tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39569317991114304872024-02-19T16:02:02.849-08:00Clinkers to RiddleThe ramblings of a northern, 'Coronation Street' obsessed type . . .Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.comBlogger100125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-17609414887312760682018-12-30T15:10:00.002-08:002018-12-30T15:10:30.787-08:00A jolly good read<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ah - the joy of books. Immersing yourself in a good read can be therapeutic. For me, the year is made up, amongst other things, of a pile of reading material. Some good, some indifferent but all of these books will attach themselves to a memory. The books that went on holiday with me, the books that accompanied me on Tube journeys in and out of London, the book I was reading when Mum died.<br />
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One name that appears several times on my 2018 list is Mick Herron. He has created a bunch of misfit characters working on the very periphery of the secret service. They are quite unlovely and yet addictive. I rooted for them in <b>Slow Horses</b>, cheered them on in <b>Real Tigers</b> and worried about them in <b>Spook Street</b>. There's more to come in 2019 so hurrah for that.<br />
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The scariest read of the year had to be Margaret Atwood's <b>The Handmaid's Tale</b>. Not having seen even a minute of the highly popular TV adaption, I threw myself into the book and was rewarded with a vision of chilling bleakness. It's a grim story and unnervingly believable. Equally downbeat was Charles Bukowski's tale of a man dragging himself around dead-end jobs in the USA, <b>Factotum</b>. You could almost smell the poverty and stale beer.<br />
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It's good to laugh though and there were giggles aplenty courtesy of two Joesph Connolly novels, <b>Summer Things</b> and <b>Winter Breaks</b>. The characters are Ayckbourn-esque and the petty snobbery of suburban life lends itself well to these stories. There were also unintentional chuckles in Georgette Heyer's hoary 1940s murder mystery <b>A Christmas Party</b>. This ticked all the required boxes of a mansion house killing - sour owner, flighty niece, scheming nephew and an acidic butler. He didn't do it by the way.<br />
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A slow burn of a read is also appreciated so thanks to Jon McGregor and <b>Reservoir 13</b>. The story follows the reactions of villagers over several years following the disappearance of a young girl. Everyone has their own take on the mystery. Many have secrets that need to be protected.<br />
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Agatha Christie featured on my list several times and one of the novels I read during the summer, <b>The ABC Murders</b>, was dramatised by the BBC over Christmas. The latter was a little more earthy than Christie's novel though. She didn't really 'do' sex. <b>Death on the Nile</b> and <b>The Mystery of the Blue Train </b>were also entertaining despite being the best part of eighty years old.<br />
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Other honourable mentions this year go to:<br />
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<b>The Dark Circle</b> by Linda Grant - tales of a post-war TB clinic<br />
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<b>Moon Over Soho</b> by Ben Aaronovitch - what happens when the Met Police has to deal with the supernatural<br />
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<b>Christadora</b> by Tim Murphy - sex and drugs in Manhattan over a thirty year period<br />
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<b>A Boy in Winter</b> by Rachel Seiffert - a tale of hope from Nazi-occupied Ukraine<br />
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<b>Theft by Finding </b>by David Sedaris - collected ramblings from the master diarist<br />
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The Shelf go the Unread still takes pride of place in one of the spare bedrooms. A wealth of loveliness waiting to be explored in 2019.<br />
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Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-23387820129735205532018-05-11T07:06:00.001-07:002018-05-11T07:06:42.261-07:00Going for a song<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here we are then, on the eve of the <b>63rd Eurovision Song Contest</b>. As I type, the twenty six finalists are rehearsing their socks off in the confines of Lisbon's Altice Arena. For me, it's my fortieth consecutive contest as a viewer. Fortieth. Good heavens.<br />
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My Eurovision 'journey' - and yes, everyone has to have a 'journey' these days - began in earnest on a Saturday night in March 1979. I was mesmerised by the song contest. Not so much the songs though. Checking the running order for the show, I notice the Ghenghis Khan singalong from Germany, three people playing garden implements for Switzerland and the UK's lovely contribution, Black Lace. No, I was agog at the idea of a TV show being broadcast live from Jerusalem. I remember thinking about what it would be like to actually be there, in the International Convention Centre. What the young me could never have imagined was that exactly twenty years later, I was stood in the very same hall at the 1999 contest. The 1979 me would have been stunned.<br />
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Jerusalem 1999 was also my final contest as an accredited 'journalist'. It brought to an end six years of fun and games, schlepping between concert hall and press centre. Lots of partying and official receptions too. Full marks to the likes of Iceland who, in 1993, got everyone horribly drunk on some potent embrocation called Black Death. 'Douze points' to the 1994 Finnish delegation for saving many of us from starvation with what appeared to be a hot buffet without end. Three cheers for the Belgians who plied us with beer, the Croatians who served up cocktails in test tubes and the Slovenians who tempted us with plates of cured horse meat.<br />
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Nowadays, anyone working on the contest has to be available for two weeks. I only just about coped with seven days. It's knackering. Quite often there wasn't time to take in the sights and sounds of the host country. In Israel I made an exception. With a military guard, toting machine guns, I headed off for the Negev desert. Was it warm? Yes it was - 44 degrees. I bobbed around in the Dead Sea and shuffled around a kibbutz with the Estonian delegation. The kibbutz proved to be an eye-opener in that one of the Estonians had once lived there and had less than happy memories of the place. Which he put to the manager. The visit was brought to a swift end and we were herded out of the compound.<br />
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Since 1999 I've only been to a couple of contests. 2010 in Oslo was an odd affair in a hangar of a venue that had little atmosphere. Being part of a 20,000 strong crowd made it difficult to follow what was going on, particularly with Armenian and Azerbaijan fans trying to outdo each other with oversized flags. The 2013 event in Malmo was fun even if the entries were forgettable.<br />
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As much as I've loved traipsing across the continent over the years, currently it seems to have come full circle and once again I'm in front of the telly watching from afar. If the bookies are to be believed, we are on our way to Cyprus next year. I've always fancied Limassol in spring.Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-85711178722228489932018-03-25T07:23:00.000-07:002018-03-25T07:23:07.800-07:00Saturday Night's Alright?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A <b><i>Casualty</i></b> of Saturday nights?</td></tr>
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It was as if empires had fallen and life, as we know it, was over. There has been much hand-wringing over the past week as numerous journos feasted over the demise of ITV light entertainment juggernaut, <b><i>Saturday Night Takeaway.</i></b> Although we soon discovered that the entire enterprise was on a one-week hiatus whilst the team adjusted themselves to being down a presenter. On the show goes but less so, the prospect of Declan Donnelly mugging away to camera alone will no doubt see a ratings increase next week.<br />
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Saturday night telly, we were told, had died. It has ceased to exist. The real issue here though is that the whole premise of 'sit down Saturday' had withered decades ago. TV critics attempted to hark back to glorious days of yore. Days that featured the likes of <b><i>3-2-1</i></b> or <b><i>Noel's House Party</i></b>. Seriously? Saturday night TV has been in the doldrums for as long as most people can remember. Indeed, you have to well into middle age (box ticked there then . . .) to recall a time when the BBC, even more than ITV, got it right.<br />
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Yes, we drift back to the 1970s when the BBC were happy to kick off the evening with imperial phase <b><i>Doctor Who</i></b> (Tom Baker dashing through an up-and-under garage door painted silver), the <b><i>Generation Game</i></b> ("so what are the scores on the door Isla?"), the <b><i>Two Ronnies </i></b>(middle aged men in frocks) and a pot-boiler drama series such as <b><i>Juliet Bravo</i></b> or the more earthy American series, <b><i>Cagney & Lacey </i></b>(a couple of women shouting in a filthy toilet).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scores on the doors . . .</td></tr>
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The whole edifice of Saturday night telly crumbled with the passing of such shows and their gradual replacement with joyless offerings such as the numerous National Lottery quiz shows, the ascent of Mr Blobby or ITV's early evening filler <b><i>You Bet!</i></b> I was fortunate enough (hmm . . .) to be a contestant on the latter. A lovely evening was had with the likes of Sally James and Melvyn Hayes, yet I'd not seen the show before and never tuned in again. I didn't even see the episode I featured in until some time later. I couldn't be bothered. That was the way with Saturday telly from the 1990s onwards.The Beeb realised that they could kill an hour with the soapy goings on in <b><i>Casualty</i></b>. Three decades of Charlie Fairhead taring into the middle distance. They couldn't be bothered either.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All Bets are off</td></tr>
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ITV countered the BBC's lack of effort with endless casting shows. They have dominated the schedule for the best part of twenty years, whether it be <b><i>Pop Idol</i></b>, <b><i>X Factor</i></b> or the unloved <b><i>The Voice</i></b>. If not them, then a plethora of vehicles for Ant and Dec which is where it's all gone wrong for ITV. Too many eggs in one basket? Too much trust in the enduring popularity of a double act? With Ant now likely to be sidelined for some time, the commercial channel has a chance to maybe rethink some of their stately old shows. ITV is unlikely to ditch <b><i>Britain's Got Talent </i></b>or <b><i>I'm a Celebrity</i></b> though and time will tell if a change of presenters will help or hinder ratings.<br />
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Will the BBC take advantage of ITV's misfortune? It's unlikely. The much-touted revamp of the <b><i>Generation Game </i></b>has been cut to just two episodes and there's probably not a lot to shout about until the clocks go back and the familiar staples of <b><i>Doctor Who</i></b> and Strictly return. ITV's schedulers are not doubt plotting as we speak.Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-40851955794316163352017-12-22T09:01:00.001-08:002017-12-22T09:01:31.235-08:00Fully booked<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Well, not exactly a vintage year for blog postings, this being the first. It's been that kind of twelve months. No random jottings about foreign visits (torrential rain in Puerto Rico, norovirus in Malta), the joys of Eurovision (a well-deseved and long-awaited victory for Portugal some 400 years after their debut) and meanderings about the state of <b>Coronation Street</b> can be found on the rather wonderful blog site. I did meet Jenny Bradley and Pat Phelan though so all is well with my cobbled world.<br />
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Amongst all of this frippery though is the constant stream of reading material that passes through my life. There it is, stuffed into a work bag, accompanying me on the journey to and from the City. It accompanies me on train trips to the north and flights across the world. Wherever you are, you always know where you are with a book.<br />
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There were one or two stand-out reads for me during 2017. Richard Flanagan's <b>The Narrow Road to the Deep North</b> was deep and beautiful. Also up there was David Lodge's rollocking <b>The British Museum is Falling Down</b>, where academia and contraception collide in 1960s Britain.<br />
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Eric Ambler's anti-heroes were out in force yet again. A usual, the exotic backdrops helped the action along in <b>Cause for Alarm</b> and <b>The Mask of Dimitrios</b>. There was similar tales of derring-do from Patricia Highsmith and her classic murder novel <b>Strangers on a Train</b>. It was never going to end well.<br />
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Some books can leave you with a sense of disquiet and unease. Step forward Len Deighton's <b>SS-GB</b>, the story of what might have happened had the Nazis won the Second World War. Equally unnerving was Mark Haddon's collection of stories in <b>The Pier Falls</b>, most of which proved enjoyable and uncomfortable in equal measure.<br />
