I was watching 'Robocop' today and I took a break to 'relieve myself' (take a piss for those unused to the niceties), when suddenly I was struck by a thought; not just a thought but a sensation. Something tangible; lips touching lips. Her tongue on mine, delicate not fervent, not at all passionate. Just a gentle gliding of flesh across flesh.
Why shoild I remember this?
Does it matter to me?
I was but an innocent, an innocemt child, when she crawled into my sleeping bag that night. In the hope for sex? Perhaps but then again, perhaps not. Perhaps she sought the same comfort as I. Merely someone who would hold her close and tell her that the world was not as awful as she dreamt it to be.
It is more than forty years since that encounter and still I cannot dismiss it from my memory. Why?
Was she my one true, abiding love. Or just my first?
Oh, what the hell. It's life!
Friday 19 June 2020
Thursday 16 April 2020
When I'm 64, the kindness of strangers and the allure of the unattainable
Once, when I was young, I thought that 65 was so far away. I would never be 65. And yet, here I am, a few days before. Where has the time gone? Is time merely a passing memory. Do I, can I, feel that first kiss; lips upon lips, tongues seeking another's. What of that warmth, so beckoning, so moist, as you slid your penis inside her vagina. What is the past but memory?
I have a confession to make. Despite reading, and seeing, it a number of times. I have always thought that 'Cry havoc' came from 'Henry V'. I was wrong; it comes from 'Julius Ceasar'; How wrong can one be? For nigh on fifty years, I have been seduced by Shakespeare's rhetoric! How apposite 'Cry Havoc and let slip the dogs of war' sounded in advance of 'and let us close up the wall with our English dead.' William was far better than I ever gave him credit for; oh the folly of youth!
And you know when things are bad with the covid-19 outbreak when your local stores start investing in glass screens twixt customer and shopkeeper. Delivered supermarket goods are all very well but I still like to support my local 'asian stores' as much as I can; they provide a valuable service. Forever open, even on Christmas Day, providing 'tick' (deferred payment until the benefit payment comes through), giving a gift at Christmas to 'valued' (read regular) customers, Ferrero Rocher chocs or half a bottle of one's favorite tipple.
Recently, I had run almost out of toilet roll. I ventured out only to find the shelf empty; what no toilet roll? The 'assistant' (read one of Mr Patel's clan) advised me that they were having trouble sourcing it at the 'cash and carry' but were keeping what little stock they had for 'regulars'. I asked for a two roll pack if they had them; two rolls would suffice until I could source another outlet. I was given six rolls! If I had noticed it before I got home, I would have given the four roll pack back; someone must be in more need than I was. But, what a gesture! One does not get that from a supermarket chain!
I have also recently been pondering, perhaps weirdly some might say, about what actors (really actresses but that is not de rigeur nowadays) attract me by their physical appearance. Obviously, I don't know them as people but who I might wish to get to know, perhaps someone I would try a mild flirtation with at a party with the intent of getting to know them better as people. The list somewhat surprised me as it was not composed of the 'usual suspects'. They had clearly been chosen for ability not for their ability as 'eye candy'.
Sure, all the 'dead, or nearly dead', featured on my list. Catherine Deneuve, Merle Oberon, Grace Kelly, Clara Bow (the original 'It Girl'), Audrey Hepburn and the three Isabelle(a)s, Adjani, Huppert and Rossalini but I was more interested in the living not the dead or nearly dead. Surprisingly, I was drawn to the lesser known, not 'stars'; people one could somehow think of as normal, leading normal lives, going to Sainsbury's to do their shopping and only buying expensive clothes for a 'premiere' in which they played a (very) minor role.
First up is the most troubling to me. She is not in any way 'eye candy' but not 'ugly'; when I look at her, I do not see a beauty, merely someone one might see on the tube and not give a second thought to. Am I so attracted to 'talent' that I ignore everything else. (I hope so.) And she is talented, be sure of that. Nicola Walker is one of the finest actors that I have seen. 'Line of duty' is perhaps the best 'cop show' in the last ten or fifteen years, her performance was so real and I so longed for her not to commit suicide so that she could reappear!
