental. Nobody over exerts themselves because most of the shops and department stores are shut for at least six months. Or maybe five. It's hard to tell. Oh what a wit I'm not. After several hundred helpings of turkeys, roast potatoes and brussel sprouts we then move onto the thousand boxes of chocolates, mince pies, chocolate biscuits. Truly Christmas is the only time when we stuff ourselves silly and then pretend that nothing happened.
But it's that period before Christmas that tickles my funny bone. On the commercial ITV, some of our most reputable advertisers subject the nation to an incessant bombardment of soppy adverts and outlandish Christmas campaigns. You can almost set your clock by it. Every year it's the same old thing, the same palaver, the same old warm, glowingly effusive Christmas messages from our friendly supermarkets or department stores.
Before their sad departure from the high streets, Woolworth's or Woolies would embrace the whole of Britain with their perennial slogan. That's the Wonder of Woolies was Woolworth's lovely old jingle and the whole package would come with skipping children, parents with red coats and scarves and then Santa Claus in that conventional dress of red coat and big white beard.
Woolworth's was always the housewives favourites. How we sung along to that tuneful refrain, whistling along the road because everybody knew Christmas was just around the corner. Then Santa hid discreetly behind the wardrobe ready to leap out on that auspicious day. But Woolies kept giving with those gold boxes tied with ribbons and if the children woke up bright and early, they'd wake up to find a gigantic stack of presents. Woolworth's gave us the pick and mix combination of sweets, broken biscuits and a modest record department. At Christmas though all the cliches came tumbling indiscriminately out of the cupboard. We all felt that Woolworth's was the finest shop in the world and we were right to think so.
Then there was that brilliant Coca Cola advert. Now that was the stylish Christmas telly campaign. It seems an odds on favourite to win any prestigious advertising award. What an advert. It's a real gem. If any advert accurately encapsulated the spirit of Christmas then Coca Cola certainly is it. From that gleaming red lorry to the brightly glowing Coca Cola sign, this is the one of the most formidable of all advertisements ever to hit our TV screens.
Every Christmas a huge, lumbering lorry wound its way round the neighbourhoods and streets of Britain determined to promote its flagship product. Coca Cola represented the most teasing of all temptations, the guiltiest of pleasures. It was stupendously sweet, a sugar rush from paradise and then a marvellously refreshing drink on a hot summer's day. But although we'd never admit it we knew that Coca Cola was bad for you and your teeth. So although you fell for the excessive Christmas hype you knew that Coca Cola would rot your teeth. What a horrible revelation.
Then there were the procession of adverts for whisky, Cockburns whisky as promoted by some Russian submarine commander, blandishments for brandy, boxes of Celebrations chocolates, chunky turkeys, Christmas plum pudding with a flame, families gathering under box laden Christmas trees and the children pulling crackers. Then we all sing Christmas carols around the piano, sit around the dining room table before indulging in the familiar board games of Monopoly and Scrabble.
So there you have it. It's almost Christmas and not forgetting Chanukah because we love Chanukah. This year Chanukah coincides with the Christmas Eve. We should wrap them both up and bottle them for posterity. Have a good one everybody.
Incidentally does anybody know of a children's book publishers who don't cost a penny for publishing and printing, Enjoy your weekend everybody.
Hey don't you love this time of the year? We're now a couple of weeks away from that big festival where everybody gets wonderfully drunk, eats to bursting point and then regrets it all on New Year's Day. It's almost Christmas and the goose may be getting fat. The invitations have been sent out to distant uncles, aunties and cousins who you never see at all apart from Christmas and there is a a kind of warm anticipation of the imminent festivities.
But year after year. you can almost put your mortgage on it. Mum begins to dread the whole rigmarole of buying the turkey in September. Sorry that's a complete exaggeration. I meant August or maybe the middle of June because as we know the winter sales in London begin on a balmy day in June when the hyacinths, roses and begonias are in full bloom. But here we are in December and, it is, admittedly exciting.
In the middle of Trafalgar Square the yearly Christmas tree is here, towering into the early evening night sky with a considerable amount of pride. The tree comes from Norway which is full of pine forests and is renowned for its Christmas trees. Or maybe there aren't any pine forests in Norway and it's just an urban myth, Suffice it to say that the tree is a gift from the Norwegians after the War and we shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.
I would imagine that the roast chestnut brazier outside the British Museum will once again park itself outside the museum, one of the many traditional constants in Britain. Tourists love the roast chestnuts because they believe, quite rightly, that Britain does Christmas with a certain amount of flair.
The Christmas decorations are now up in Regent Street and they do look impressive and visually satisfying. Years ago the decorations were, quite frankly pathetic and hardly visible. But this year London has pushed the boat out. There is a vivid and spectacular brightness about the stars draped across Regent Street. I've always been fascinated by Regent Street because there is something charmingly old fashioned and antiquated about it. And when the Christmas lights go on you feel that privately even Hamley's toy shop jumps for joy, a welcoming smile on its face.
Then shortly Oxford Street switch on the lights and we all get very jolly, festive and ho- ho- ho because that's what we've always done since time immemorial. The office party season is well under way, the dancing gets a bit too personal at times and the filing cabinets are alive with the sound of kissing under the mistletoe. Then everybody drinks mulled wine by the gallon accompanied with several shots of Jack Daniels whisky, a hundred cans of Foster's lager and then embarrassingly strangle the life out of Slade's 'Here it is Merry Christmas' Or maybe not.
It is a time of unashamed celebration and rejoicing, for thinking back over the year and trying to put all of the year into some kind of sober perspective. We all reflect on the news of the year before flopping languidly back into our sofas and armchairs with a silly paper hat on our head. We then slump in front of the telly, slowly digesting the superabundance of food we've just consumed and gradually nodding off in front of a Bond film we must have seen a million times if not 999,999 times before. You know the one. The one where Roger Moore goes ski-ing surrounded by some of the most beautiful mountains in the world. And that's just the opening credits.
Then Uncle Sid and Aunt Maggie start snoring, the children complain about their presents because the batteries only lasted five minutes and they're desperately bored. Too much consumerism and materialism I hear you cry. You're right. Shortly after the War and the 1950s our parents told us that because of severe rationing we had to be content with an orange or a pencil. Britain had to be grateful for small mercies so the kids were gently reprimanded with a sharp ticking off.
There is a wonderful laziness and lethargy about Christmas. The roads and streets are silenced, the cars turn off their engines and everybody gets very cosy and sentimental. Nobody over exerts themselves because most of the shops and department stores are shut for at least six months. Or maybe five. It's hard to tell. Oh what a wit I'm not. After several hundred helpings of turkeys, roast potatoes and brussel sprouts we then move onto the thousand boxes of chocolates, mince pies, chocolate biscuits. Truly Christmas is the only time when we stuff ourselves silly and then pretend that nothing happened.
But it's that period before Christmas that tickles my funny bone. On the commercial ITV, some of our most reputable advertisers subject the nation to an incessant bombardment of soppy adverts and outlandish Christmas campaigns. You can almost set your clock by it. Every year it's the same old thing, the same palaver, the same old warm, glowingly effusive Christmas messages from our friendly supermarkets or department stores.