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I always feel dejected when a book fails to reach expectations. Luckily these were few and far between in 2017. <b>The Driver's Seat</b> by Muriel Spark was a thankfully short read. Likewise, I was happy to turn the final page on William S. Burrough's 1985 offering, <b>Queer</b>, a joyless romp through Mexico with a selection of self-hating gay men. Not good.<br />
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The ladies of Tilling provided distraction in E.F. Benson's <b>Lucia Rising</b> and Guy Fraser-Sampson's faithful, if unofficial, end to the series, <b>Au Reservoir</b>. Laughs aplenty too in Bruno Vincent's re-imagining of Enid Blyton's Famous Five, including <b>Five on Brexit Island</b> and <b>Five Give Up the Booze</b>.<br />
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Other notable page-tuners this year included:<br />
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<li><b>A Film By Spencer Ludwig </b>by David Flusfeder - an intergenerational road trip</li>
<li><b>A Raging Calm by Stan Barstow </b>- eeh it's grim up north and then some . . .</li>
<li><b>South of Broad </b>by Pat Conroy - soapy yet enjoyable trip around Charleston</li>
<li><b>The Tobacconist </b>by Robert Seethaler - fear and resignation in 1930s Vienna</li>
<li><b>Enemies: A Love Story</b> by Isaac Bashevis Singer - life after the concentration camps</li>
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Plus, given the season, a fantastic collection of short stories from the likes of Ian Rankin and Val McDermid in <b>Murder Under the Christmas Tree</b>. Santa's coming for you!<br />
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<br />Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-38831231576889299652016-12-07T08:30:00.003-08:002016-12-07T08:30:58.266-08:00Black and white and read all over - again!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yes folks, there is no escaping the upcoming festivities. I'm knee-deep in unwritten Christmas cards, unopened online shopping orders and steely determination. One area where such determination may have wavered in 2016 is the need to read the huge pile of unread books gathering in the spare room. It's a feast without end. yet again, I will carry forward numerous tomes from one year to the next with the hope that they will sustain me on holidays, commutes into work or idle Sunday afternoons.<br />
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When it comes to reading, I don't tend to follow trends as such. Browsing the shelves of book shops, flicking through literary supplements and recommendations are what tend to steer me in every varying directions.<br />
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I always like it kick the year off with something fairly easy. Trudging through a James Joyce in January is never a good idea so I turned to Nick Hornby's <b>Funny Girl</b>. This was the seemingly simple tale of an unknown northern beauty queen who suddenly makes it big in a 1960s BBC sitcom. It's full of joy and optimism and delivers a 'fifty years later' chapter to round the story off well.<br />
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Three John Niven novels were devoured this year. <b>Kill Your Friends</b> is set against a backdrop of late nineties Britpop and the drug-fuelled excesses of the period. The humour is dark, morbid in places and yet still I laughed. Second up was <b>The Sunshine Cruise Company</b>, a sort of <b>Carry On</b>-style romp featuring OAP bank robbers. An odd premise yet strangely believable. There were more laughs courtesy of <b>Straight White Male</b> which served up the tears and giggles in equal measure.<br />
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It's always good to pick up a book that you've been meaning to read for years but never got around to. Step forward <b>The Crow Road</b> by Iain Banks. First published in 1993 and read by me twenty three years later, I initially found the dual narratives a little disconcerting. The Scottish names proved a little confusing to but I stuck with it and enjoyed Banks' examination of the deeper meaning of life. Quite funny in places too.<br />
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Not striking such a cheery note was Philip K. Dick's <b>The Man in the High Castle</b>. Set in an alternative world where Nazi Germany and Japan had won WW2, this proved to be an unsettling read. Presumably this was the intention but it was too troubling to be enjoyable.<br />
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Veteran writer Eric Ambler provided some of the most enjoyable reads of the year. <b>The Light of Day</b> was all thrills and spills set against a backdrop of Istanbul. As often with Ambler, the lead character was anything but heroic. <b>Epitaph for a Spy</b> also featured a flawed hero plus an ensemble of characters residing at a hotel in summer. Addictive stuff!<br />
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Linda Grant served up a more feisty lead character in <b>When I Lived in Modern Times</b>, the story of a young woman leaving the austerity of post-war London for a new life in the fledgling state of Israel. It turned out to be not quite the anticipated land of milk and honey.<br />
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Other books enjoyed during 2016 include:<br />
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<b>Soho</b> by Keith Waterhouse - great characters and lots of fun<br />
<b>Walk the Lines</b> by Mark Mason - the London Underground on foot!<br />
<b>Eileen</b> by Ottessa Moshfegh - a young girl gone sour<br />
<b>Joy</b> by Jonathan Lee - why did a successful woman hurl herself from a balcony?<br />
<b>The Shooting Party </b>by Isabel Colegate - fear and loathing at a country manor<br />
<b>Memoirs of a Dipper</b> by Nell Leyshon - the brutal life of a petty criminal<br />
<b>For the Love of Radio 4</b> by Caroline Hodgson - a jolly romp through the schedules<br />
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There we are then. Just some of my literary companions this year. Some were challenging, some were just good fun but all were very welcome.Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-48009622923948893802016-11-05T08:13:00.001-07:002016-11-05T08:14:00.794-07:00A prisoner of good fortune<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Guilty pleasures. We all have them. Maybe a cheeky drink at the end of a long day, frugging around the living room to the sound of some 1980s disco or settling down to a TV treat that never fails to entertain. For me, the late 1980s through to 1997 were enlivened, television-wise, by the bottomless pit of pleasure known as <b>Prisoner: Cell Block H</b>. Shunted away in an 11 pm slot on ITV, <b>PCBH</b> became a must-see in my viewing week. Yes, I've heard all the nonsense about wobbly sets and outlandish plots but let's face it, <b>EastEnders</b> and <b>Coronation</b> <b>Street</b> are no strangers to the latter.<br />
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Of course, <b>PCBH</b> has recently had a revival and was relaunched on to an unsuspecting world in 2013 as gritty, edgy <b>Wentworth</b>. I love it but my fondness for the original <b>PCBH</b> has never waned. The show provided opportunities for many actresses who may have been consigned to 'mum', 'gran' or 'office worker' roles for years to come. Instead they were handed glorious roles - tough women with back stories and a tale to tell. Sheila Florance excelled as the wily poisoner Lizzie Birdsworth. Val Lehman ruled the roost for four hundred episodes as Top Dog and queen of the laundry press, Bea Smith and Janet Andrewartha crackled with menace as calculating Reb Keane.<br />
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A few British actresses also made the journey to the Wentworth Detention Centre including Annette Andre (of <b>Randall & Hopkirk Deceased </b>fame) as journalist Camilla Wells and the glorious Olivia Hamnett as psychotic doctor Kate Petersen. One actress who kicked the series off with a bang was Londoner Amanda Muggleton. She played tart-with-no-heart whatsoever, Chrissie Latham. The scorned Chrissie murdered one of the main characters early doors and wasn't seen again for several hundred episodes - but back she came. Chrissie managed to be hard-faced yet vulnerable and often lashed out when things weren't going her way. Initially an enemy of Bea Smith, Chrissie eventually learns the error of her ways, partly down to a sever bashing from corrupt officer Joan "The Freak" Ferguson.<br />
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Actress Amanda Muggleton left the series in episode 338 and Chrissie never returned. For Amanda, further success lay ahead on stage and screen. She took lead roles in <b>Educating Rita</b> and <b>Shirley Valentine</b>, winning countless awards along the way. Almost forty years after that first appearance in <b>Prisoner</b>, Amanda found herself at the wonderful Kings Head Theatre in Islington, as star of the one-woman play <b>The Book Club</b>. Written by Roger Hall, the play tells the tale of Deb Martin, a woman whose husband is knee-deep in a midlife crisis. With her kids off her hands and time to kill, Deb joins a book club peopled by a bunch of eclectic women. Whether it's haughty Meredith or homely Millie, all have an opinion. Muggleton gives voice to all of them impressively and despite her being the only woman on stage, you soon find yourself engaged with a plethora of characters. She also manages to fill the entire stage, stalking each corner and addressing members of the audience like long-lost friends. It's all rather impressive. There is much joy to be had in the play, laughs a-plenty, tempered by Deb's realisation that ultimately, no good can come from the decision she's made. Acting on a lifelong ambition is sometimes not such a good idea.<br />
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Initially I wondered about the decision to stage the play in such a tiny venue as the King's Head. Some years ago I ventured to the Jermyn Street Theatre and almost projectile vomited having been placed on the front row in the firing range of scary tribute act Simply Barbra. Any lingering worries I had last night disappeared within seconds. Amanda Muggleton made this a very inclusive experience. We were part of her book club as it darted between hosts. Deb couldn't have made us feel more welcome - but I think Chrissie would have knocked her teeth out.<br />
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<br />Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-33498067240954268582016-04-30T06:40:00.004-07:002016-04-30T06:40:54.577-07:00Moments of silence: Eurovision goes to Stockholm<br />
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It's not often that a <b>Eurovision Song Contest</b> related story finds its way on to the main page of the BBC News website. Last week though, they updated us with Romania's expulsion from this year's event. An exasperated European Broadcasting Union, owed millions of euros by Romanian national broadcaster TVR, decided that enough was enough. Therefore the curtain came down on the hopes and dreams of one Ovidiu Anton, the singer who was busy packing his overnight case in preparation of representing his country in Stockholm. Europe will sadly not get the chance to vote on his particular slice of musical joy called <b>Moments of silence</b>. Plenty of quiet time for him and Romania from hereon in.<br />
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Overall, there seems to be a very competent feel to the 2016 entries. Nothing breathtaking, no real wow moments and only one very obvious clunker. Yes, step forward San Marino with possibly the worst song in the history of Eurovision. The individual elements are heinous enough - elderly Turkish man (yes, they must have run out of local performers in the micro state), talking rather than singing his way through a song with a hopeless 1970s disco backing track. At best, it's a comedy sketch but sadly, no one is laughing.<br />
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The only 'face' - and even that's stretching it a bit - taking part is Westlife's Nicky Byrne who will be flying the flag for Ireland. Sadly he does so with <b>Sunlight</b>, a flimsy and inconsequential slice of froth that leaves no trace.<br />
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Eurovision is often a reflection of music from the days of yore. Georgia has wheeled out Nika Kocharov and the Young Georgian Lolitaz (there are no women in the group) who have discovered some old Oasis tracks from 1995. The song may be doomed but at least it stands out. Also flying the flag for yesteryear is Poland Michal Szpak. <b>Color of Your Love</b> - and yes, Michal favours (or should that be favors) the American variant - is some big, old-fashioned late 1980s Euro ballad which goes nicely with his big, old-fashioned late 1980s hair. Austria's Zoe seems to be harkening back to mid-80s Luxembourg entries and indeed, her song is performed in French.<br />
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There is a strong band of middling entries from shouty women this year. Azerbaijan's Samra trills her way through one of those contemporary 'oh oh oh' choruses and Australia's Dami Im serves up the musical equivalent to a bread pudding - stodgy, safe and generally unrewarding. On it plods. Switzerland's Rykka sings of being <b>The Last of Our Kind</b> and one can only hope so as she makes three minutes feel like six.<br />