Sharon Smith; so good in the 'Inspector Lynley Mysteries' that she stole every scene! Maybe it was the director running with an arc that was never to be realised but the character wanted Lynley so much. Maybe it was how it was 'meant' to go; maybe it was Smith. Who knows? But if someone looked at me in the way that Smith looks at her fellow actor, I would at least pursue the possibility that the 'arc' of the series was not the right one. And she makes the most of her pixie looks and demeanour.
Alison O'Donnell: she brings a whole new game to the idea of 'frump' as 'sex symbol' and ultimately as 'tarnished goods'. She never looks her best, always dowdy (at least Mali Harries had her red anorak), never remotely 'glamourous', never beguiling and yet . . . One just needed a chink in her armour . . .
Mali Harries: perhaps it is just the voice; a remembrance of nights spent on the sofa while she slept in the bed. Maybe the Welsh lilt beguiles me. All I ask is that BBC Wales commission another 'series' of 'y gwyll' (Hinterland) so that I get to see Mali in a 'starring' role and one that perhaps stretches her talent.
Jodie Comer: 'eye candy', to be sure. But watch 'Thirteen' or 'Killing Eve' and tell me that she is not a great actor, however young she may be.
Hermione Norris: I have no idea why, amongst so many other 'blondes', she should make my 'list' but she does. Is it the cheekbones that you could cut paper with? Or her similarity to a 'Cranach nude' with her clothes on? I don't much like the hair though; perhaps Amanda Tapping in early 'Stargate-SG1' would suit better.
Finally, a passing nod to someone I once saw on the concourse, under the clock, on Waterloo station as I was going home after work; about fifteen years ago. Maybe she was waiting for someone. Knee high, black boots, tight denim jeans, faded, white T-shirt and a leather, short, only to the waist, 'bomber jacket'. She looked a million dollars; someone you would give your eye teeth to fuck! (Pardon my French.) It was Annette Crosbie (One foot in the grave), who when I saw her must have been in her sixties.
So, what attracts you?
One must never mistake the actor for the role that they play or the author for the behaviour of their characters. It is always fiction; nothing more, nothing less. That we believe is a true testament to their skill.
I have a confession to make. Despite reading, and seeing, it a number of times. I have always thought that 'Cry havoc' came from 'Henry V'. I was wrong; it comes from 'Julius Ceasar'; How wrong can one be? For nigh on fifty years, I have been seduced by Shakespeare's rhetoric! How apposite 'Cry Havoc and let slip the dogs of war' sounded in advance of 'and let us close up the wall with our English dead.' William was far better than I ever gave him credit for; oh the folly of youth!
And you know when things are bad with the covid-19 outbreak when your local stores start investing in glass screens twixt customer and shopkeeper. Delivered supermarket goods are all very well but I still like to support my local 'asian stores' as much as I can; they provide a valuable service. Forever open, even on Christmas Day, providing 'tick' (deferred payment until the benefit payment comes through), giving a gift at Christmas to 'valued' (read regular) customers, Ferrero Rocher chocs or half a bottle of one's favorite tipple.
Recently, I had run almost out of toilet roll. I ventured out only to find the shelf empty; what no toilet roll? The 'assistant' (read one of Mr Patel's clan) advised me that they were having trouble sourcing it at the 'cash and carry' but were keeping what little stock they had for 'regulars'. I asked for a two roll pack if they had them; two rolls would suffice until I could source another outlet. I was given six rolls! If I had noticed it before I got home, I would have given the four roll pack back; someone must be in more need than I was. But, what a gesture! One does not get that from a supermarket chain!
I have also recently been pondering, perhaps weirdly some might say, about what actors (really actresses but that is not de rigeur nowadays) attract me by their physical appearance. Obviously, I don't know them as people but who I might wish to get to know, perhaps someone I would try a mild flirtation with at a party with the intent of getting to know them better as people. The list somewhat surprised me as it was not composed of the 'usual suspects'. They had clearly been chosen for ability not for their ability as 'eye candy'.
Sure, all the 'dead, or nearly dead', featured on my list. Catherine Deneuve, Merle Oberon, Grace Kelly, Clara Bow (the original 'It Girl'), Audrey Hepburn and the three Isabelle(a)s, Adjani, Huppert and Rossalini but I was more interested in the living not the dead or nearly dead. Surprisingly, I was drawn to the lesser known, not 'stars'; people one could somehow think of as normal, leading normal lives, going to Sainsbury's to do their shopping and only buying expensive clothes for a 'premiere' in which they played a (very) minor role.