Before their sad departure from the high streets, Woolworth's or Woolies would embrace the whole of Britain with their perennial slogan. That's the Wonder of Woolies was Woolworth's lovely old jingle and the whole package would come with skipping children, parents with red coats and scarves and then Santa Claus in that conventional dress of red coat and big white beard.
Woolworth's was always the housewives favourites. How we sung along to that tuneful refrain, whistling along the road because everybody knew Christmas was just around the corner. Then Santa hid discreetly behind the wardrobe ready to leap out on that auspicious day. But Woolies kept giving with those gold boxes tied with ribbons and if the children woke up bright and early, they'd wake up to find a gigantic stack of presents. Woolworth's gave us the pick and mix combination of sweets, broken biscuits and a modest record department. At Christmas though all the cliches came tumbling indiscriminately out of the cupboard. We all felt that Woolworth's was the finest shop in the world and we were right to think so.
Then there was that brilliant Coca Cola advert. Now that was the stylish Christmas telly campaign. It seems an odds on favourite to win any prestigious advertising award. What an advert. It's a real gem. If any advert accurately encapsulated the spirit of Christmas then Coca Cola certainly is it. From that gleaming red lorry to the brightly glowing Coca Cola sign, this is the one of the most formidable of all advertisements ever to hit our TV screens.
Every Christmas a huge, lumbering lorry wound its way round the neighbourhoods and streets of Britain determined to promote its flagship product. Coca Cola represented the most teasing of all temptations, the guiltiest of pleasures. It was stupendously sweet, a sugar rush from paradise and then a marvellously refreshing drink on a hot summer's day. But although we'd never admit it we knew that Coca Cola was bad for you and your teeth. So although you fell for the excessive Christmas hype you knew that Coca Cola would rot your teeth. What a horrible revelation.
Then there were the procession of adverts for whisky, Cockburns whisky as promoted by some Russian submarine commander, blandishments for brandy, boxes of Celebrations chocolates, chunky turkeys, Christmas plum pudding with a flame, families gathering under box laden Christmas trees and the children pulling crackers. Then we all sing Christmas carols around the piano, sit around the dining room table before indulging in the familiar board games of Monopoly and Scrabble.
So there you have it. It's almost Christmas and not forgetting Chanukah because we love Chanukah. This year Chanukah coincides with the Christmas Eve. We should wrap them both up and bottle them for posterity. Have a good one everybody.
Incidentally does anybody know of a children's book publishers who don't cost a penny for publishing and printing, Enjoy your weekend everybody.
Thursday, 1 December 2016
My second book No Joe Bloggs- the You Tube video
No Joe Bloggs- my story- the You Tube video
I wonder if I could point you in the direction of my second book No Joe Bloggs. Last year a friend of mine made a You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs. It is, I think, a very honest and moving video where I tell, from the heart, all of the events from my past. I may be biased but I think No Joe Bloggs is a warmly nostalgic, funny and lyrical book and in my You Tube video you'll hear my detailed account of my childhood, those difficult years of shyness and immaturity but in contrast the happier, funnier and more light hearted years when I finally discovered that I could deal with my autism. I would heartily recommend my You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs because I think it's an honest and heartfelt explanation of my triumph over adversity and the way I dealt with that quiet and reserved personality.
My You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs is I think very thought provoking and sentimental and although not a laugh out loud video you may like to listen to the thoughts of a very humble and grateful man. I think you might like to listen to it and if you do watch the video I'd be extremely appreciative.
Thankyou
Joe Morris
I wonder if I could point you in the direction of my second book No Joe Bloggs. Last year a friend of mine made a You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs. It is, I think, a very honest and moving video where I tell, from the heart, all of the events from my past. I may be biased but I think No Joe Bloggs is a warmly nostalgic, funny and lyrical book and in my You Tube video you'll hear my detailed account of my childhood, those difficult years of shyness and immaturity but in contrast the happier, funnier and more light hearted years when I finally discovered that I could deal with my autism. I would heartily recommend my You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs because I think it's an honest and heartfelt explanation of my triumph over adversity and the way I dealt with that quiet and reserved personality.
My You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs is I think very thought provoking and sentimental and although not a laugh out loud video you may like to listen to the thoughts of a very humble and grateful man. I think you might like to listen to it and if you do watch the video I'd be extremely appreciative.
Thankyou
Joe Morris
Wednesday, 30 November 2016
Brad Pitt- Allied and the Second World War.
Allied- a Second World War movie with Brad Pitt and a bittersweet ending.
Let's face it. The Second World War left the world in such a dreadful state that every Hollywood film ever made since 1945 may seem just a loose distortion of the facts and figures. We know what happened in the end of course. The Nazis were trampled, crushed, humiliated, broken in half, gleefully beaten into the ground and then just destroyed. Adolf, you didn't stand a chance mate. You were fighting a losing battle from the moment you invaded Poland. Of course you wanted to wipe out the whole universe and you were a megalomaniac and psychopath. But come on Hitler you were never likely to win and history will tell us that you were, quite literally kidding yourself even if you thought you had us on the run.
The Second World War was one of the most tragic, heartbreaking, horrendous and harrowing events of the 20th century. It left us with a sense of guilt, resentment, betrayal, loss, grief, permanent damage, seemingly irreparable destruction, blood and most gruesomely, death. Families were cut in half, millions of men lost their life in the horrid glare of bombs and bullets, blown to smithereens on the battlefields of Europe and the rest of the world. But we fought back valiantly and we made sure that the Second World War would never happen again. We had guts and tenacity and Hitler ended up pointing a gun at his head, surrendering meekly and killing himself. Now that's a victory.
It brought ugly carnage and mayhem, burning buildings, houses, factories, ruined lives and the charred ruins of once thriving communities. War just left us demoralised, devastated, hurt, injured and bleeding. It wiped out a generation and generations after that. But it did wonders for our morale and powers of resilience because Hitler we just battled back and roared back to something like normality again. So here we are in the throes of the 21st century. Just to prove that you hadn't won anything.
We're fitter, healthier and stronger and happier than we've ever been. Of course wars have followed since the Second World War but you couldn't break our spirit or scare us because we were better than that Adolf. We've got harmony, peace and sanity. You can't take that away from us Hitler because the class of 2016 will stick two fingers up at you and remember you as one of the maddest genocidal lunatics ever to draw breath.
Right, that's got that off my chest. This evening my wife and I went to see the new Brad Pitt movie Allied. Allied was of course a Second World War story and as you've probably gathered, war, I think is utterly avoidable, unnecessary, counter productive and deeply contemptible. Now you could call me some crusading pacifist and maybe I am whistling in the wind. Of course war doesn't solve anything and never will. Millions of lives have been lost in the bloodiest of all wars so there can be no logic and commonsense in killing poor innocent babies and children, blowing up houses or just murder on the most brutal scale.
So here's the story. Allied, starring that ever smouldering American heart throb Brad Pitt, is a powerfully told story set during the Second World War and featuring all of the relevant and inevitable narratives. Allied had stunning photography, brilliant cinematic production values, unforgettable scenery and a highly dramatic conclusion.