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So who can we see as a potential winner this year? The bookies are favouring Russia's Sergei Lazarov. Apparently you pronounce his name as 'Sir Gay' which is just as well as <b>You are the One </b>seems to be flying the flag for gentlemen who dance at the other end of the ballroom. With recent Russian entries having been booed into submission by the middle-aged Holister t-shirted crowd, Putin has obviously succumbed in 2016. Dated it may be but the Russian song could easily take the title. Also keep an eye peeled for Sweden's Frans. It's sufficiently different to their winning song of 2015 to garner another victory. The Swedes are desperate to usurp Ireland at the top of the 'most winners' table and they seem to be well on their way. Another which may do well is Serbia's oddly named Sanja Vucic ZAA. Now Sanja has obviously been plugged into an Amy Winehouse back catalogue over winter and so this comes across as more 'homage' than original. A cracking if weirdly twitchy performance from Sanja.<br />
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Their's a nod to cod-rock this year too. Montenegro's band Highway attempts to be a tad grungy and shouty but it just sounds messy. Minus One from Cyprus are a sanitised, safe rock band. Nice song but a couple of earrings and a tattoo does not a Lez Zeppelin make.<br />
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I'm pinning my few quid on the Netherlands this year. The wonderfully named Douwe Bob could be on to a winner with the soft-country, Radio 2 friendly <b>Slow Down</b>. Europe tends to love this genre and to be fair, it's forty one years since the Dutch last won with the lyrically lovely <b>Ding-a-dong</b>. I've also a fancy for the Czech Republic's entry, <b>I Stand</b>. OK I'm a sucker for a shouty woman with a big ballad and <span style="font-family: inherit;">Gabriela</span> <span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Gunčíková</span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">belts this one out with gusto. As does Finland's Sandhja complete with her jolly 'we're up for a laugh' backing singers. <b>Sing it away</b> will open the first semi-final on May 10th and it's fun.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: inherit;">The UK will be hoping, probably against open, for a place on the left-hand side of the scoreboard this year. Recent entries have been a bit of a disaster. We had tremulous old Engelbert Humperdinck </span></span><span style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">followed by croaking Bonnie Tyler, 'rabbit in the headlights' Molly and then last year, Electro Velvet who performed well but failed on presentation. For 2016 it's Joe and Jake. No, they're not a couple of CBBC presenters but two personable young blokes who seem to have no problem in performing <b>You're not alone</b> live. This one deserves some measure of success but this is Eurovision and seemingly the UK is just there to make up the numbers these days. Still we'll raise several glasses to them - and an extra one in memory of Terry Wogan during song number nine which was when El Tel used to break open the booze. Glasses charged folks - it would be wrong not to!</span></span><br />
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<br />Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-5747638823899150762016-04-10T11:36:00.001-07:002016-04-10T11:36:11.713-07:00Kitchen knives and caretakers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Well, it's been quite a week for high drama. No, I'm not talking about the Dear Leader's tax issues or the gasp-inducing news surrounding the Archbishop of Canterbury's parentage. Mere filler surrounding the the main course (tuna bake anyone?) on the news agenda. For this was the week that Helen Titchenor got stabby in <b>The Archers</b>.<br />
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Don't worry, I'm not about to enter into a detailed scene-by-scene synopsis of the whole grim affair. In a nutshell, dear old Helen, knee-deep in tuna bake and shop-bought custard, took a carving knife to her abusive husband, rotten Rob. The cast of <b>The Archers</b> deserve all the plaudits hurled at them, not only this week but every week. Yes, I'm a fan of long-standing and Sunday mornings would not be the same without the omnibus edition. A time for ironing, copious amounts of tea and the chance to hurl insults at a parade of fictional characters.<br />
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In Helen's hour of need, the powers-that-be decided to surround her with some of the show's less than sympathetic characters. Take Susan Carter for example. No, please take her as far away as you can. This shrieking spit-bag was soon to hand, knitting at the foot of the guillotine and enjoying the spectacle of Helen being whisked off to Cell Block H. Also pouring meths on troubled waters was the delightfully awful Peggy, Helen's gran, a woman who reinvents the word 'crone' every time she opens her mouth. For Peggy, the best way to support her granddaughter was to fuss about sending flowers to the abusive husband, languishing in <b>Holby City </b>hospital or wherever was nearest. The third in this triumvirate of hags-most-horrid was the mother-in-law, Ursula, who during one scene seemed to be channelling the voice of Su from the <b>Sooty & Sweep Show</b>. Ursula is a Disney-style wicked step-mother type but Home Counties style. When she cackles you can almost picture her tie-necked blouse quivering. Add to this Helen's hand-wringing mother Pat, uttering the line 'were we blind to what was happening?' ('Yes, you ridiculous old bat!' I screamed at the radio) and you realise that the accused has no chance. Weep for her.<br />
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Drama of a very different kind on Saturday night though. I was at the Old Vic for Harold Pinter's <b>The Caretaker</b>. This seemed to be a marathon undertaking as we were promised two intervals and a running time in excess of three hours. What a three hours though. For those not familiar with the story, there are only three characters involved. Timothy Spall took on the role of Davies, a vagrant helped by the damaged Aston, played by Daniel Mays. Spall played Davies as initially confused, wary and subsequently wily as he attempted to manipulate Aston and play him off against his aggressive brother Mick, played by George MacKay. All three characters have set pieces. Mays was particularly engrossing as Aston attempts to explain the horror of the treatment he received in an institution. MacKay's plays Mick as a sharp, hard and violent man who has a rather worrying detailed knowledge of floor coverings and soft furnishings. Susceptible to flattery, he laps up the faux adoration of Davies. Despite Davies being, ultimately, a despicable old man, Spall breathes humour into the role and is rewarded with his fair share of laughs. Mays shoulders the heavy dramatic scenes with ease but the actor was visibly distraught at the close of the production.<br />
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Full marks too to designer Rob Howell for creating the dingy eaves flat in which the action, as well as the distinctive Pinter pauses, take place. All's well that ends well? Not in the case of <b>The Caretaker </b>but I headed back to the Underground in the knowledge that three hours had been well spent.Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-67181942449545707622016-03-28T08:56:00.001-07:002016-03-28T08:56:38.570-07:00A house in the country<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The last few hours of the Easter break are now upon us and so ends our longest public holiday of the year until you-know-when. For me, it kicked off on Wednesday following a 5 am start, a session in the gym and then a full day at work. How better to end proceedings than with a 150 mile jaunt up the M1 to Derbyshire. As ever, traffic ground to a halt somewhere near Leicester and engines were simultaneously turned off. I fumed and had a little rant. What on earth could be preventing in me from starting my Easter break? Then follows the slow crawl of shame as I passed the burnt out car on the hard shoulder and the fervent hope that the owner made it out, safe and well.<br />
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To Derbyshire then and to a house only five minutes walk from my parents. For ten years this has provided a bolt-hole from all things London. Now though, it's time to say goodbye and the house is on the market in preparation for something new. Sad will be the day when the keys are handed in to the estate agent but needs must.<br />
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To take my mind off things, I visited another country pile, slightly more imposing than our semi. Chatsworth. Oddly, this would be my first visit to the house itself. There had been the obligatory school trip to the farm, way back in 1976. That had been a joyous day of mud, clipboards and beef spread sandwiches. Some kid showered the coach in vomit on the way home, <b>Exorcist</b>-style, causing the appearance of an angry teacher with a bucket of sand. We followed her progress back down the bus as she rhythmically broke wind with each footstep.<br />
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There had also been a not-to-be-forgotten family picnic to the Estate, also in the 1970s. After enduring a bank holiday tailback on an overheated East Midlands coach, we settled down <i>en mass</i> under a tree and beside a large cowpat. <i>En mass</i> we then gathered up the picnic and escaped the flies that were happily attacking the cheese and tomato baps. At greater speed we then ran as fast as we could from the herd of cows menacingly trotting towards us. Not the best of days.<br />
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Since then, there have been a few visits including a horribly depressing Christmas when there was nothing much to do other than shuffle along the river bank in drizzle and a more recent visit to the pre-Christmas market which featured drenched choristers belting out <b>Ding dong merrily on high, </b>water gushing from their nostrils<b>,</b> in a torrential rainstorm. How we laughed. From inside the restaurant.<br />
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This time though, I was actually setting foot in the house, the seat of the Devonshires. Imposing entrance gave way to odd rock collections and odder art. A madwoman next to me insisted on capturing everything on her phone, presumably because the folks back in Hokumpokum Nebraska will be agog at endless pictures of an amateur geologist's findings. Upstairs there was great excitement as we milled around the doorway leading to the bedroom where JFK once slept. "I don't think Jackie stayed in that room although she might have done" muttered a woman clutching a guide book.<br />
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Before long we arrive at the Cecil Beaton exhibition feature the late Dowager Duchess, known by the family as 'Debo' (the Devonshires that is, not my family. I did meet 'Debo' back in the 1980s and have a hazy memory of having bowed and curtsied to her at the same time). Deborah was the youngest of the Mitford girls and seemingly the most sensible. She helped establish Chatsworth as the 'must see' destination it is today. Beaton's photos gave an insight into the life of Debo and her never-ending 'country set' guest list. Apparently she insisted that all house guests be 'interesting' and one can only wonder at the musings of Noel Coward and Vita Sackville-West at the dinner table.<br />
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Anyway, that was that. Box ticked, house visited. I celebrated with a jacket spud in the House's tasteful restaurant as I was entertained by a middle-class dad imploring little Molly and Isla to 'please sit down. Please, for Daddy'. I found them mildly 'interesting' but I fear that dear old Debo wouldn't have given them house room.Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-60080748947663735712015-12-29T08:43:00.002-08:002015-12-29T08:43:32.751-08:00Black and white and read all overIt's been another year of groaning bookshelves. I recall wittering on last year about the number of unread tomes piled high in my spare room. 2015 saw me add to them. Not that I'm complaining. I love the idea of having so many to browse.<br />
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I'm a few pages away from finishing my festive read, Somerset Maugham's <b>Christmas Holiday</b>. Admittedly, I knew nothing about the book and it soon transpired that the story had little to do with Christmas. There's a bit of murder, a bit of finger-wagging at fascism and a gentle snigger at art snobs. Maugham wrote this in 1939 and it seems apt that I end the year with a book from that decade, given that I began it with Geoffrey Houeshold's <b>Rogue Male</b>. This was a tale of escape told at quite a gallop and despite the title, this bunch of rogues were often gentlemen.<br />
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The joy of any year is coming across something that has been in print for years but which you've never got around to reading. Or not as the case may be. I eagerly got stuck into Muriel Spark's <b>The Ballad of Peckham Rye</b> only to be left somewhat deflated. I didn't connect with the story at all, or with the oddly-named characters. Each chapter read like some theatrical performance and felt dated. Another which failed to hit the mark was Mike Pannett's musing on life in Yorkshire, <b>Now Then Lad</b>. Admittedly I grabbed this as an emergency read on Pickering railway station. Like the train I caught, the narrative ambled along without any sense of purpose. It was all bucolic mishaps and eccentric Yorkshire farmers. The only thing that resonated was the fact that I was travelling through many of the places Pannett wrote about.<br />