First up is the most troubling to me. She is not in any way 'eye candy' but not 'ugly'; when I look at her, I do not see a beauty, merely someone one might see on the tube and not give a second thought to. Am I so attracted to 'talent' that I ignore everything else. (I hope so.) And she is talented, be sure of that. Nicola Walker is one of the finest actors that I have seen. 'Line of duty' is perhaps the best 'cop show' in the last ten or fifteen years, her performance was so real and I so longed for her not to commit suicide so that she could reappear!
Sharon Smith; so good in the 'Inspector Lynley Mysteries' that she stole every scene! Maybe it was the director running with an arc that was never to be realised but the character wanted Lynley so much. Maybe it was how it was 'meant' to go; maybe it was Smith. Who knows? But if someone looked at me in the way that Smith looks at her fellow actor, I would at least pursue the possibility that the 'arc' of the series was not the right one. And she makes the most of her pixie looks and demeanour.
Alison O'Donnell: she brings a whole new game to the idea of 'frump' as 'sex symbol' and ultimately as 'tarnished goods'. She never looks her best, always dowdy (at least Mali Harries had her red anorak), never remotely 'glamourous', never beguiling and yet . . . One just needed a chink in her armour . . .
Mali Harries: perhaps it is just the voice; a remembrance of nights spent on the sofa while she slept in the bed. Maybe the Welsh lilt beguiles me. All I ask is that BBC Wales commission another 'series' of 'y gwyll' (Hinterland) so that I get to see Mali in a 'starring' role and one that perhaps stretches her talent.
Jodie Comer: 'eye candy', to be sure. But watch 'Thirteen' or 'Killing Eve' and tell me that she is not a great actor, however young she may be.
Hermione Norris: I have no idea why, amongst so many other 'blondes', she should make my 'list' but she does. Is it the cheekbones that you could cut paper with? Or her similarity to a 'Cranach nude' with her clothes on? I don't much like the hair though; perhaps Amanda Tapping in early 'Stargate-SG1' would suit better.
Finally, a passing nod to someone I once saw on the concourse, under the clock, on Waterloo station as I was going home after work; about fifteen years ago. Maybe she was waiting for someone. Knee high, black boots, tight denim jeans, faded, white T-shirt and a leather, short, only to the waist, 'bomber jacket'. She looked a million dollars; someone you would give your eye teeth to fuck! (Pardon my French.) It was Annette Crosbie (One foot in the grave), who when I saw her must have been in her sixties.
So, what attracts you?
One must never mistake the actor for the role that they play or the author for the behaviour of their characters. It is always fiction; nothing more, nothing less. That we believe is a true testament to their skill.
Thursday 26 March 2020
'Spooks', spies and the lure of deceit
I recently took out a subscription to Britbox.co.uk. A joint venture by the BBC and ITV (Channel 4 may 'come on board at some stage') to rival such services as 'Netflix'. While the BBC (iPlayer) and ITV ('itvhub') have their own streaming services, this tends to be somewhat limited; mostly showing, 'on catch-up', orogrammes, which have been aired recently on terrestrial TV on the broadcasters' multiple channels 'Bitbox' gives one the opportunity to view the entirety of multiple seasons, for little more than the cost per year of an eight or ten season on DVD, from the very beginning. I thought this 'worth a punt'. No more buying 'on spec' or by Amazon reviews of quality; I could make up my own mind. However, at the back of my mind, is the promise of all seven seasons of 'Hill Street Blues'; only the first two are on DVD.
I spent much of the nineties and subsequent decades devoid of a TV set. Why would I buy a £500 'consumer durable', purchase a licence every year (required by UK law) to watch one (or maybe two at a push) programmes a week? No; I had no time for this! I watched the DVDs that I had bought (mostly 50's or early 60's), a few streaming, low-quality porn videos on-line in miniscule 240 windows and a plausible, yet unattainable, vision of my future.
And then I watched 'Spooks' ('MI-5 in America) as my 'guide' to what might be on 'Britbox',
The first episode confirmed my worst fears about how low 'British' drama could sink; a hackneyed remake of 'The Sweeney' with 'Counter Terrorism' replacing Regan and the Flying Squad. However, I wanted, needed it to be better and so I persevered. Happily, it seemed to improve, although perhaps I lowered my expectations unwittingly.