Now I have to tell you I've never been keen on war films. All of that blood, gore, death and heartache does nothing for me. In fact by the end I found myself wondering why I'd set eyes on it at all. But there was a raw earthiness about Allied that was both thought provoking, intelligently delivered and gripping. By the end of the film I was on the point of tears but then remembered that it was just a film , a simple piece of escapism, just harmless make believe and yet it might have happened and that was disturbing.
Max ( Brad Pitt) meets and falls in love with Marianne (Marion Cotillard), set against a backdrop of wonderfully designed sets and countries that look joyously picturesque. Both Max and Marianne are though somehow destined to meet tragedy head on. It was a love that foundered on the rocks of the French resistance, secrecy and betrayal. It was hard to know where our emotions were going. You were somehow drawn into the story's fluctuating fortunes and roller coaster emotions. One minute there was the triumph of love and the next you felt as if you were on some fairground ride and didn't know how to react.
And so for the scenery that provides Allied with its central focus. The film begins in a desert with Pitt emerging from the sand rather like Lawrence of Arabia. Then we're taken on a breathless adventure, racing backwards and forwards through the hot, dusty streets of Casablanca and then hurtling through more back streets before eventually ending up in the soulful and salubrious surroundings of Hampstead. Hampstead is leafy, slightly rural and very posh. Hampstead seems the most unlikely setting for a Second World War film but it does work. Hampstead has got big, wealthy houses, cafes with an upper class air about them and of course a lovely Heath. Hampstead is undeniably classy and may always be.
So it is that Allied gives us outrageous flirtation, a wild, whirlwind romance, beating, throbbing hearts, passion at its most tempestuous. Max and Marianne settle down after the War but then all the secrets come tumbling out of the cupboard and you'll have to see Allied because it is very gripping and explosive, action packed and full of those very human feelings that make most of us tick. It is about a relationship that may leave you sighing and a cast of characters that will either tug on your heartstrings or boo at because they just deserve to be booed. Remember my reference to Nazis at the beginning of this piece. Well, needless to say, they lose quite embarrassingly. I'd recommend Allied because it's a well made film and remarkably accurate. Get your popcorn now. You'll like it.
Let's face it. The Second World War left the world in such a dreadful state that every Hollywood film ever made since 1945 may seem just a loose distortion of the facts and figures. We know what happened in the end of course. The Nazis were trampled, crushed, humiliated, broken in half, gleefully beaten into the ground and then just destroyed. Adolf, you didn't stand a chance mate. You were fighting a losing battle from the moment you invaded Poland. Of course you wanted to wipe out the whole universe and you were a megalomaniac and psychopath. But come on Hitler you were never likely to win and history will tell us that you were, quite literally kidding yourself even if you thought you had us on the run.
The Second World War was one of the most tragic, heartbreaking, horrendous and harrowing events of the 20th century. It left us with a sense of guilt, resentment, betrayal, loss, grief, permanent damage, seemingly irreparable destruction, blood and most gruesomely, death. Families were cut in half, millions of men lost their life in the horrid glare of bombs and bullets, blown to smithereens on the battlefields of Europe and the rest of the world. But we fought back valiantly and we made sure that the Second World War would never happen again. We had guts and tenacity and Hitler ended up pointing a gun at his head, surrendering meekly and killing himself. Now that's a victory.
It brought ugly carnage and mayhem, burning buildings, houses, factories, ruined lives and the charred ruins of once thriving communities. War just left us demoralised, devastated, hurt, injured and bleeding. It wiped out a generation and generations after that. But it did wonders for our morale and powers of resilience because Hitler we just battled back and roared back to something like normality again. So here we are in the throes of the 21st century. Just to prove that you hadn't won anything.
We're fitter, healthier and stronger and happier than we've ever been. Of course wars have followed since the Second World War but you couldn't break our spirit or scare us because we were better than that Adolf. We've got harmony, peace and sanity. You can't take that away from us Hitler because the class of 2016 will stick two fingers up at you and remember you as one of the maddest genocidal lunatics ever to draw breath.
Right, that's got that off my chest. This evening my wife and I went to see the new Brad Pitt movie Allied. Allied was of course a Second World War story and as you've probably gathered, war, I think is utterly avoidable, unnecessary, counter productive and deeply contemptible. Now you could call me some crusading pacifist and maybe I am whistling in the wind. Of course war doesn't solve anything and never will. Millions of lives have been lost in the bloodiest of all wars so there can be no logic and commonsense in killing poor innocent babies and children, blowing up houses or just murder on the most brutal scale.
So here's the story. Allied, starring that ever smouldering American heart throb Brad Pitt, is a powerfully told story set during the Second World War and featuring all of the relevant and inevitable narratives. Allied had stunning photography, brilliant cinematic production values, unforgettable scenery and a highly dramatic conclusion.
Now I have to tell you I've never been keen on war films. All of that blood, gore, death and heartache does nothing for me. In fact by the end I found myself wondering why I'd set eyes on it at all. But there was a raw earthiness about Allied that was both thought provoking, intelligently delivered and gripping. By the end of the film I was on the point of tears but then remembered that it was just a film , a simple piece of escapism, just harmless make believe and yet it might have happened and that was disturbing.
Max ( Brad Pitt) meets and falls in love with Marianne (Marion Cotillard), set against a backdrop of wonderfully designed sets and countries that look joyously picturesque. Both Max and Marianne are though somehow destined to meet tragedy head on. It was a love that foundered on the rocks of the French resistance, secrecy and betrayal. It was hard to know where our emotions were going. You were somehow drawn into the story's fluctuating fortunes and roller coaster emotions. One minute there was the triumph of love and the next you felt as if you were on some fairground ride and didn't know how to react.
And so for the scenery that provides Allied with its central focus. The film begins in a desert with Pitt emerging from the sand rather like Lawrence of Arabia. Then we're taken on a breathless adventure, racing backwards and forwards through the hot, dusty streets of Casablanca and then hurtling through more back streets before eventually ending up in the soulful and salubrious surroundings of Hampstead. Hampstead is leafy, slightly rural and very posh. Hampstead seems the most unlikely setting for a Second World War film but it does work. Hampstead has got big, wealthy houses, cafes with an upper class air about them and of course a lovely Heath. Hampstead is undeniably classy and may always be.
So it is that Allied gives us outrageous flirtation, a wild, whirlwind romance, beating, throbbing hearts, passion at its most tempestuous. Max and Marianne settle down after the War but then all the secrets come tumbling out of the cupboard and you'll have to see Allied because it is very gripping and explosive, action packed and full of those very human feelings that make most of us tick. It is about a relationship that may leave you sighing and a cast of characters that will either tug on your heartstrings or boo at because they just deserve to be booed. Remember my reference to Nazis at the beginning of this piece. Well, needless to say, they lose quite embarrassingly. I'd recommend Allied because it's a well made film and remarkably accurate. Get your popcorn now. You'll like it.