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The award for Bleakest Read of the Year, by a narrow margin, goes to Hubert Mingerelli's <b>A Meal in Winter.</b> This is a very simple tale about a group of German soldiers preparing a rudimentary meal in the depths of a Polish winter. Mingarelli manages to shock the reader in a quiet and efficient manner. The other Bleak Book was Nic Pizzolato's <b>Galveston</b>. Like Mingarelli, Pizzicato conjure up some wonderfully vivid landscapes. It's a collage of washed-out backdrops, cheap hotel rooms and heat-hazed beaches. This is one disturbing read.<br />
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Bobbing around in the Caribbean, I needed something much more light-hearted and so got stuck into Christopher Stephens' <b>Born Brilliant: The Life of Kenneth Williams</b>. I didn't imagine that there would be anything new under this particular sun. How wrong I was. Using correspondence between Williams and his friends plus reactions from those mentioned in the infamous diaries, Stephens managed to add flash to the bones of the familiar Kenneth Williams saga.<br />
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I also decided to tackle Hilary Mantel this year. Not physically, obviously. Hurling her to the ground during a literary awards dinner might have seemed a little drastic. No, a chunk of the year was spent getting to know Thomas Cromwell (or should that be Cremuel?) in <b>Wolf Hall </b>and <b>Bring Up the Bodies</b>. Both books managed to be absorbing and in places, truly shocking. The execution of Anne Boleyn was horrific. Mantel managed to make Tudor England an accessible place for the twenty first century reader.<br />
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There were a couple of excellent reads provided by Anne Tyler. She excels at the ordinary, family narrative and in particular, this was to the fore in <b>A Spool of Blue Thread</b>. Tyler pivots between wry humour and abject sadness but always manages not to be mawkish. As ever, I didn't want the story to end. Tyler always leaves you wanting to know what happened next.<br />
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In no particular order, other novels I trawled through in 2015 included:<br />
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Jiri Weil - <b>Life With a Star</b> - the grind of everyday life in Nazi-controlled Prague.<br />
Ben Aaronovitch - <b>Rivers of London</b> - the occult meets the London Met!<br />
Linda Grant - <b>Upstairs at the Party</b> - 1970s students and their subsequent life stories<br />
Joseph O' Connor - <b>The Thrill of It All</b> - rites of passage again, this time for 80s teenagers<br />
Patrick Gale - <b>A Place Called Winter</b> - Edwardian mental illness and stark Canadian landscapes<br />
E.F. Benson - <b>Mapp & Lucia </b>- sweet naughtiness amongst market town snobs<br />
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Plus many, many more. As ever, I begin another year with George Orwell's <b>The Road to Wigan Pier</b> glaring at me, unread, from the bookcase. The war of attrition continues.<br />
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Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-22928832164704232032015-10-26T13:08:00.001-07:002015-10-26T13:08:15.433-07:00Teddy's Boys<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So then to the Donmar Warehouse in Covent Garden and the Christopher Shinn play, <b>Teddy Ferrara</b>. As is the case with Donmar productions, less is more. No real set other than some doors, a few chairs and the odd pizza.<br />
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I knew the bare bones of this play - political activism amongst various gay students at an American college. There was the earnest one (Drew), the slightly shallow one (Gabe), the misfit one (Teddy), the unlucky-in-love wheelchair user (Jay) and the closet (Tim). In amongst these was the college's President with an eye on a senate seat, the angry salad-munching lecturer Ellen and the slightly dull Provost.<br />
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Unrequited love played its part and the underlying fickleness of all the main protagonists is what really let this play down. The entire production had the downbeat feel of one of those interminable 1990s films where the 'gay one' always dies, whether by suicide or AIDS. See <b>Ordinary People </b>or <b>Longtime Companion</b> for such misery. That's not to take away from the performances of those involved. Oliver Johnstone as Drew excelled as the serious young man maintaining his 'non-scene' stance. Ryan McParland's canker-laden Teddy made for painful viewing at times. Also a great turn from former <b>Coronation Street </b>actor Pamela Novete as the bitter Ellen.<br />
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The play ended with an odd scene which felt as though it had been grafted on at the last minute. It bore little relation to the rest of the story and provided no reason as to why one particular character acted the way he did. Rousing applause for the cast though, even if the audience seemed a little perplexed as it exited stage left into the wet London night.Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-54030715685196091332015-09-22T12:17:00.004-07:002015-09-22T12:17:55.542-07:00"And after the break . . ." Happy 60th ITV<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yes, it's time to break open the bubbly and blow up the balloons as the 'light' channel, ITV, celebrates sixty glorious years of existence. Well, maybe forty of them were glorious but let's not quibble.<br />
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Scrub that. Let's quibble. For me, the ITV of 2015 is a very different creature from the one I knew and loved in days of yore. However much I try, I feel it highly unlikely that I will ever look back on <b>The Cube </b>with misty-eyed fondness or hanker for the good old days of <b>Doc Martin</b>. Nevertheless, someone will.<br />
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For me ITV is firmly stuck in the seventies and eighties, providing a backdrop to childhood and adolescence. More so than BBC, ITV became our default channel and that meant hoovering up everything on offer from our local network, Yorkshire Television. Ah - the chevron logo, the strident brass fanfare . . . and then something as innocuous as <b>Farmhouse Kitchen</b>. Forget Mary Berry - we had Dorothy Sleightholme back in the day, shuffling around her faux country kitchen, preparing Christmas puddings in September. Bless her. In fact, many ITV memories seem to stem from those illicit moments spent watching daytime telly whilst perched on the sofa 'being ill'. A sick day (or two) usually meant the appearance of the 'sickness blanket', the vomit-inducing Lucozade in a crinkly amber wrapper and several hours of ITV.<br />
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The 'For Schools and Colleges' programmes ranged from the staggeringly dull to the petrifying. Remember the eerie them tune to <b>Picture Box</b> accompanied by a close up of Alan Rothwell? Or the ear-piercing screech on <b>Experiment</b> as the narrator instructed us to 'write it down'? Things improved at lunchtime with <b>Rainbow</b> (camp pink hippo, nasty old Zippy and hair bear Bungle), <b>Pipkins</b> (camp Hartley Hare, a Brummie pig, thieving monkey) or <b>Hickory House</b> (Alan Rothwell again). Best of all though were the shows aimed at the seventies housefrau such as <b>Good Afternoon</b>. This was a cornucopia of delights as Judith Chalmers or Mary Parkinson chatted with the likes of George Melly and Katie Boyle before offering up some consumer advice. Victoria Wood mercilessly sent this format up in the 1980s. Even more engaging was <b>Houseparty</b>, which was basically <b>Loose Women</b> on soft furnishings. The show would begin with the ding-dong of a doorbell which cued Mavis Nicholson to start mentioning the word 'womb' before segueing nicely into a discussion on flapjack recipes with Elaine Grand.<br />
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ITV was also the home for the dramas we, as a family, consumed avidly. I was too young for the original airing of <b>Upstairs Downstairs</b> but watched the re-runs in the mid 1970s. Ditto <b>A Family at War </b>with the haunting theme tune and the closing credits focusing on a sand castle on a beach bedecked with a Union Flag. We gathered at supper-time to feast on <b>Brideshead Revisited</b>, <b>Born and Bred</b> or the latest US import such as <b>Hill Street Blues</b>. 7.30 pm was reserved on Mondays and Wednesdays for <b>Coronation Street,</b> in an era where the pub and shop didn't burn down or explode with monotonous regularity. If Ena Sharples' hair-net blew off, it was the talk of the playground the next day.<br />
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And we laughed. ITV kept us in stitches with saucy yet funny sitcoms such as <b>Man About the House</b>, <b>Two's Company </b>and <b>Rising Damp</b>. We found endless amusement tittering at Richard Wilson in <b>Only When I Laugh</b> or Peggy Mount playing yet another gorgon in <b>You're Only Young Twice</b>. At a time when, as a ten year old, I had little idea of the concept of political correctness, I found joy in <b>Mind Your Language.</b> Not so funny now though.<br />
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So thank you ITV - thanks for <b>Crown Court</b>, for Googie Withers in <b>Within These Walls</b>, for Meg Mortimer singing 'We All Need a Little Christmas' on the festive <b>Crossroads</b>, for Susan Stranks on <b>Magpie</b>, for the <b>News at 5.45</b> with Leonard Parkin, for Dennis Norden every Bank Holiday, for Michael Aspel, Una Stubbs and co on <b>Give Us A Clue</b>, for <b>Emmerdale Farm</b> when it just about Amos Brierley and sheep-dip, for <b>World of Sport </b>and the endless diving from Accapulco, for the terrifying theme tune to <b>World in Action</b>, for <b>New Faces </b>every Saturday night, for <b>Opportunity</b> <b>Knocks</b> every Monday night, for Benny Hill, for the <b>Krypton Factor</b> and it's assault course, for <b>Selwyn Froggatt,</b> for Thora Hird's <b>In Loving Memory,</b> for dippy World War One drama <b>Flambards</b>, for Sooty & Sweep (with and without Harry Corbett0, for <b>Name That Tune</b>, for the unfathomable clues on <b>3-2-</b>1, for the old ladies forever winning power boats on <b>Bullseye</b>, for Jack Hargreaves and Bunty Miller on <b>How</b>, for Richard Whiteley and Austin Mitchell reading the local news on <b>Calendar</b>. Thank you ITV for accompanying my formative years. I enjoyed them.<br />
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<br />Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-49448330586590898632015-09-20T06:17:00.000-07:002015-09-20T06:17:18.600-07:00Where the streets have no name<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here we are then, teetering on the edge of the season of mists and mellow fruits . . . or something. The kiddies are safely ensconced in school, the summer holidays are just a memory and <b>Downton Abbey</b> is about to enslave our Sunday evenings for one final season.<br />
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Like many people I know, September seems to being on a rush of activities. It's the knowledge that the good weather, such as it is, is about to blow southerly and that CHRISTMAS is just around the corner. We feel the need to fill up those dark nights and chilly weekends. For me then, a splash of music, a West End play and a winter visit to Britain's most famous street. Yes, that <b>Street</b>. Over the past twenty five years I've made several pilgrimages to the <b>Corrie</b> cobbles, both old and new. Some have been as a member of tour groups and others as part of a small group. There is something thrilling yet strangely odd about shuffling around <b>Coronation Street</b> when there is no one else around. I half expected Rita to come bowling out of the shop or Liz to be propped up outside the Rovers having a fag break. Needless to say, I forgot that it wasn't real and began jabbering on as if the characters were. More power to the show for making me a believer.<br />
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Of course, <b>Corrie</b> is a world away from reality nowadays but maybe it did have more in common with the Salford backstreets when it began in 1960. Although we can't shuffle back in time to experience it ourselves, I did the next best thing last week and paid a visit to the Photographers' Gallery in London. <b>Women and Children and Loitering Men</b> is an exhibition of the work of Shirley Baker, Salford-born and renowned for the works she did during the 60s and 70s. Baker managed to capture the essence of the disappearing Salford. No cosy old dears with hairnets on display, rather the grim end of a way of life. At the time, Baker worried that in fifty years time, her pictures would be judged as being nostalgic or even worse, obsolete. However, it's difficult not to feel some sort of nostalgia, especially if you lived in s similar area.<br />
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The women portrayed in Baker's photographs leave the strongest impression. Sat on doorsteps chatting, each one bedecked in the aprons and 'pinnys' of that era. Even the older ladies, beyond working age, were still dressed for domestic battle. Salford is seen as an area of derelict shops, netted bay windows, waste ground and grubby kids. Rising, as the backdrop to all of this, the unloved tower blocks.<br />
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A few of Baker's photos show pubs and shops, grimly hanging on in areas where everything around them had been bulldozed. The paintwork and windows are clean, the curtains are neat and yet everything else has gone. How long would these businesses, with their hopeful, pristine exteriors, survive?<br />
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What we don't know is whether or not the inhabitants of these long-forgotten streets were happy to leave it all behind. Did they miss the outside lavs, the tin baths and the filthy back alleys? Did they pine for kitchen ranges and coal fires? Probably not but people did miss their communities and what Baker achieves is to show us the slow dismantling of such communities. The exhibition was fascinating and many of the exhibits can be seen in her book <b>Women and Children and Loitering Men.</b><br />