What struck me was how leading characters, characters that the audience had perhaps invested in, were routinely killed off (literally); actors were lucky if they survived a season without being killed! Was this intentional from the start? Or just something that grew out of an actor's wish not to continue with a role beyond a limited 'run'.
(An aside, Hermione Norris is both an accomplished actor and still, despite her age, absolutely drop dead gorgeous! And Nicola Walker, equally talented and strangely, equally attractive to me, although I have no idea why. She is no 'beauty' in any conventional sense! Perhaps her talent is more than enough for a 'hard on'!)
So why the interest in prime-time, 'vulgar' television?
Because of what it says, despite itself perhaps, about lies and deceit!
Spies, undercover cops, anybody pretending to be not what they are because of their job, has to be a potential victim of their job. Can one live with the deceit that one ladles out to all and sundry including those closest to you.
We are all guilty, to a larger or lesser extent, of 'fabricating' events in our lives; embellishing some real event with a degree of artistic licence or simply making the whole thing up as one goes along. Memory is a fallible thing and, unwittingly, one can often be seduced by how events play out in memory not the actual reality of that event and the more you tell yourself or others the 'story', the more 'fixed' it becomes so that you can 'tell' it in no other way.
However, what happens when you fabricate an existence, which you know to be untrue; can you ever go back to being 'yourself'? Someone you might recognise from a previous time? Somebody that embodies the 'real' you? Surely, the longer that the duplicity becomes 'your life', the greater the chance of losing 'yourself' in the 'lie'.
This happens to most of the major characters and even when they try to 'come clean', it invariably ends badly. Cynical scriptwriters or just an observation on life and an admonishment to always tell the truth. Sometimes, even prime-time and 'vulgar' television can be more 'intelligent' than we give it credit for.
I spent much of the nineties and subsequent decades devoid of a TV set. Why would I buy a £500 'consumer durable', purchase a licence every year (required by UK law) to watch one (or maybe two at a push) programmes a week? No; I had no time for this! I watched the DVDs that I had bought (mostly 50's or early 60's), a few streaming, low-quality porn videos on-line in miniscule 240 windows and a plausible, yet unattainable, vision of my future.
And then I watched 'Spooks' ('MI-5 in America) as my 'guide' to what might be on 'Britbox',
The first episode confirmed my worst fears about how low 'British' drama could sink; a hackneyed remake of 'The Sweeney' with 'Counter Terrorism' replacing Regan and the Flying Squad. However, I wanted, needed it to be better and so I persevered. Happily, it seemed to improve, although perhaps I lowered my expectations unwittingly.
What struck me was how leading characters, characters that the audience had perhaps invested in, were routinely killed off (literally); actors were lucky if they survived a season without being killed! Was this intentional from the start? Or just something that grew out of an actor's wish not to continue with a role beyond a limited 'run'.
(An aside, Hermione Norris is both an accomplished actor and still, despite her age, absolutely drop dead gorgeous! And Nicola Walker, equally talented and strangely, equally attractive to me, although I have no idea why. She is no 'beauty' in any conventional sense! Perhaps her talent is more than enough for a 'hard on'!)
So why the interest in prime-time, 'vulgar' television?
Because of what it says, despite itself perhaps, about lies and deceit!
Spies, undercover cops, anybody pretending to be not what they are because of their job, has to be a potential victim of their job. Can one live with the deceit that one ladles out to all and sundry including those closest to you.
We are all guilty, to a larger or lesser extent, of 'fabricating' events in our lives; embellishing some real event with a degree of artistic licence or simply making the whole thing up as one goes along. Memory is a fallible thing and, unwittingly, one can often be seduced by how events play out in memory not the actual reality of that event and the more you tell yourself or others the 'story', the more 'fixed' it becomes so that you can 'tell' it in no other way.
However, what happens when you fabricate an existence, which you know to be untrue; can you ever go back to being 'yourself'? Someone you might recognise from a previous time? Somebody that embodies the 'real' you? Surely, the longer that the duplicity becomes 'your life', the greater the chance of losing 'yourself' in the 'lie'.