Monday, 28 November 2016
Sir David Attenborough- a broadcasting legend
Sir David Attenborough- a broadcasting legend.
Clever chap that David Attenborough. In fact the man is a genius, a wonderfully informative man, worldly, exceptionallly well read, erudite and a thoroughly nice man. You must have seen him or heard him. He's been on our TV for the best part of 60 years now so you couldn't have missed him or maybe you have and wished you had seen him. There are very few of us who haven't seen at least one or two, maybe dozens of his supremely brilliant and masterful nature programmes over the years.
How can any of us have failed to wonder at the sheer breadth of knowledge of the man? If he had been on our supper quiz table I'd have been the happiest man in the world. I'd have shaken the hands of the people who organised the supper quiz and just revelled in the moment. We'd have won that supper quiz in the blink of an eye. It would have been won convincingly by half time and we'd have done a lap of an honour around the tables, boasting about our expertise and showing off our trophy.
Last night though, my wife and I sat down to watch the latest instalment of the David Attenborough series. It has to be said it was a masterpiece. I'd even go as far as saying that it has to be one of the best TV programmes of all time, maybe the best for quite some time. You'd have to a long way to find a programme so compelling, so stunningly photographed and so visually entrancing. In fact I'm not sure that anything beats it, matches it or surpasses it. I was glued to the screen, transfixed and at times almost totally absorbed by the sheer quality of the programme.
Planet Earth 2 takes us on a wonderful tour of the world, the dreamily diverse continents, landscapes, vast geographical distances and heaven sent perspectives. It also explores those lovely animals who inhabit those lands, who prowl, swoop, hunt, forage for food and then, for reasons that seem quite inexplicable to the human eye, try to rip each other to pieces.
Back in the late 1970s, Attenborough and his merry band of women and men took their cameras to what seemed the most inhospitable of all jungles. Here he found some of the most adorable gorillas ever to walk the planet. Suddenly he was among his new found friends, rolling around with them quite amiably and then discovering that gorillas, apart from dogs, could also be man's best friend. For the best part of a couple of minutes, the camera showed Attenborough smiling and playing and generally forming what looked like the most moving of all relationships.
In Planet Earth 2 Attenborough once again captured the moods, mannerisms, and the sheer volatility of our planet. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe we're not the only people who kill, injure and generally create all kinds of mayhem. It was explosive, violently aggressive and, to be honest just a bit frightening and disconcerting. Those animals can certainly pack a punch. You began to wonder why any of us should resort to such barbaric methods just for a bit of decent grub. Why do we challenge each other to fight when we can't get our own way. Do we have to go to war and fight each other to the point of death just because we're hungry?
Planet Earth gave us everything. It gave us blood, guts, horror, violence, conflict and distressing savagery. And that was only last night's edition. Can you imagine what it's like when desperation sets in and the animals get restless and agitated? It was all very unsavoury, hard to believe at times and hardly possible. When starvation kicks in and the going gets tough it is, quite literally, the survival of the fittest.
In last week's episode we had those memorable grizzly bears scratching themselves quite blissfully against trees and then scratching even more hilariously when they thought there was a BBC camera on them. There was that great clashing of the male and female eagle who quite clearly seemed intent on murdering each other. And what about those cute black crows behind the eagles behaving so provocatively and spitefully that it was like watching children winding each other up most deliberately.
In one of the final sequences last week there was TV gold at its most classical and sparkling. Suddenly a group of wonderfully disciplined flamingos started marching, strutting and swaggering forward rather like a well drilled army. It was hilarious, stupendously funny and has to be seen over and over again. Long thin legs quickly scurried along at a fair old speed and in perfect formation. I, for one, would watch it on I Player repeatedly just to make sure that I hadn't imagined it.
Last night did not disappoint. I thought I'd seen everything. But I hadn't. There were wild horses lashing out with their legs, kicking furiously and then thrashing each other brutally when they thought their enemies hadn't suffered enough punishment. There were the zebras clomping menacingly through arid desert lands, eyes piercing and forever watchful. There were the lazy, languid elephants who always seem to do things at their pace, large feet and bodies plodding along at a most leisurely trot. It almost looked as if they didn't care where they were going or their intended destination. As long as they got to where they were going.
Then there were the cute squirrels who seemed to do nothing but hide nervously behind rocks and then try to camouflage themselves when they felt threatened. It was nature at its most intriguing, revealing, secretive and yet very purposeful. Yes there was a definite sense that once animals make up their minds to do something they'll stop at nothing to do it. I kept hoping that Planet Earth 2 would continue for days, weeks and months unremittingly. On second thoughts maybe not. You do have to go to sleep after all but it was a shame that it couldn't have gone on for much longer than it did.
Finally there was another high- light last night. The BBC cameramen were determined to get their special and precious moment. They cleared the decks, lay in wait and pounced decisively when they'd found what they were looking.Cut, Action and Camera. The Beeb had got their prey. It was all very painstaking but worth its weight in gold. You had to see it to believe it, It was quite the most amazing spectacle.
Huge swarms of locusts came from all directions and I mean all directions. Suddenly it was rather like watching a vast black curtain unfolding in front of your eyes. It was like a thick blanket flapping across the skyline, Here they came, thousands and thousands of locusts seemed to be flying over endless acres of deserts, following each other devotedly and quite harmoniously. There was no needle or aggro, bitterness or bad feeling. Just locusts and more locusts. They seemed to be addicted to the thrill of the flight. In the end one victorious BBC camereaman started waving his hands at the locusts trying, it seemed to round them up like naughty nursery schoolchildren.
By the end of Planet Earth 2 my wife and I were almost thrilled at what we'd just seen, euphoric perhaps and possibly privileged to have seen what we'd seen. This was the most definitive nature programme, We turned to each other and gazed at each other with astonishment. Planet 2 Earth has to be one of the most original and thought provoking TV programmes of all time. In fact I think it deserves to win all of the awards at every TV awards ceremony. No programme ticked all of the right boxes, no programme made you think deeply about the things that the human race does to both itself and each other. But then you thought about those grizzly bears and flamingos and you had to laugh -over and over again. It was TV doing at its most spellbinding. And that can be no bad thing.
Clever chap that David Attenborough. In fact the man is a genius, a wonderfully informative man, worldly, exceptionallly well read, erudite and a thoroughly nice man. You must have seen him or heard him. He's been on our TV for the best part of 60 years now so you couldn't have missed him or maybe you have and wished you had seen him. There are very few of us who haven't seen at least one or two, maybe dozens of his supremely brilliant and masterful nature programmes over the years.
How can any of us have failed to wonder at the sheer breadth of knowledge of the man? If he had been on our supper quiz table I'd have been the happiest man in the world. I'd have shaken the hands of the people who organised the supper quiz and just revelled in the moment. We'd have won that supper quiz in the blink of an eye. It would have been won convincingly by half time and we'd have done a lap of an honour around the tables, boasting about our expertise and showing off our trophy.