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Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-83581235860549314892015-05-02T08:20:00.001-07:002015-05-02T08:31:16.536-07:00We are the worst people: Songs from Europe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's just three weeks until the delights of the <b>Eurovision Song Contest 2015</b> are upon us. Well, not quite as some of the participating countries chose their entries last November. Eurovision - the gift that keeps on giving.<br />
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This year's is the sixtieth event and will be beamed to us from some anonymous looking stadium in Vienna. No doubt it will feature many familiar scenes - three presenters bellowing "Good evening Europe!" in unison. An audience of balding middle-aged men wearing unflattering Holister t-shirts. An interval act that leaves us shrugging with bemusement. A confused looking septuagenarian couple waiting for Katie Boyle to make an appearance.The usual stuff.<br />
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Given that we are celebrating sixty years of all things song contest, much of what is on offer is reminiscent of something else. For Sweden see Aviici, Belgium (Lorde), Latvia (FKA twigs) and the UK (Peters & Lee). Whereas Eurovision used to be very much a brand in its own, pleasingly naff, right, nowadays the contest is often an echo of the mainstream pop charts.<br />
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It's fair to say that some of the songs can be dismissed. Some more easily than others. In preparation for this article I plugged myself into Albania's entry, "I'm alive" sung by Elhaida Dani. I forgot every nano-second of it so listened again. Then forgot it again. No grand final for the plucky Albanians this time. We can also probably wave a less than fond farewell to Switzerland's "Time to shine". Singer Melanie Rene may be polishing this particular turd for a while in order for it to glisten in any way at all. Portugal's Leonor Andrade managed to win her local final by failing to hit the right note for three minutes. Also seemingly doomed is Hungary's turgid plea for peace, "Wars for nothing", a song so banal that I wanted to launch a missile at it.<br />
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In years gone by many countries stuck tirelessly to long-held musical stereotypes. The Greek entries always veered towards taverna pop, Israel fielded numerous Hava Nagila/Hokey Cokey combinations and Belgium . . . well, whatever. This year it falls to Montenegro's Knez to serve up something moody and Balkan with a slightly shouty chorus and some stringed instrument gamely being plucked in the background. It's old skool song contest and I love it.<br />
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Saccharine Disney-by-numbers ballads have featured for many years and the prime offenders this year are Spain and Russia. The Spanish entry, 'Amanecer' performed by Edurne promises much yet manages to deliver little, save for the endless utterings of 'corazon' and some drums. Russia, meanwhile, offer us blue-eyed, blonde-haired Polian Gagarina who seemingly kicks off her effort with the line "We are the worst people". Who are we to argue? No doubt there will be there traditional annual booing of the Russian entry whether it be for incursions into Ukraine (who are not participating this year) or the country's lousy record on LGBT issues. Why waste breath booing? Just stand in silence - a much weightier message. Songwise though, Russia ticks every Euro box - stomach churning lyrics, key changes, thunderous ending. Anyone fancy a trip to Socchi next year?<br />
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Russia aside, the hot favourites for 2015 appear to be Sweden, Italy and ... err, Australia! Yes, in honour of the 60th contest, the Aussies are being allowed in this year. Their entry is deceptively simple in an Olly Murrs kind of way. No clever tricks or sickly lyrics here - just a rather catchy pop tune. Guy Sebastian may just have what it takes to make "Tonight again" this year's winner. Italy has opted for popera, that rather dubious Il Divo musical pottage popular with the likes of "Britain's Got Talent" audiences. Indeed, the Italian entrants are called Il Volo and "Grande amore" is exactly what you would expect of this genre. Their biggest challenge though is from five times winners, Sweden. Måns Zelmerlöw's "Heroes" is about as relevant to the charts as a song can be and though it seems to have many detractors, the Swedish entry is the one that sounds most like a winner. Which means it will probably finish 11th.<br />
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Of the rest, you can look forward to a woman in a wedding dress and chunky headphones (Slovenia), the world's oldest looking 16 year old (Israel), two separate entries called "Warrior" (Georgia and Malta), some large specs (Cyprus), a second consecutive year of long hair and a beard (Austria) and huge cleavage (both his and hers from the Czech Republic).</div>
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As for the UK, well at least we go into the contest with singers who can perform and who are not trying to jump start a flagging career. David Mindel's "Still in love with you" will be performed by Electro Velvet, out first male/female duo since . . . well, since that year we came 26th with no points whatsoever. No chance of that happening this year though and we will steel ourselves for a possible spot on the left-hand side of the scoreboard.</div>
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Viel Glück in Wien!</div>
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Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-25166079598263510702014-12-14T06:20:00.000-08:002014-12-14T06:20:28.435-08:00Rescheduling Christmas Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There's been much gnashing of teeth and clasping of hands over the past few weeks, particularly in the House of Commons, over something vitally important to the nation. Global warming? No. International terrorism? No. George Osbourne's 'Gladys Pugh' hairdo? Thrice no. MPs were having a collective strop about the state of Britain's Christmas TV schedule. A speedy calculation from some boff confirmed that 63% of TV output over the festive season consists of repeats. <br />
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As usual, there was the maudlin harking back to TV Christmas past and wonderful it all was. How we all gathered, bathed in nostalgia, to praise the programmes lovingly crafted for us by Auntie Beeb and her common sister-in-law, ITV. Was it all that great though?<br />
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Our first port of call then is 1974, a land of horrible clothes and multiple general elections. The BBC's festive fare had all the appeal of a scabby turkey. As ever, they kicked things off with one of those mawkish visits to a children's home. That particular year it was in the company of Rolf Harris. A-hem. With a Savile-fronted <strong>Top of the Pops</strong> soon to follow, it's a surprise that the entire schedule hasn't been consigned to a wicker man and burnt. The big film of the day was that Christmas favourite <strong>True Grit</strong>, boring us all nicely for almost four hours. For the Beeb, the big turn of the day was Frank Spencer in a festive <strong>Some Mothers Do 'Ave</strong> <strong>'Em</strong>. Fifty minutes of misunderstandings and pratfalls.<br />
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Aside from a <strong>Parkinson</strong> special on Morecambe & Wise (there was no Christmas special from them in 1974), all BBC1 could offer was <strong>Bridge Over the River Kwai</strong>. Nothing like a bit of festive war to warm the cockles.<br />
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Given the BBC's shoddy line-up, maybe 1974 would be ITV's year? Well, they began with their perennial non-favourite, <strong>A Merry Morning</strong>. Here we had Leslie Crowther shuffling around the wards of a children's hospital. Another finger-wagging 'lest we forget' moment. Opposing 'the Pops' on BBC1, ITV had Kid Jensen fronting <strong>45</strong> (remember that?) with guests including - the Bay City Rollers! One Direction in tartan flares,for those under twenty. At least ITV had the decency to wheel out a family film, namely <strong>Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines</strong>. Hurrah! However, this tactical lead petered away thanks to <strong>Meet Peters & Lee</strong> at 5.45. Thirty minutes of comedy and song . . . apparently. ITV then ploughed on with a Tommy Cooper special and <strong>This Is Your Life</strong> before admitting defeat with <strong>The Undefeated</strong>, another festive outing for John Wayne.<br />
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A fairly dreary mid-seventies menu of nothing then. Had things improved by 1984? BBC1 had ditched its 'weep for the children' slot in favour of Noel Edmonds and <strong>The Late Late Breakfast Show</strong>. Ninety minutes of live broadcasting from Telecom Tower in London may not have been the greatest of ideas but full marks to Auntie for trying something different. They did the same with <strong>Top of the Pops</strong> by ditching all involvement with Radio One DJs and thus the featured acts introduced each other. <strong>Mary Poppin</strong>s was the day's big film, cheery family stuff, followed by Les Dawson's <strong>Blankety Blank</strong>. Dawson had replaced Terry Wogan earlier that year and had garnered an audience of twelve million. A decent figure then but massive by 2014 standards. The BBC evening rattled on with camp goings on in <strong>Hi De Hi</strong>, a Paul Daniel's magic show and the highly successful bitter-sweet comedy <strong>Just Good Friends</strong>. Wogan brought things to a close with guests including Elton John and Victoria Principal.<br />
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Over on ITV we were in the era of Roland Rat on TV-AM. Still probably better than cameras on paediatric wards though. Things rumbled on in a dull manner with the likes of a Torvill and Dean ice show and the James Bond film <strong>The Man With the Golden Gun</strong> - which had been ITV's Christmas Day film just four years earlier! To accompany the mince pies and hangovers, the parlour game <strong>Give Us a Clue</strong> was rolled out (Wayne Sleep, Julie Walters and Bernie Winters featured). ITV then spent almost two hours remembering the late Eric Morecambe before serving up <strong>Raiders of the Lost Ark</strong>. A decent stab at a festive schedule but nowhere near as good as the BBC.<br />
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Christmas Day 1994 fell on a Sunday and so BBC1 clung to some of its standard programming such as <strong>Songs of Pr</strong>aise (featuring Marti Caine in Lapland and a house party with Don Maclean) and rather oddly, the <strong>EastEnders</strong> omnibus at lunchtime. The <strong>Top of the Pops</strong> special was hosted by Take That and no doubt they will feature on the 2014 show too. There's progress for you. After the Queen, the Beeb gave us one of those Noel Edmonds weep-a-thons followed by <strong>Animal Hospital</strong> (really?) <strong>The Wrong Trousers</strong>, <strong>Keeping Up Appearances</strong> and the usual cheerless festive edition of <strong>EastEnders</strong> served as a warm-up for the big film, <strong>Robin Hood - Prince of Thieves</strong>. Yawn. Anyone fancy a bit of Christmas cake? Oh where was I? <strong>Birds of a Feather</strong>, a Victoria Wood special and Eddie Murphy in <strong>Trading Places</strong> followed. Well done the BBC!<br />
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ITV tried to tempt us with an early afternoon 'made for TV' movie starring Ed Asner. OK. Oddly there were regional opt-outs for the big movie, some showing <strong>Mary Poppins</strong> (again) while others plumped for <strong>The Empire Strikes Back</strong>. The Disney production of <strong>Sleeping Beauty</strong> followed and then we were into <strong>Coronation Street</strong>, the hoary old dating show <strong>Blind Date</strong> and pedestrian-yet-popular <strong>Heartbeat</strong>. Stodgy fare but a decent attempt to outdo the Beeb.<br />
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In 2004, Reggie Yeates and Fearne Cotton hosted their first Christmas Day <strong>Top of the Pops</strong>. They are still there today. Handing out the Christmas presents and weepy stories was Dale Winton, stepping into Noel's very tiny shoes. A popular concept which was perhaps outstaying its welcome by 2004. BBC1's big afternoon film was <strong>102 Dalmatians</strong> after which Alistair McGowan served up a <strong>Big Impression</strong>. The came two and a half hours of <strong>Harry Potter</strong>. Someone must like it. Slap bang in the middle of prime time came an hour long <strong>EastEnders</strong> which managed to top the ratings despite being not so good. Both French and Saunders then featured on BBC1 - although not together. <strong>The Vicar of Dibley</strong> was followed by <strong>Absolutely Fabulous</strong>. Both great comedies but which were nearing the end of the line.<br />
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ITV's 2004 afternoon kicked off after HM with Martin Clunes in <strong>Goodbye Mister Chips</strong>, a period drama. Well it made a change from James Bond. Harry Hill was now in charge of <strong>You've Been Framed</strong>, a welcome addition to the big day unlike ratings juggernaut <strong>Who Wants to Be a Millionaire</strong> which was finally running out of steam. Only half an hour for <strong>Emmerdale</strong> in 2004 but a full sixty minutes for Karen McDonald's <strong>Coronation Street</strong> departure. ITV then waved the white flag and admitted defeat by throwing out <strong>Midsomer Murders</strong> and the newly-defected <strong>Parkinson</strong>. The BBC had won the day yet again.<br />