This happens to most of the major characters and even when they try to 'come clean', it invariably ends badly. Cynical scriptwriters or just an observation on life and an admonishment to always tell the truth. Sometimes, even prime-time and 'vulgar' television can be more 'intelligent' than we give it credit for.
Sunday 22 March 2020
Scary monsters (and super creeps), Atomic Rooster and the enigma of memory
Does it never trouble you; how memory works? How the brain makes connections between seemingly unrelated aspects of one's life?
I have been watching, a second time around, 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to ashes', which play out in a cornucopia of popular music from the time in which each 'series' is set. I had no problem with 1973; I recognised every track, even Atomic Rooster! But the 1980s? Bar a few snatches of Donna Summer and the Human League, the only track that I recognised was David Bowie's 'Scary Monsters' and that weirdly took me back to 1969.
Robert Fripp is probably the most under-rated and under-appreciated guitarist of his, or any other, generation. Why 1969? Because, in the words of Melanie Safka; 'to be there was to remember'. He was good then, sitting on his stool; he is awesome now!
I know that Fripp played guitar on the track and so it makes sense that it would take me back to Hyde Park and King Crimson blowing the Stones off stage but why would that dredge up memories of some middle-aged, balding plumber offering me money (a lot of money) to have me ejaculate in his mouth? And why would that make me think about S1, whose lips would never touch my cock, or S2, who could, seemingly, never get enough. Always swallowed, did S2.
Did she really enjoy it. They say that they do but can you believe them? "No, not love" she said.
"Don't you know that it's different for girls?"
And so, where does that leave me? An ageing misanthrope with nothing but memories. Perhaps. But I remember the love, not the sex. And the love sustains me; however cold it might be.
"I'll spend my whole life, just making the time right. But I'll still have a bowl of that leftover wine." Why does that song still haunt me after 40, 50 years. Perhaps, not for the first time, you never threw the dice and prayed for 'lucky seven'. Maybe, that was the night. I doubt that it was but, if it was, I am sorry Marianna!
Lost opportunity. Tell me about it! I could write the book!
Like today, no kidding.
I came out of the 'corner shop' and there was a mother, a baby and a puppy; I bent down to stroke the puppy (I am a fool for dogs) and the dog was suddenly whipped away from me. Why?
And there it was; the cafe on the opposite corner. The one that I had never entered in the four years since they opened despite the fact that they sold Segafreddo espresso. So why then? I have no idea. The woman with the baby and the puppy followed me in about a minute or two later. (Don't despair, I did not think she was actually following me for the prospect of a night of unbridled passion.) But as I sat there alone, nursing my two double espressos (I later had a third, I am a fool for caffeine as well), I stared out of the window and I became lost in seemingly disconnected memories; memories, entirely unconnected, except as a part of my life,
The night that she crept into my sleeping bag, half naked, with mischief on her mind; my very own Faerie Queen. The evening I spent eating rose petals washed down with pints of ale, pregnant with anticipation but fearful nonetheless. The night that I spent in the cells at Holborn 'nick' fearing the worst. The day spent trudging through the snow, blinded by the unseasonable, spring blizzard on the road to the defunct Leica factory in Wetzlar merely to pay homage. A restaurant in Zakynthos sipping Pina Colados, a cava chilling in the bucket, courtesy of the house, fresh lobster topped by a small firework and the best damn sunset you will ever see. The night that I sat by the 'phone with a (very) sharp knife and a bath full of water with memories of her and the 'Roman way' of dealing with it all.
I have a vague, and I am sure misguided, idea of how the brain works. Cells 'fire' across the synaptic gap, creating electrical impulses by chemical means. Quite possibly, memories are stored in a 'daisy-chain' cascade of multiple neurons; not just a single transfer. Perhaps I am wrong but surely unconnected memories cannot be invoked by one single memory. But perhaps the brain is far more interconnected than I imagine and the paths, which that 'final firing' neuron in the sequence is able to avail itself of many other connections, which the 'originating' neuron has no access to.
Borges hit the nail on the head with his 'Garden of the Forking Paths' Perhaps I have read too much Borges!
I have been watching, a second time around, 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to ashes', which play out in a cornucopia of popular music from the time in which each 'series' is set. I had no problem with 1973; I recognised every track, even Atomic Rooster! But the 1980s? Bar a few snatches of Donna Summer and the Human League, the only track that I recognised was David Bowie's 'Scary Monsters' and that weirdly took me back to 1969.