Last night though, my wife and I sat down to watch the latest instalment of the David Attenborough series. It has to be said it was a masterpiece. I'd even go as far as saying that it has to be one of the best TV programmes of all time, maybe the best for quite some time. You'd have to a long way to find a programme so compelling, so stunningly photographed and so visually entrancing. In fact I'm not sure that anything beats it, matches it or surpasses it. I was glued to the screen, transfixed and at times almost totally absorbed by the sheer quality of the programme.
Planet Earth 2 takes us on a wonderful tour of the world, the dreamily diverse continents, landscapes, vast geographical distances and heaven sent perspectives. It also explores those lovely animals who inhabit those lands, who prowl, swoop, hunt, forage for food and then, for reasons that seem quite inexplicable to the human eye, try to rip each other to pieces.
Back in the late 1970s, Attenborough and his merry band of women and men took their cameras to what seemed the most inhospitable of all jungles. Here he found some of the most adorable gorillas ever to walk the planet. Suddenly he was among his new found friends, rolling around with them quite amiably and then discovering that gorillas, apart from dogs, could also be man's best friend. For the best part of a couple of minutes, the camera showed Attenborough smiling and playing and generally forming what looked like the most moving of all relationships.
In Planet Earth 2 Attenborough once again captured the moods, mannerisms, and the sheer volatility of our planet. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe we're not the only people who kill, injure and generally create all kinds of mayhem. It was explosive, violently aggressive and, to be honest just a bit frightening and disconcerting. Those animals can certainly pack a punch. You began to wonder why any of us should resort to such barbaric methods just for a bit of decent grub. Why do we challenge each other to fight when we can't get our own way. Do we have to go to war and fight each other to the point of death just because we're hungry?
Planet Earth gave us everything. It gave us blood, guts, horror, violence, conflict and distressing savagery. And that was only last night's edition. Can you imagine what it's like when desperation sets in and the animals get restless and agitated? It was all very unsavoury, hard to believe at times and hardly possible. When starvation kicks in and the going gets tough it is, quite literally, the survival of the fittest.
In last week's episode we had those memorable grizzly bears scratching themselves quite blissfully against trees and then scratching even more hilariously when they thought there was a BBC camera on them. There was that great clashing of the male and female eagle who quite clearly seemed intent on murdering each other. And what about those cute black crows behind the eagles behaving so provocatively and spitefully that it was like watching children winding each other up most deliberately.
In one of the final sequences last week there was TV gold at its most classical and sparkling. Suddenly a group of wonderfully disciplined flamingos started marching, strutting and swaggering forward rather like a well drilled army. It was hilarious, stupendously funny and has to be seen over and over again. Long thin legs quickly scurried along at a fair old speed and in perfect formation. I, for one, would watch it on I Player repeatedly just to make sure that I hadn't imagined it.
Last night did not disappoint. I thought I'd seen everything. But I hadn't. There were wild horses lashing out with their legs, kicking furiously and then thrashing each other brutally when they thought their enemies hadn't suffered enough punishment. There were the zebras clomping menacingly through arid desert lands, eyes piercing and forever watchful. There were the lazy, languid elephants who always seem to do things at their pace, large feet and bodies plodding along at a most leisurely trot. It almost looked as if they didn't care where they were going or their intended destination. As long as they got to where they were going.
Then there were the cute squirrels who seemed to do nothing but hide nervously behind rocks and then try to camouflage themselves when they felt threatened. It was nature at its most intriguing, revealing, secretive and yet very purposeful. Yes there was a definite sense that once animals make up their minds to do something they'll stop at nothing to do it. I kept hoping that Planet Earth 2 would continue for days, weeks and months unremittingly. On second thoughts maybe not. You do have to go to sleep after all but it was a shame that it couldn't have gone on for much longer than it did.
Finally there was another high- light last night. The BBC cameramen were determined to get their special and precious moment. They cleared the decks, lay in wait and pounced decisively when they'd found what they were looking.Cut, Action and Camera. The Beeb had got their prey. It was all very painstaking but worth its weight in gold. You had to see it to believe it, It was quite the most amazing spectacle.
Huge swarms of locusts came from all directions and I mean all directions. Suddenly it was rather like watching a vast black curtain unfolding in front of your eyes. It was like a thick blanket flapping across the skyline, Here they came, thousands and thousands of locusts seemed to be flying over endless acres of deserts, following each other devotedly and quite harmoniously. There was no needle or aggro, bitterness or bad feeling. Just locusts and more locusts. They seemed to be addicted to the thrill of the flight. In the end one victorious BBC camereaman started waving his hands at the locusts trying, it seemed to round them up like naughty nursery schoolchildren.
By the end of Planet Earth 2 my wife and I were almost thrilled at what we'd just seen, euphoric perhaps and possibly privileged to have seen what we'd seen. This was the most definitive nature programme, We turned to each other and gazed at each other with astonishment. Planet 2 Earth has to be one of the most original and thought provoking TV programmes of all time. In fact I think it deserves to win all of the awards at every TV awards ceremony. No programme ticked all of the right boxes, no programme made you think deeply about the things that the human race does to both itself and each other. But then you thought about those grizzly bears and flamingos and you had to laugh -over and over again. It was TV doing at its most spellbinding. And that can be no bad thing.
Saturday, 26 November 2016
Fidel Castro- a dictator or just passionate revolutionary.
It's hard to know where to place Fidel Castro in the annals of the history book. Castro, who died today at the grand old age of 90 was either a dictator or passionate revolutionary. Castro was undoubtedly charismatic to his finger nails and up until to his last days in power it still seems hard to categorise him. Was he a bully, a brutal dictator or just a political activist who spent the best part of his life rallying his nation and punching his fists triumphantly and then accepting all the high fives of praise and flattery when things were going well in Cuba?
I claim no in depth knowledge of any historical figure as such and would be deeply unqualified to pass any considered comment on the man. But throughout the decades it always seemed that Castro was determined to leave his military and political legacy wherever he went. It is hard to think of him as some bloodthirsty leader intent on wreaking havoc and wreckage on all and sundry.
Castro though always seemed to have the ear of influential prime ministers or presidents and was never short of opinion or controversial statement. He could be, I suspect, both fanatical, dangerous, dogmatic and according to some of his friends or foes, a dreadful and deplorable man. But that didn't stop him from leading his Cuban nation to greatness and then possibly failure. Castro must have been a contradiction in terms at times, ruthlessly powerful and a man who simply trampled upon those who disliked him in one moment then kind to those who liked him. But then I could be wrong. Maybe Cuba and Castro were meant for each other. Fidel Castro was a leader of many decades and seasons.
It's hard to know where to place Fidel Castro in the annals of the history book. Castro, who died today at the grand old age of 90 was either a dictator or passionate revolutionary. Castro was undoubtedly charismatic to his finger nails and up until to his last days in power it still seems hard to categorise him. Was he a bully, a brutal dictator or just a political activist who spent the best part of his life rallying his nation and punching his fists triumphantly and then accepting all the high fives of praise and flattery when things were going well in Cuba?
I claim no in depth knowledge of any historical figure as such and would be deeply unqualified to pass any considered comment on the man. But throughout the decades it always seemed that Castro was determined to leave his military and political legacy wherever he went. It is hard to think of him as some bloodthirsty leader intent on wreaking havoc and wreckage on all and sundry.