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There we go then. Christmas past. Whether the likes of <strong>Doctor Who</strong>, <strong>Strictly Come Dancing</strong> and Paul O'Grady's <strong>For the Love of Dogs</strong> can match the success of yesteryear is yet to be seen. We will probably have forgotten them by Boxing Day though.<br />
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Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-68365661876431972902014-11-09T06:36:00.003-08:002014-11-09T06:36:54.196-08:00Read all about itIt's that 'funny' time of year. I have now entered that zone where no further purchases can be made, 'just in case someone buys it for you for Christmas'. The advent of Peter Andre buying a prawn crown in Iceland and another slightly mawkish John Lewis ad (someone should dip that penguin in chocolate . . .) and we are just about ready to ding dong merrily on high.<br />
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No more book purchases then. Which is perhaps a good thing, given that there is a bookcase in the spare room stuffed with tomes waiting to be read. The epic hardback about the history of Jerusalem, some Stephen King pot-boiler a paperback about countryside walks in Palestine - some are new editions, others have mouldered on the shelves for years. Absolutely no reason to go out an buy more then. <br />
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The approach to Christmas, where reading material is concerned, has to be a carefully considered one for me. I've always though that the weeks leading up to turkey and the <strong><em>Doctor Who</em></strong> special require the literary equivalent to mood music. To this end, I've got Jostein Gaarder's <strong><em>The Christmas Mystery</em></strong> standing by. Previous years reveal other such festive offerings on display. There have been a couple of Stella Gibbons novels, namely <strong><em>Cold Comfort Farm</em></strong> and <strong><em>Christmas at Cold Comfort Farm</em></strong>. If you really want to nestle down in a tale of family festivities, then there is none better than India Knight's <strong><em>Comfort & Joy</em></strong>. You can almost smell the mince pies and mulled wine. One year I opted for John Braine's magnificent Room at the Top. It's not particularly festive but has a kind of northern bleakness that resonates. Although I didn't grow up in the book's time-frame, it somehow reminds me of home and that's always a good thought to have at Christmas.<br />
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If you don't want to wallow in sentiment, then a good alternative is David Park's <strong><em>The Light of Amsterdam</em></strong>. This is a tidy little tale of various people heading to the Dutch capital in December, all with their own hopes for Christmas but also with their own worries. <br />
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Looking back over the year's reads and I see a fairly mixed bunch. Three of my highlights feature authors whose use of language was at best, sparing. Denis Johnson's <strong><em>Train Dreams</em></strong> is the beautifully written story of a labourer living in the unforgiving American west, in the early twentieth century. Also proving that less-is-more was <strong><em>The Bookshop</em></strong>, a taut tale of small town rivalries in Suffolk, penned by Penelope Fitzgerald. Brevity of language was also what endeared Tobias Wolff's <strong><em>Old School</em></strong> to me. Again, we are presented with a story of competition but perhaps the outcome is a little more positive.<br />
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The worst read for this year was Richard Milward's <em><strong>Kimberly's Capital Punishment</strong></em>. The premise is fairly bleak to begin with (suicide) but the story evolves in such a nonsensical way that it was a joy to finish reading it. Maybe one for the charity shop or the recycling bin. <br />
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Otherwise, there have been one or two gems. In no particular order, here are ten that I have enjoyed in 2014:<br />
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Malcolm Bradbury - <strong><em>The History Man</em></strong><br />
Alan Johnson - <strong><em>This Boy</em></strong><br />
Peter Robinson - <strong><em>Abbatoir Blues</em></strong><br />
Kevin Maher - <strong><em>The Fields</em></strong><br />
J.L. Carr - <strong><em>A Month in the Country</em></strong><br />
A.M. Homes - <strong><em>May We Be Forgiven</em></strong><br />
David Sedaris - <strong><em>Let's Explore Diabetes With Owls</em></strong><br />
Armistead Maupin - <strong><em>The Days of</em></strong> <strong><em>Anna Madrigal</em></strong><br />
Bret Easton Ellis - <strong><em>American Psycho</em></strong><br />
Karl Taro Greenfeld - <strong><em>Triburbia</em></strong><br />
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Just a selection then, but a few varied titles that have accompanied me on commutes into the City, holidays, train journeys and weekends on the sofa. Whether I attack the Mighty Unread in that bookcase next year remains to be seen.Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-47141187301089475452014-05-03T09:00:00.004-07:002014-05-03T09:00:51.066-07:00In Molly we trust<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Twelve months ago I found myself in the delightful situation of travelling across the Oresund Bridge aka <strong><em>The Bridge</em></strong> from Copenhagen to Malmo. This wasn't just any old tourist trip but a sacred pilgrimage to the <strong>Eurovision Song Contest</strong>. Within the confines of the Malmo Arena I feasted on a lumpy German dance diva, a world-weary Dutch woman emoting about birds, a Norwegian feeding us her love and Bonnie Tyler. Poor old Bonnie. The highpoint of the UK's evening was seven hard-earned points from Ireland and just a further sixteen from the rest of Europe. Oh the shame. Again. Denmark won with the drum and tin whistle epic served up by the highly forgettable Emmelie de Forest. This year then, a trip back across <strong><em>The Bridg</em></strong>e to wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen and some disused factory.<br />
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The BBC have seemingly risen to the challenge of finding a worthy UK entrant this year. No more flicking through their directory of cabaret contacts. Oh no. Instead we have Molly. Here's a woman who knows her craft and has written the entry herself. She's emerged from the same arena that launched Florence & the Machine and Jake Bugg onto the world. There is more to new talent than mind-numbing Saturday night talent shows. Ironic then that Molly now finds herself on the biggest Saturday night talent show of them all. Is Children of the Universe the right kind of song to appeal across Europe though?<br />
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The rest of the continent probably thinks it has it nailed too. To my weary ears, the overall standard seems to be much better than last year. Europe's legion of Eurofans seem to think that Scandinavia has it in the bag again. Sweden's Sanna Nielsen has certainly worked that ticket - she's been trying for the contest since 2001. <strong><em>Undo</em></strong> is one of those slightly depressing ballads that tend to surface on Celine Dion albums. Also rated is Norway's Carl Espen with a wrist-slitting dirge, the likes of which we haven't seen since the last John Lewis Christmas advert. <br />
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Maybe the pick of the ballads coms from Austria's Conchita Wurst, resplendent in golden gown and a nice black beard. Seriously. Conchita's campaign for tolerance is laudable but she also has a cracker of a song. <strong><em>Rise like a phoenix</em></strong> is Bond-esque but its success will depend on how voters cope with the visual aspect of Conchita.<br />
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Shouty, bold women are to the fore this year. Macedonia's Tijana (lumbered with a song which rhymes 'to the sky' with 'you and I') has been bested by Italy's top pop diva Emma who in turn is succeeded by Israel's Mei Finegold. The latter is a one woman homage to strutting and meaty thighs. Mei's entry, <strong><em>Same heart</em></strong>, should see Israel in the final after a four year absence.<br />
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If it's pure fun that you are after then look no further than Poland. Saucy minxes perform a tongue-in-cheek slice of naughtiness which has already registered around 40 million hits on You Tube. Great tune too and the whole thing is in keeping with the spirit of Eurovision. Katie Boyle would be proud. Cash-strapped Greece are offering up some fun too with the kind of song that pumps out in gyms across the world. As if to emphasise the point, the singers have brought along an Olympic trampoline star to bounce along during their performance of <strong><em>Rise up</em></strong>. Silly but fun.<br />
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There are no real obvious 'nil point' contenders this year although Ireland's tin whistles and Riverdance effort may be down near the bottom of the Euro barrel. Add to that Latvia's paean to cake-baking (they need Mary Berry on the jury for that to work) and Switzerland's irritating whistler and there are your weakest links.<br />
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Who could win then? Hungary are highly fancied even if their song deals with the less than Eurovision friendly subject of child abuse. <strong><em>Running</em></strong> by Andras Kallay-Saunders is well-performed and as contemporary as you get. Dilara Kazimva of Azerbaijan has a superb, emotional ballad that may resonate across the continent. I'm sticking some money on Malta though. <strong><em>Coming home</em></strong> by Firelight has the right kind of Mumford-lite/Radio 2 sound to appeal to many. Importantly, they look as though they are enjoying themselves too.<br />
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For the hardy fan (me) there are a couple of semi-finals to plough through tis coming week before the main event on 10 May with Graham Norton taking on the delights of the disused factory, shouty women, Greeks on trampolines and the Go Compare man singing about his mother for Belgium. No doubt he will also be looking to see if the UK can sidle up the left-hand side of the scoreboard for once. In Molly we trust? Of course!<br />
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Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-53000534891747976252014-02-15T05:23:00.001-08:002014-02-15T05:23:08.325-08:00Raining on the BBC's paradeI wasn't the only person who, last last night, heard a plane making a terrifying noise over north east London. Storm-force winds were battering the capital and for a couple of spine-chilling moments, there was the fear that an aircraft might be in trouble. Thankfully, all was well and for more than one reason, let's be grateful that nothing more came of it, otherwise we would now be knee-deep in over-the-top news coverage.<br />
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The rains came this week and the unfolding horror story of swollen rivers and flooded homes was covered, particularly by the BBC, with a manic zeal. In order to emphasise the Armageddon factor, BBC news teams were sent to the front line. Cue a never-ending roster of rain-soaked, wind-blown reporters, flailing around on promenades, wading through living rooms, striding through sodden farmyards and generally over-egging a rather damp pudding.<br />
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Most of us are grateful that there is coverage but some of it seemed inane and more than a little dangerous. Do BBC reporters really have to stand on a beach with fearsome sea waves crashing around them? Are we to continually be treated to some hapless woman clutching at her North Face jackets whilst attempting to interview a member of the local council? Add to that the BBC new anchors, forever gesticulating and slowly shaking their heads from side to side in amazed reaction. "Can you believe it?" they seem to emoting as they stride around their red, plastic set. Seemingly the days of a straightforward presentation of the news are long gone. Sky News is a non-stop visual nightmare of BREAKING NEWS captions and whooshing sound effects, a constant babble of non-entities sat on the sofa while a disinterested anchor peers down on them from some form of news throne.<br />
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Luddite that I am, I hanker for the days of the restrained tones of Kenneth Kendall or Richard Baker, of correspondents safely seated in the studio or observing from a distance, of news studios decked out in beige. I really don't need every utterance to be preceded by a screeching orchestral fanfare prior to the appearance of an over-emoting news anchor whirling their hands around like a windmill in a gale. It's not clever. It's not interesting. It's not Jan Leeming.<br />
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Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-75146448614930126332013-11-23T04:00:00.003-08:002013-11-23T04:00:14.645-08:00Doctor! Doctor!Well there is no escaping from the cultural highlight of the weekend. I daresay many people are now wholeheartedly sick of the BBC's <strong><em>Doctor Who</em></strong> love-in. For an entire week we have been bombarded with clips of grainy 1960s film depicting an old man in a daft hat (or if you were watching the JFK coverage, Jackie Kennedy in a daft hat).<br />