Robert Fripp is probably the most under-rated and under-appreciated guitarist of his, or any other, generation. Why 1969? Because, in the words of Melanie Safka; 'to be there was to remember'. He was good then, sitting on his stool; he is awesome now!
I know that Fripp played guitar on the track and so it makes sense that it would take me back to Hyde Park and King Crimson blowing the Stones off stage but why would that dredge up memories of some middle-aged, balding plumber offering me money (a lot of money) to have me ejaculate in his mouth? And why would that make me think about S1, whose lips would never touch my cock, or S2, who could, seemingly, never get enough. Always swallowed, did S2.
Did she really enjoy it. They say that they do but can you believe them? "No, not love" she said.
"Don't you know that it's different for girls?"
And so, where does that leave me? An ageing misanthrope with nothing but memories. Perhaps. But I remember the love, not the sex. And the love sustains me; however cold it might be.
"I'll spend my whole life, just making the time right. But I'll still have a bowl of that leftover wine." Why does that song still haunt me after 40, 50 years. Perhaps, not for the first time, you never threw the dice and prayed for 'lucky seven'. Maybe, that was the night. I doubt that it was but, if it was, I am sorry Marianna!
Lost opportunity. Tell me about it! I could write the book!
Like today, no kidding.
I came out of the 'corner shop' and there was a mother, a baby and a puppy; I bent down to stroke the puppy (I am a fool for dogs) and the dog was suddenly whipped away from me. Why?
And there it was; the cafe on the opposite corner. The one that I had never entered in the four years since they opened despite the fact that they sold Segafreddo espresso. So why then? I have no idea. The woman with the baby and the puppy followed me in about a minute or two later. (Don't despair, I did not think she was actually following me for the prospect of a night of unbridled passion.) But as I sat there alone, nursing my two double espressos (I later had a third, I am a fool for caffeine as well), I stared out of the window and I became lost in seemingly disconnected memories; memories, entirely unconnected, except as a part of my life,
The night that she crept into my sleeping bag, half naked, with mischief on her mind; my very own Faerie Queen. The evening I spent eating rose petals washed down with pints of ale, pregnant with anticipation but fearful nonetheless. The night that I spent in the cells at Holborn 'nick' fearing the worst. The day spent trudging through the snow, blinded by the unseasonable, spring blizzard on the road to the defunct Leica factory in Wetzlar merely to pay homage. A restaurant in Zakynthos sipping Pina Colados, a cava chilling in the bucket, courtesy of the house, fresh lobster topped by a small firework and the best damn sunset you will ever see. The night that I sat by the 'phone with a (very) sharp knife and a bath full of water with memories of her and the 'Roman way' of dealing with it all.
I have a vague, and I am sure misguided, idea of how the brain works. Cells 'fire' across the synaptic gap, creating electrical impulses by chemical means. Quite possibly, memories are stored in a 'daisy-chain' cascade of multiple neurons; not just a single transfer. Perhaps I am wrong but surely unconnected memories cannot be invoked by one single memory. But perhaps the brain is far more interconnected than I imagine and the paths, which that 'final firing' neuron in the sequence is able to avail itself of many other connections, which the 'originating' neuron has no access to.
Borges hit the nail on the head with his 'Garden of the Forking Paths' Perhaps I have read too much Borges!
Saturday 7 March 2020
Keeley Hawes, an apology and a dilemma
First, an apology; to Keeley Hawes.
When I first wrote about 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes', I praised Philip Glenister for his wonderful performance as DCI Hunt; the 'keeper of the keys' of the 'coppers' purgatory'. I omitted to mention Ms Hawes. 'Ashes to Ashes' is nothing without an actor of her calibre.
She fisrt came to my attention in TV's adaptation of 'Tipping the velvet'. Keen to see how far British mainstream TV would go with lesbian sex (not as far as Swedish TV if 'The girl with the dragon tattoo' and its sequels are anything to go by). I found myself captivated by the drama, not the sex.
She next came up on my radar in 'Line of Duty'. As Denton, one so wanted to believe her; that she was a victim, pure and simple. Hawes played the ambiguity to perfection!