Castro though always seemed to have the ear of influential prime ministers or presidents and was never short of opinion or controversial statement. He could be, I suspect, both fanatical, dangerous, dogmatic and according to some of his friends or foes, a dreadful and deplorable man. But that didn't stop him from leading his Cuban nation to greatness and then possibly failure. Castro must have been a contradiction in terms at times, ruthlessly powerful and a man who simply trampled upon those who disliked him in one moment then kind to those who liked him. But then I could be wrong. Maybe Cuba and Castro were meant for each other. Fidel Castro was a leader of many decades and seasons.
Grandstand and World of Sport - it's what Saturdays were all about, the 1950s,60s and 70s
Grandstand and World of Sport, Saturday's sporting gems.
It's at times like this that my nostalgia filled head begins to ache for those two outstanding TV sports gems. Grandstand, the BBC's jewel in the crown and ITV, with their sports magazine offering World of Sport were like two lovable uncles arguing about the price of bread and milk. Ah yes I hear you cry. The good old days. They were the best were they not? That's it. You had Dickie Davies on one side and for much of my youth Frank Bough, occasionally David Coleman then the suave and genial Des Lynam with that almost soft and relaxed voice, a voice that oozed calm, poise and cool professionalism.
But those days are no longer with us because maybe they belonged to the 1960s,70s and 80s. The cynics insist that they are now well past by their sell by date. Sport on TV was somehow an essential way of life on a Saturday afternoon. You switched on the box, adjusted that wonky old TV aeriel, banged the top of the telly with all your might if the set didn't work and then hoped that the fuzzy picture would right itself eventually.
While I was growing up, my parents always rented our TV. We had this small wooden box in the corner with the most fragile looking glass which acted as a screen. The goldfish bowls of the 1950s had now been replaced by something whizzier and more technologically advanced. The size of the screen was so small that there were times when, I feel sure, my parents found themselves in desperate need of a microscope or a good pair of binoculars.
The sophistication of the big 26 inch colour set had yet to take Britain by storm. In fact for most of my childhood the monochrome beauty of black and white would take pride of place in the corner of our living room. Ours was DER and a TV that had quite the most incredible dial indicating the two channels we could only receive until the advent of BBC2 which crept into our world almost grudgingly in 1967.
From what I can remember the dial itself consisted of random numbers which bore no relation to the channels themselves. Amusingly there were the unnecessary channels which seemed to be swallowed up by black and white shadows, completely lacking in any kind of clarity. Anyway we survived the whole ordeal because the BBC were the Voice of the Establishment and ITV were the smaller boys in the playground, threatening the BBC's haughty superiority but then throwing in the towel because they just couldn't keep up with them. I'm sure they weren't playground bullies but they did challenge them in the audience ratings. Occasionally it was fisticuffs and pistols at dawn but then both agreed to disagree and from time to time they kissed and made up. It was like a French entente cordiale, a gracious reconciliation.
And then so it was that at the end of the 1950s Grandstand one day arrived.. The BBC had given birth to a bonny, bouncing baby. It had red cheeks, a wonderful set of lungs, a voice that could be heard the length and breadth of Shepherds Bush and White City and the brightest of futures in front of it. Sitting proudly behind the desk was the very polished, public school and plummy Peter Dimmock. Now Grandstand would grow into an handsome child with strong white teeth and Dimmock was that assured father figure with impeccable English and quite the most upstanding of English manners.
For almost the whole of a Saturday afternoon Dimmock would claim bragging rights over ITV. There would be horse racing from Ascot mixed in with juicy sporting snippets including a football magazine programme with Sam Leech and then spicy helpings of athletics and then the rugby. I can still remember the rugby union because although I was partial to a moderate amount of rugby it didn't really hold my attention for much longer than perhaps it should have done.
I can remember being captivated by the magically enthusiastic tones of the great Bill Mclaren but rugby just faded away rather like one of those Radio Luxembourg broadcasts. I did like though the then Five Nations tournament which always started at the beginning of February. Mclaren somehow brought rugby union to life with those rich Scottish vowels and consonants. Mclaren decorated the game of rugby union with those vivid splashes of colour and phrases that were somehow invented for the game of rugby union.
When Mclaren waxed lyrical about line outs, rucks or scrums, Grandstand viewers knew where they stood. They believed they were actually at Mclaren's native Murrayfield or thumping over an oval ball between the posts at Twickenham. The Welsh of course were of course like an instinctive force of nature and when Gareth Edwards, Phil Bennett and Barry John were in full flow, Mclaren quoted Rabbie Burns. Yeats and Wordsworth. Wales were like a royal procession and then produced some of the most breathtaking hand to hand rugby the Scotsman had ever seen. It was as though the Grandstand viewers were being transported to some far off land of sweetness and light where sport was perfect.
Then right at the end of the day when it all became very serious and businesslike Grandstand gave us the classified football results. Here David Coleman would stand very formally in front of a huge board featuring all of the old First, Second, Third Division and Fourth Division. For a while it would become the regional North and South but all the while we'd all scrramble around for our football Pools coupon in the hope of striking it rich with the requisite eight draws.
There was a real sense of personality about this time, an edge and piquancy about it. The classified football results was very much male territory, something that symbolised the role of husband and father. Of course the mums took a passing interest but Grandstand had a masculine trademark all of its own and all mums were interested to know was whether dad was still on speaking terms with the rest of the family. Football defined men and still does but Grandstand more or less determined dad's mood for the rest of the evening.
While the results were trickling in steadily, Coleman pointed to the teams on the board and then began to highlight the significance of the League tables. The scores were stuck almost dutifully onto the scoreboard and the whole of Britain would be satisfied and put at their ease. Then a now prehistoric looking teleprinter would chatter away to its heart content. Every so often this strange mechanism would print the results on to an endless sheet of paper and the ribbon would tap out the results with an almost metronomic charm. In thick black capitals Northampton 4 Grimsby 2 would roll across the TV screen furiously like a greyhound chasing a hare on a dog track.
Meanwhile on the other side ITV were giving us their version, a sporting variation on a theme. Now what can you say about London Weekend Television? I think I must have discovered World of Sport on one very innocent Saturday afternoon when the Saturday film on BBC 2, had become more or less part of the TV furniture. Then as if from nowhere World of Sport unexpectedly strutted onto the big stage like some fancy peacock flaunting its feathers. If the BBC could give us a rich diet of sport then ITV could do that just as well and perhaps even better.
Sport is now a wealthy, well packaged global commodity but for ITV World of Sport must have seemed like some glamorous cabaret artist who hadn't quite hit the big time. World of Sport then materialised like some pretty comet in the sky or some distant star that kept winking at you flirtatiously. But World of Sport was mean, moody and menacing and ready to face up to the BBC.
Suddenly there was Dickie Davies, a complete unknown but towards the end of the 1960s Davies would appear in a TV studio in his immaculately pristine shirt, suit and tie. Before becoming a TV sports presenter Davies had lived life on the ocean wave as a ship's entertainer. Now he would establish himself on the main deck with an afternoon of sport, wit, whimsicality and happy go lucky humour. All that World of Sport was missing was the on board game of quoits and breezy blarney, a TV figure for all seasons including the football season.