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Were you ever scared of <strong><em>Doctor Who</em></strong> back in the day? I'm speaking literally. My first encounter with the Time Lord was way back in he mid seventies during Jon Pertwee's tenure. His depiction of the Doctor scared me witless. It must have been the combination of old, slightly gummy man, big cape, mad hair. Forget Cybermen and what-not. It was the Doctor himself who scared me rigid.<br />
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I had no problems with Tom Baker though. For me this was the imperial phase of the show. Tom's Doctor could be chilling but was also a bit of a laugh. Once you had navigated yourself past his terrifying 'eyes and teeth' combo, all was well with his universe. Yet our general memory of this era is one of tacky sets and cheap-looking monsters. The Doctor and his assistant, the latter seemingly always a short-skirted hysterical woman, spent entire episodes charging up and down corridors and dashing through up-and-under garage doors sprayed silver. The baddy was inevitably someone of the Beryl Reid ilk, wearing a futuristic polo-necked jumper with a few bit of old hosepipe jammed on her head. She was always an inhabitants of a planet with a name like Tharg. Then the assistants got camper (day-glo jumpsuits, air hostess outfits) and even the poor old Doctor himself was either portrayed as a buffoon or horribly sinister. I switched off.<br />
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1996 film aside, the new batch of Doctor stories have been a must for me. They epitomise good drama that works on several levels. For the kids, a chance to be scared my creepy things from other worlds and for mum and dad, a slice of fine storytelling. The calibre of the acting has been wonderful too. We have had three very different Doctors - the northern one in the leather jacket, the toothy one in the suit and the current bow-tied madcap incumbent. For me, Billie Piper as companion Rose was a revelation as was Karen Gillen's Amy Pond. No more screaming down B & Q-standard sets. <br />
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<strong><em>Doctor Who</em></strong> has always been about escapism and perhaps it's better not to over-analyse exactly what the show has come to represent over the years. There is no doubting its cultural impact and its successful 21st century renaissance but for me it's just a piece of rather good entertainment.<br />
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On the day of it's fiftieth anniversary we find the Doctor in rude health and preparing to head off into an unknown future in the guise of Peter Capaldi. Will you be watching? I will - and hopefully not from behind a sofa.<br />
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Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-62447204910180238812013-07-27T06:21:00.000-07:002013-07-27T06:21:18.439-07:00Six glorious weeks . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's the least wonderful time of the year. With a heavy heart this week came the realisation that school, as Alice Cooper once succinctly put it, is out. For the summer. God help us. Yes, the never-ending roster of discos, summer visits and end-of-term proms (don't get me started . . .) are over and the little darlings are now free to roam the streets until early September. In other words, they are free to blight our summer. By the time these precious darlings are safely locked behind the school gates, <strong><em>Blue Peter </em></strong>will be lighting the first candle on its Advent crown. <br />
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For those of us lucky enough to live in the nation's capital, this time of year offers something of a double-edged sword. I will rejoice, like Thatcher stumbling towards a bank of microphones, at the prospect of early morning Tube trains being a little quieter. Parents are off on their holidays which means more space for me to plonk myself down. Shops are quieter at the weekends, particularly Waitrose as all the teachers who normally fill the play are taking identical breaks in Provence. So far so good. However, the evening rush hour takes on nightmarish proportions. Already the Central Line, shimmering nicely in over 30 degrees of sweaty heat, must now find space for the weary, wan-faced grandparents hauling little Jake and Lucy back from a fascinating day at the British Museum. On they cram, jamming their bums on seats meant for haggard office workers with mean faces and thin lips. Enough of me for the moment though.<br />
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My own childhood memories of the six week break are, of course, bathed in the rosy glow of nostalgia. The break would always begin well, buffeted by the sheer relief that we didn't have to crouch over a slice of toast whilst listening to Wogan at 8 a.m. every day. Hurrah for that! There would be other signs of a change n the routine. Salads and the summery joy that was Instant Whip would make an appearance on the menu. Dad would suddenly be around for a week or so. Mum would shepherd us to the park with an array of tennis racquets and foiled-wrapped potted beef sandwiches. There would be the day trips to seemingly random places - Blackpool, Cheltenham and the ever-popular York. Also on the cards, the traditional visit to the local swimming pool with a friend and his mum, the latter of whom would appear poolside, decked out in a floral bathing cap and goggles. Oh the shame of it all.<br />
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Of course, there was always the chance to watch some holiday TV which back in the 1970s usually meant the insufferable <strong><em>Why Don't You?</em></strong> followed by the delights of <strong><em>Crown Court</em></strong> and <strong><em>Afternoon Plus</em></strong> where Mavis Nicholson would be looking at a new recipe for flapjack and saying 'womb' every few minutes.<br />
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The teenage years were much worse. I resented every day the sun shone and determinedly holed myself up in my attic bedroom, resplendent in heavy denim jeans and a jumper, playing pompous Ultravox LPs. A surly collection of us would eventually shuffle into town and slouch in front of Woolworths for a few hours, sneering at anyone who looked more than a year older than we were. Then on to the local park to watch the cricket we all loathed but which offered another chance to snort with derision. There would be the standard train journey to Blackpool, complete with the 'let's get lost in Manchester' option, those foiled-wrapped sandwiches, the Pleasure beach, the sunburn, the beer. Halcyon days!<br />
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Therefore, six week holiday kids of 2013, please remember to stay in doors and mooch around at home. get under your parents feet, whinge a bit about life being 'not fair' and endure the embarrassment of well-meant trips to the Natural History Museum. You have my full support but please, please don't be on my train at 5 p.m.Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-39809736760031035012013-05-05T08:05:00.001-07:002013-05-05T08:05:53.963-07:00Malmo or bust . . .Well, the musical joy that labours under the title <strong>58th Eurovision Song Contest</strong> gets a little closer. As we meander through this bank holiday weekend, delegations from across the continent are arriving in Malmo, Sweden. For them, Monday sees the start of an exhausting round of rehearsals, press conferences and alcohol. I both pity and envy them at the same time. Having been a Eurovision delegate on numerous occasions, I can only confirm that by end he end of proceedings, your liver is knackered and your brain addled from the never-ending verbal ordure spewed out by press and entrants alike. One year I was party to a British journalist asking a singer "Although you haven't heard the other songs yet, what do you think about them?"<br />
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Anyway, time for us to have a quick look at the offerings in the second semi-final which will be beamed into your homes by BBC3 on May 16th. Amongst the entries are two of the pre-contest favourites. Norway are fielding Margaret Berger with the very bleak <strong><em>I feed you my love</em></strong>. This is a stark piece of electro-pop and it certainly stands out. Possibly a little too worrying for some European ears though. Also highly favoured in 2013 is Georgia's drab-fest, <strong><em>Waterfall</em></strong>. This sounds as though it has been churned out by a computer, having been fed with all the ingredients need to dish up a Euroballad. Singers Nodie & Sopho have little charisma yet this charmless ditty could easily hoover up the votes should it make the final. Which of course it will.<br />
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At the other end of the scale we can feast on a handful of duff old clunkers such as Romania's truly stupefying entrant, Cezar. The worryingly high-pitched warbling of this gent could have Europe tittering into its <em>frites</em> within seconds. This one is camp and then some. Another entry that should cause jaws to drop is Latvia's <strong><em>Here we go</em></strong>. Lurching into parody from the word go, the song manages to rhyme numerous lines and engage in a bit of cod-rapping too. <br />
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Fan favourites in Eurovision often come a cropper so it's worth keeping an eye out for San Marino's Valentina Monetta. She represented her country last year with a song about social networking. This time she performs a musical 'cut and shut'. Two separate songs appear to have been welded together and the continent may find it difficult to decide which one they are voting for. Switzerland's entry was chosen in a contest staged before Christmas, so this song is already approaching vintage status. It's presentation has been radically overhauled following rule-breaking references to the Salvation Army (yes, I didn't realise they were so controversial either). Their entry, <strong><em>You and me</em></strong>, is anthemic yet slightly lazy, as it wanders up and down the musical keys. <br />
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For fun, the Greek entry ticks many boxes. <strong><em>Alcohol is free</em></strong>, oh irony, is performed ska-style by a bunch of blokes in kilts. This one will have the Malmo Arena on its feet. Also watch out for FYR Macedonia's 69 year old singer Esma who gives it some welly whilst her twenty-something co-singer does his best to ignore her.<br />
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Amongst the rest there is Malta's Gianluca singing an Olly Murs B-side, a woman in a wedding dress from Finland, an X Factor style 'winner's song' from Azerbaijan and a busty woman with Deirdre specs from Israel. <br />
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I shall be throwing a few kroner at Iceland's Eyþór Ingi Gunnlaugsson with his endearing Celtic ballad. Of course, it stands no chance whatsoever but is in a different league to the Romanian Rylan and the tambourine bashers from Switzerland. I wish him and his long hair the very best.Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-5925046975800644342013-03-29T08:26:00.000-07:002013-03-29T08:26:50.623-07:00The Terry Wogan memorial wig Eurovision preview <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For me at any rate, childhood Easter holidays always equated with the appearance of Terry Wogan in a sports jacket, sat on a beige set sniggering at that year's entries for the <strong><em>Eurovision Song Contest</em></strong>. As a family, it was a guilty pleasure to sit down and snigger along with him. The preview shows have long since been dispensed with by the BBC. Post-Wogan, they shuffled between Gloria Hunniford (inane), Ray Moore (controversial) and Ken Bruce (rather good) amongst others before a final, unpopular tenure under that slice of Scottish stodge, Lorraine Kelly.<br />
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Well, I've decided to bring them back. You need to picture me wearing a badly fitting wig, sat by a 1970s smoked-glass coffee table with a smirk on my face. All of the ditties mentioned can be found on You Tube but I'm far too lazy to bother including links.<br />
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Viewers in the UK can vote in the first semi-final which includes the following masterpieces.<br />
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Austria start things off with the musical equivalent of a teenager having a strop. Natalia Kelly, hailing from the USA region of Austria, should sail through without too much of a problem though.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5FkM6bMqNRF7LQbdyTflFpUT8esMU3F5luVzkLJpbm6jD4AzaZWJ8kcp98ha6mnve6aHMHJ1_JE_c5zbN2JHJW6dtPUuZle-yiI30ILk743OmcCt3_6xhga-obaiRmve3nO_bpkk8ek6-/s1600/Natalia+Kelly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5FkM6bMqNRF7LQbdyTflFpUT8esMU3F5luVzkLJpbm6jD4AzaZWJ8kcp98ha6mnve6aHMHJ1_JE_c5zbN2JHJW6dtPUuZle-yiI30ILk743OmcCt3_6xhga-obaiRmve3nO_bpkk8ek6-/s320/Natalia+Kelly.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>"It's not fair!" - Austria's Natalia Kelly</em></strong></td></tr>
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The clutch of dull-by-numbers ballads includes a charming if forgettable song from Estonia's Birgit Õigemeel and Russia's Dina Garipova who sounds as though she is just having a bit of a whinge. Cyprus also pitch in with <strong><em>An me thimase</em></strong>, a meandering effort, the memory of which evaporates as soon as you have heard the last note. <br />
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If you are looking for something different, try Anouk who's representing the Netherlands with <strong><em>Birds</em></strong>. It's a bit weird in an edgy, fairytale kind of way. Or how about Montenegro's rap act, Who See? The plucky Montenegrins still have not worked out what does and does not float the Euro-voters boat. Whilst daring to be different, it manages to marginalise itself out of existence.<br />