Oh yes we thought our Dickie was our Saturday afternoon treat. He made you feel good about yourself. He sold sport rather like the most persuasive salesman you'd ever met. He was a nice guy rather like a cheerful market trader who never gets down. He smiled almost permanently for the camera and then dispensed those homely words of wisdom that warmed the hearts of millions.
World of Sport gave us On the Ball, an informative football magazine show with the estimable and admirable Brian Moore. It was the lunchtime snack that kept on giving full of nutritious flavours and good, wholesome meat. And then World of Sport seemed to go off on this wonderful journey into the unknown, a land of mystique and familiar terrain.
The ITV 7 was ITV's horse racing spectacular. The ITV 7 would whisk the country away on some giddy and euphoric merry go round. There was Sandown, Redcar, Uttoxeter, Haydock Park, Towcester and all points north, south and west. Nobody thought ITV had a chance. They were just dreaming, whistling in the wind if they ever thought they could compete with the BBC coverage with the likes of Dimmock, Coleman and the very capable Frank Bough. It was though a real and plausible contender to the BBC throne.
But undaunted, ITV knucked down hard for the fight and competed ferociously. They followed the horse racing with stock car racing, caber tossing from the Highland Games, log rolling, cheese chasing and cliff diving. World of Sport took us on a dizzy merry go round of the mysterious and the eclectic. They gave us darts with its ever growing and fanatical fan base, snooker which was just hynoptically fascinating and the outrageous wrestling, a sport that was unique but appealing. The critics must have thought it was somehow degrading and demeaning but my grand-dad loved it so who am I to pass judgement. And then there was chess, squash from time to time, no cricket much to ITV's regret and no rugby which was the BBC's property anyway.
And here am I on this late November afternoon reflecting on the desolate wasteland that is TV Sport. There's a pitiful apology for a BBC sports show which seems to last for roughly twenty minutes and seems like a withering insult rather than a sports programme. Meanwhile on ITV there is nothing at all or seemingly nothing at all. I'm inclined to think there's a conspiracy going on here. I think there's a sinister hidden agenda here. Those TV executives are not telling us something. We have a right to know. We still have our two weeks of Wimbledon tennis on the BBC but even the golf has vanished in the Sky and even the horse racing seems to be flip flopping between the channels.
Maybe sport is no longer that valuable asset it used to be. Perhaps it's quite content to lurk on the sidelines rather like a substitute in football limbering up on the touchlines. Sport just seems to be like an ethnic minority rather than the popular majority. There is something very heartbreaking, even poignant about the lack of proper sport. Maybe TV has just forgotten about sport, cold shouldering, boycotting and ostracising it as if it had committed some heinous sin.
Sport deserves something much better, something that is far more enriching and life affirming. It needs to bring back Grandstand or World of Sport or even both. Those TV executives have got a lot to answer for. I think this should be properly debated in the House of Commons, legislation passed with a full hearing at the Old Bailey. There is a terrible miscarriage of justice and the powers that be must examine their conscience. I hereby claim a guilty verdict on those who refuse to bring back proper TV sport. They should be ashamed of themselves.
But then we look back to those golden years of Saturday sport on the TV when it had colour, joy, individuality, Brian Moore wearing a thick brown sheepskin coat and sitting on a cold, wintry TV gantry on a Saturday afternoon. We remember its soul, its feeling, its nervous tension, John Rickman doffing his trilby hat at the horse racing, its spontaneity, its glittering presentation, that plane in the sky which introduced World of Sport and then its blissful disregard of rules, regulations and boundaries. How I miss World of Sport and Grandstand. We miss the activity, electricity, the magic of it all, the unexpected novelty of it all, the thrilling anticipation, Wembley Stadium on Cup Final day when it all came right or wrong. Above all we miss sport.
It's at times like this that my nostalgia filled head begins to ache for those two outstanding TV sports gems. Grandstand, the BBC's jewel in the crown and ITV, with their sports magazine offering World of Sport were like two lovable uncles arguing about the price of bread and milk. Ah yes I hear you cry. The good old days. They were the best were they not? That's it. You had Dickie Davies on one side and for much of my youth Frank Bough, occasionally David Coleman then the suave and genial Des Lynam with that almost soft and relaxed voice, a voice that oozed calm, poise and cool professionalism.
But those days are no longer with us because maybe they belonged to the 1960s,70s and 80s. The cynics insist that they are now well past by their sell by date. Sport on TV was somehow an essential way of life on a Saturday afternoon. You switched on the box, adjusted that wonky old TV aeriel, banged the top of the telly with all your might if the set didn't work and then hoped that the fuzzy picture would right itself eventually.
While I was growing up, my parents always rented our TV. We had this small wooden box in the corner with the most fragile looking glass which acted as a screen. The goldfish bowls of the 1950s had now been replaced by something whizzier and more technologically advanced. The size of the screen was so small that there were times when, I feel sure, my parents found themselves in desperate need of a microscope or a good pair of binoculars.
The sophistication of the big 26 inch colour set had yet to take Britain by storm. In fact for most of my childhood the monochrome beauty of black and white would take pride of place in the corner of our living room. Ours was DER and a TV that had quite the most incredible dial indicating the two channels we could only receive until the advent of BBC2 which crept into our world almost grudgingly in 1967.
From what I can remember the dial itself consisted of random numbers which bore no relation to the channels themselves. Amusingly there were the unnecessary channels which seemed to be swallowed up by black and white shadows, completely lacking in any kind of clarity. Anyway we survived the whole ordeal because the BBC were the Voice of the Establishment and ITV were the smaller boys in the playground, threatening the BBC's haughty superiority but then throwing in the towel because they just couldn't keep up with them. I'm sure they weren't playground bullies but they did challenge them in the audience ratings. Occasionally it was fisticuffs and pistols at dawn but then both agreed to disagree and from time to time they kissed and made up. It was like a French entente cordiale, a gracious reconciliation.
And then so it was that at the end of the 1950s Grandstand one day arrived.. The BBC had given birth to a bonny, bouncing baby. It had red cheeks, a wonderful set of lungs, a voice that could be heard the length and breadth of Shepherds Bush and White City and the brightest of futures in front of it. Sitting proudly behind the desk was the very polished, public school and plummy Peter Dimmock. Now Grandstand would grow into an handsome child with strong white teeth and Dimmock was that assured father figure with impeccable English and quite the most upstanding of English manners.
For almost the whole of a Saturday afternoon Dimmock would claim bragging rights over ITV. There would be horse racing from Ascot mixed in with juicy sporting snippets including a football magazine programme with Sam Leech and then spicy helpings of athletics and then the rugby. I can still remember the rugby union because although I was partial to a moderate amount of rugby it didn't really hold my attention for much longer than perhaps it should have done.
I can remember being captivated by the magically enthusiastic tones of the great Bill Mclaren but rugby just faded away rather like one of those Radio Luxembourg broadcasts. I did like though the then Five Nations tournament which always started at the beginning of February. Mclaren somehow brought rugby union to life with those rich Scottish vowels and consonants. Mclaren decorated the game of rugby union with those vivid splashes of colour and phrases that were somehow invented for the game of rugby union.
When Mclaren waxed lyrical about line outs, rucks or scrums, Grandstand viewers knew where they stood. They believed they were actually at Mclaren's native Murrayfield or thumping over an oval ball between the posts at Twickenham. The Welsh of course were of course like an instinctive force of nature and when Gareth Edwards, Phil Bennett and Barry John were in full flow, Mclaren quoted Rabbie Burns. Yeats and Wordsworth. Wales were like a royal procession and then produced some of the most breathtaking hand to hand rugby the Scotsman had ever seen. It was as though the Grandstand viewers were being transported to some far off land of sweetness and light where sport was perfect.
Then right at the end of the day when it all became very serious and businesslike Grandstand gave us the classified football results. Here David Coleman would stand very formally in front of a huge board featuring all of the old First, Second, Third Division and Fourth Division. For a while it would become the regional North and South but all the while we'd all scrramble around for our football Pools coupon in the hope of striking it rich with the requisite eight draws.
There was a real sense of personality about this time, an edge and piquancy about it. The classified football results was very much male territory, something that symbolised the role of husband and father. Of course the mums took a passing interest but Grandstand had a masculine trademark all of its own and all mums were interested to know was whether dad was still on speaking terms with the rest of the family. Football defined men and still does but Grandstand more or less determined dad's mood for the rest of the evening.
While the results were trickling in steadily, Coleman pointed to the teams on the board and then began to highlight the significance of the League tables. The scores were stuck almost dutifully onto the scoreboard and the whole of Britain would be satisfied and put at their ease. Then a now prehistoric looking teleprinter would chatter away to its heart content. Every so often this strange mechanism would print the results on to an endless sheet of paper and the ribbon would tap out the results with an almost metronomic charm. In thick black capitals Northampton 4 Grimsby 2 would roll across the TV screen furiously like a greyhound chasing a hare on a dog track.
Meanwhile on the other side ITV were giving us their version, a sporting variation on a theme. Now what can you say about London Weekend Television? I think I must have discovered World of Sport on one very innocent Saturday afternoon when the Saturday film on BBC 2, had become more or less part of the TV furniture. Then as if from nowhere World of Sport unexpectedly strutted onto the big stage like some fancy peacock flaunting its feathers. If the BBC could give us a rich diet of sport then ITV could do that just as well and perhaps even better.
Sport is now a wealthy, well packaged global commodity but for ITV World of Sport must have seemed like some glamorous cabaret artist who hadn't quite hit the big time. World of Sport then materialised like some pretty comet in the sky or some distant star that kept winking at you flirtatiously. But World of Sport was mean, moody and menacing and ready to face up to the BBC.
Suddenly there was Dickie Davies, a complete unknown but towards the end of the 1960s Davies would appear in a TV studio in his immaculately pristine shirt, suit and tie. Before becoming a TV sports presenter Davies had lived life on the ocean wave as a ship's entertainer. Now he would establish himself on the main deck with an afternoon of sport, wit, whimsicality and happy go lucky humour. All that World of Sport was missing was the on board game of quoits and breezy blarney, a TV figure for all seasons including the football season.
Oh yes we thought our Dickie was our Saturday afternoon treat. He made you feel good about yourself. He sold sport rather like the most persuasive salesman you'd ever met. He was a nice guy rather like a cheerful market trader who never gets down. He smiled almost permanently for the camera and then dispensed those homely words of wisdom that warmed the hearts of millions.
World of Sport gave us On the Ball, an informative football magazine show with the estimable and admirable Brian Moore. It was the lunchtime snack that kept on giving full of nutritious flavours and good, wholesome meat. And then World of Sport seemed to go off on this wonderful journey into the unknown, a land of mystique and familiar terrain.
The ITV 7 was ITV's horse racing spectacular. The ITV 7 would whisk the country away on some giddy and euphoric merry go round. There was Sandown, Redcar, Uttoxeter, Haydock Park, Towcester and all points north, south and west. Nobody thought ITV had a chance. They were just dreaming, whistling in the wind if they ever thought they could compete with the BBC coverage with the likes of Dimmock, Coleman and the very capable Frank Bough. It was though a real and plausible contender to the BBC throne.
But undaunted, ITV knucked down hard for the fight and competed ferociously. They followed the horse racing with stock car racing, caber tossing from the Highland Games, log rolling, cheese chasing and cliff diving. World of Sport took us on a dizzy merry go round of the mysterious and the eclectic. They gave us darts with its ever growing and fanatical fan base, snooker which was just hynoptically fascinating and the outrageous wrestling, a sport that was unique but appealing. The critics must have thought it was somehow degrading and demeaning but my grand-dad loved it so who am I to pass judgement. And then there was chess, squash from time to time, no cricket much to ITV's regret and no rugby which was the BBC's property anyway.
And here am I on this late November afternoon reflecting on the desolate wasteland that is TV Sport. There's a pitiful apology for a BBC sports show which seems to last for roughly twenty minutes and seems like a withering insult rather than a sports programme. Meanwhile on ITV there is nothing at all or seemingly nothing at all. I'm inclined to think there's a conspiracy going on here. I think there's a sinister hidden agenda here. Those TV executives are not telling us something. We have a right to know. We still have our two weeks of Wimbledon tennis on the BBC but even the golf has vanished in the Sky and even the horse racing seems to be flip flopping between the channels.
Maybe sport is no longer that valuable asset it used to be. Perhaps it's quite content to lurk on the sidelines rather like a substitute in football limbering up on the touchlines. Sport just seems to be like an ethnic minority rather than the popular majority. There is something very heartbreaking, even poignant about the lack of proper sport. Maybe TV has just forgotten about sport, cold shouldering, boycotting and ostracising it as if it had committed some heinous sin.
Sport deserves something much better, something that is far more enriching and life affirming. It needs to bring back Grandstand or World of Sport or even both. Those TV executives have got a lot to answer for. I think this should be properly debated in the House of Commons, legislation passed with a full hearing at the Old Bailey. There is a terrible miscarriage of justice and the powers that be must examine their conscience. I hereby claim a guilty verdict on those who refuse to bring back proper TV sport. They should be ashamed of themselves.
But then we look back to those golden years of Saturday sport on the TV when it had colour, joy, individuality, Brian Moore wearing a thick brown sheepskin coat and sitting on a cold, wintry TV gantry on a Saturday afternoon. We remember its soul, its feeling, its nervous tension, John Rickman doffing his trilby hat at the horse racing, its spontaneity, its glittering presentation, that plane in the sky which introduced World of Sport and then its blissful disregard of rules, regulations and boundaries. How I miss World of Sport and Grandstand. We miss the activity, electricity, the magic of it all, the unexpected novelty of it all, the thrilling anticipation, Wembley Stadium on Cup Final day when it all came right or wrong. Above all we miss sport.
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