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Playing safe can also be a dangerous option as Denmark's Emmelie De Forest may discover. Her tin-whistle laden, breathy <strong><em>Only teardrops</em></strong>, is vintage middle-of-the-road Eurovision. Currently it is favourite to win the whole thing and it certainly has charm. Another one to keep an ear open for is Ireland's Ryan Dolan. it would appear that the Irish have finally escaped from their recent comedy entries and are taking things seriously. <strong><em>Only love survives</em></strong> is about as contemporary as dance numbers get.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Not Jedward for Ireland . . .</em></strong></td></tr>
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Slovenia pushes the envelope a bit further with some dubstep but singer Hannah Mancini gives a shouty performance. Near neighbours Croatia have assembled a bunch of blokes who specialise in the traditional klapa performance, often heard whilst staggering around Split. Despite the title, <strong><em>Mizerija</em></strong> doesn't wallow in self-loathing and it's quite a cheery performance from Klapa s Mora.<br />
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If it's Eurotrash that takes your fancy, then feast your eyes on Serbia's Moje 3. Take three unsure female vocals, add some inappropriate clothing and let them bellow at the cameras for three minutes. Their entry, <strong><em>Ljubav je svuda</em></strong>, could quite easily be the stuff of which musical car crashes are made of. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Cheap Spice . . . from Serbia</em></strong></td></tr>
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Of the remaining entries, there is something vaguely electronic and eighties from Lithuania's top-hatted Andrijus Pojavis, a truly nasty holiday song shoutalong from Belarus' singer Alyona Lanskaya and a droning ballad from Zlata Ognevich of Ukraine. <br />
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Ten of the sixteen masterpieces will qualify for the grand final in Malmö on May 18th. I'll take a dip into the second semi-final as well as taking a peak at the six guaranteed finalists, soon.Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-88047095624289172222013-03-16T09:44:00.000-07:002013-03-16T09:44:05.944-07:00Mad march days . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I could use this blog to drone on about the weather. I could use it to drone on about the people I know who are forever droning on about the weather. It's weather. We have it every day. End of story. Still, living in the capital, I also have to contend with people chewing over every minute of their train journey into the city. "Ooh the 7.06 came in at 7.10 and so some other woman was stood in my space on the platform and I didn't get my regular seat three quarters of the way down the carriage and . . ." SHUT UP!! I don't need to know these excruciating details! <br />
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Anyway, enough of that. As a non-Catholic I was mildly interested in the election of a new pope this week, in the same way that an appearance of a new <strong><em>Blue Peter</em></strong> presenter still has the power to intrigue me. For BBC News, it was a chance to speculate, ad nauseum, about who the new pontiff might be. Would he be from Africa (flick to Oddschecker to see what's being offered on Peter Turkson)? Could it be the comedy cardinal from Boston. According to some grim-faced harridan in St Peter's Square, no. The church isn't ready for an American, she prissily stated. Long after the white smoke had been blown to the four winds, as my eyes focused on a balcony and my mind wondered if the new man would emerge in one of those papal Vera Wang gowns, out toddled . . . another old man. Yes, 85 year old Benedict XVI had made way for 76 year old Pope Francis I. The BBC frothed and waxed lyrical about his status as a Jesuit, his humility and so on. Would he be a liturgy man like Benedict or more approachable and jolly like John XVIII? By now it was time for <strong><em>Coronation Street</em></strong> so that was as far as I got. Anyway, I wish him well and hope that eventually, I won't keep thinking I'm looking at Jim Bowen in fancy dress.<br />
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More importantly though, I'm gearing up for the <strong><em>Eurovision</em></strong> season. In reality, the season began last autumn but by Monday we will have the full list of runners and riders from 39 countries. I think it's fair to say that 2013 is far from a classic year. Amongst the shrieking Bulgarians and prog-rock Albanians sits our own challenger for Malmö, Bonnie Tyler. For those of us of a certain age, she will forever be associated with doomy Jim Steinman tracks (let's draw a veil over that hideous duet with fellow Welsh crooner Shakin' Stevens) and turning around with bright eyes. For <strong><em>Eurovision</em></strong> though, a mellow, country and western tinged offering which while not sounding like a winner, will probably not lead to Engelbert-style meltdown on the big night. Bonnie will be up against kilted Greeks, a Russian power ballad, a brace of Americans and a former Nobel prize nominee so at least the chit-chat in the Green Room should be a little more cerebral than usual.<br />
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Bookwise, let me recommend the wonderful <strong><em>How I Killed Margaret Thatcher</em></strong> by Anthony Cartwright. Set in 1980s Dudley, the story tells of a young boy called Sean who watches in dismay as Thatcherite policies come to bear on his family life. Very funny in places but also heart-breakingly sad. Much of it is also written in Black Country brogue which makes for an interesting read. Like Sean, I spent much of the early 1980s expecting nuclear obliteration courtesy of the Soviet Union and wondering why our forces were being sent to rescue distant islands off the Argentine coast. I wonder what Pope Francis, native of Buenos Aires, has to say on the matter? We may never know.Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-41204628995573394742013-01-20T08:25:00.002-08:002013-01-20T08:25:54.657-08:00Snowmageddon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yes, it's that time of the year again. Several days of weather that will be responsible for page upon page of withering news reportage about what a vile, unprepared hell hole the UK really is. newspaper editors will be harrumphing to such an extent that they will be on the point of heaving up their own ribcages. <br />
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TV news of course rubs its hands together with glee. Time to roll out the footage of vans stuck in piles of the white stuff, fruity young women in winter attire, posh kids flying down Primrose Hill on designer sledges fashioned out of marble, moribund scenes of passengers milling around airport terminals with courtesy cereal bars. A special mention has to be made in respect of the news reporter who is given that most glamorous of assignments, the live link to the gritting depot. Even the words make you feel slightly depressed. Gritting depot. It's to this joyous location that a woman in a puffa jacket and a bobble hat is dispatched. <br />
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Chatting with the foreman of the local authority highways department, she will indicate the mountain of road salt behind her. Look at her eyes though. Wet with forming tears, she will be wondering if the journalism degree had always been leading to this moment. This spot on the main news where she banters with a glassy eyed George Alagiah or a sagely nodding but ultimately disinterested Fiona Bruce. <br />
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Regional news is even more desperate. In London this tends to feature the annual shot of someone falling down the steps outside Waterloo station or a City worker struggling across the Millennium Bridge, desperately trying to juggle an umbrella and a skinny white latte. <br />
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Monday morning will bring forth an office filled with people in clunky boots and hideous knitwear, tomato-red faces and tales of their journey. I will respond my sticking my head in the photocopier. After burning several lever arch files, overdosing on coffee and weeping for a while, I'll don the clunky boots and 'struggle' home. Let's hope the gritters have done their job.Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3956931799111430487.post-75311713839435412482012-12-24T03:58:00.002-08:002012-12-24T03:58:49.275-08:00That was the year . . .<br />
Got those sprouts on a low boil yet? Relatives driving you to distraction? Christmas tree looking balder than Harry Hill? 'Tis the season to be manic. As well as the festival of over-eating and binge-drinking though, this is also the time of year when we take stock. What's that phrase again? Oh yes, stock-taking.<br />
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Like the contents of some moribund round robin letter, it's time to foist opinions and comments about the past twelve months on anyone who will listen. Not that I'm going to drone on about home improvements, little jaunts out to the country and myriad health issues. No. This is simply me rounding up and spouting on about some of the things I've enjoyed in 2012.<br />
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<strong>Film of the Year</strong> for me was <strong><em>Argo</em></strong>, the Ben Affleck directed the true story of six US diplomats holed up in the Canadian embassy in Tehran in 1980. Affleck also starred as CIA specialist Tony Mendez who is charged with rescuing the diplomats. The frantic nature of the film had me gripping the seat edge for over two hours. I have never watched the Oscars but feel a certain confidence that this film will feature heavily on the big night. Which of course means that we will never hear if it again. Also worthy of a mention is <strong><em>Skyfall</em></strong>, possibly the best outing for James Bond ever.<br />
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My <strong>Book of the Year</strong> is John Lanchester's <strong><em>Capital</em></strong>. This si the tale of one, relatively affluent London street and its inhabitants. There are wealthy, upwardly mobile young professionals, newly arrived immigrants and also the last of a generation, bewildered by much of what is going on. Their lives cross - sometimes only briefly - but by the end of the novel, those lives are changed forever.<br />
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<strong>Theatre Experience of the Year</strong> (!) was Michael Frayn's 1982 farce, <strong><em>Noises Off</em></strong>. This is basically a play about a dreadful play and the hapless theatre company attempting to put it on. Starring the wonderful Celia Imrie and Robert Glenister, this Old Vic production had me weeping with laughter.<br />
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<strong>Most Played i-Tunes Song of the Year</strong> goes to Eurovision winner <strong><em>Euphoria</em></strong> performed by Loreen. Having seen this triumph in the Swedish national heats (a chilly weekend in Stockholm), the song then thrashed all opposition in Baku at the Euro finals. It's success was a bit of a surprise given that it sounds like some leftover from a 1990s Ibiza foam party. Still, in comparison with the UK's entry from Engelbert Humperdinck, <strong><em>Euphoria</em></strong> was Grammy-winning stuff.<br />
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There were losts of contenders for <strong>Telly Programme of the Year</strong> but my eventual winner was <strong><em>Borgen</em></strong>, the Danish tale of government folk. It sounds like a nightmare but the story of the charismatic PM, Birgitte Nyborg, was compelling. Sidse Babett Knudsen had the line of the year when she referred to Queen Margarethe as "that old bitch". Special mention this year go to another Scando-noir effort, <strong><em>The Bridge</em></strong> and its loopy lead character, Saga Norén, a policewoman with a difference. <br />
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The BBC produced a few fine comedies this year including the relentlessly bleak hospital offering <strong><em>Getting On</em></strong>. BBC3's <strong><em>Him & Her</em></strong> managed to be both cringe worthy and sentimental but in a good way thanks to the thoughtful performances of Russel Tovey and Sarah Solemani. <strong><em>Thick of It</em></strong> came to an end and possibly did so at just the right time. Jewish family life also provided two winners in the shape of <strong><em>Grandma's House</em></strong> and <strong><em>Friday Night Dinner</em></strong> - outstanding performances from Rebecca Front, Linda Basset and Tamsin Greig.<br />
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<strong>Person of the Year</strong> has to be Claire Balding for her sheer enthusiasm for all things sport and for jollying the rest of us along during the Olympics. There are too many outstanding sportsmen and women to mention but they all brought joy to a spectacular summer.<br />
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<strong>Place of the Year</strong> for me was definitely Lucca in Italy. Bus-loads of British harridans aside, this was a spectacular town and a much more palatable alternative to the manic pleasures of Rome and the dreariness of Pisa.<br />
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A snapshot then of what I enjoyed in 2012. As for the dislikes? Oh - let's forget them! Here's to more enjoyment in 2013!<br />
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Clinkers (David)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11769819154548522408noreply@blogger.com0