And then 'Ashes to Ashes'. You know, after 'Life on Mars', that she's dead and is never going home and you know that there can never be a romantic relationship between her and DCI Hunt and the scriptwriters do not dissuade you from that view. But is it yearning that I see in Keeley Hawes' eyes? Lauren Bacall had it, Jodie Comer has it; Keeley Hawes has it in spades! To say so much with a look?
(Oh, and by the way, she is drop dead gorgeous!)
'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes' merely brought home a question, which I had never felt posed before the 'fantasy era', the age 'post-Tolkien' but which niggles me still. The time when I first read Donaldson's 'The chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the unbeliever'. What happens when you don't believe the reality that you perceive is your actual reality. What happens when you cannot tell 'fantasy' from 'reality'. Rape is a possible consequence.
Is this not a sign of madness?
I find the dilemma of Thomas, Sam and 'Bolly keks' so interesting. How do you define a morality in an 'alien' world, so different from the one, which you know; does your morality have a place in that 'world'? That is a question that I think that it is worthwhile to ponder in 'the alone of your time'
Is our current, middle class morality valid in all possible worlds? We would like to think so but isn't it just a hangover from a Christian morality, which no longer has any bearing in a post-religious realm?
The fact that Ashley Pharaoh et al chose to couch their fantasy in allusions to Christianity, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory makes me think that the myth is a long time dying and is not dead yet. And yet, the myth can still teach us something.
We are responsible for what we do and think. Whether we are 'punished' or 'rewarded' in Heaven, Purgatory or Hell makes no difference; what matters is this life.
And is this not what those fantasies are trying to tell us? Whatever reality you are in; be true to yourself. Hold on to what you believe to be good. Do whatever you believe to be right.
When I first wrote about 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes', I praised Philip Glenister for his wonderful performance as DCI Hunt; the 'keeper of the keys' of the 'coppers' purgatory'. I omitted to mention Ms Hawes. 'Ashes to Ashes' is nothing without an actor of her calibre.
She fisrt came to my attention in TV's adaptation of 'Tipping the velvet'. Keen to see how far British mainstream TV would go with lesbian sex (not as far as Swedish TV if 'The girl with the dragon tattoo' and its sequels are anything to go by). I found myself captivated by the drama, not the sex.
She next came up on my radar in 'Line of Duty'. As Denton, one so wanted to believe her; that she was a victim, pure and simple. Hawes played the ambiguity to perfection!
And then 'Ashes to Ashes'. You know, after 'Life on Mars', that she's dead and is never going home and you know that there can never be a romantic relationship between her and DCI Hunt and the scriptwriters do not dissuade you from that view. But is it yearning that I see in Keeley Hawes' eyes? Lauren Bacall had it, Jodie Comer has it; Keeley Hawes has it in spades! To say so much with a look?
(Oh, and by the way, she is drop dead gorgeous!)
'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes' merely brought home a question, which I had never felt posed before the 'fantasy era', the age 'post-Tolkien' but which niggles me still. The time when I first read Donaldson's 'The chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the unbeliever'. What happens when you don't believe the reality that you perceive is your actual reality. What happens when you cannot tell 'fantasy' from 'reality'. Rape is a possible consequence.
Is this not a sign of madness?
I find the dilemma of Thomas, Sam and 'Bolly keks' so interesting. How do you define a morality in an 'alien' world, so different from the one, which you know; does your morality have a place in that 'world'? That is a question that I think that it is worthwhile to ponder in 'the alone of your time'
Is our current, middle class morality valid in all possible worlds? We would like to think so but isn't it just a hangover from a Christian morality, which no longer has any bearing in a post-religious realm?
The fact that Ashley Pharaoh et al chose to couch their fantasy in allusions to Christianity, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory makes me think that the myth is a long time dying and is not dead yet. And yet, the myth can still teach us something.
We are responsible for what we do and think. Whether we are 'punished' or 'rewarded' in Heaven, Purgatory or Hell makes no difference; what matters is this life.
And is this not what those fantasies are trying to tell us? Whatever reality you are in; be true to yourself. Hold on to what you believe to be good. Do whatever you believe to be right.
Sunday 1 March 2020
Melons, lychees and a lesson to be learnt
Memories are strange things and the things that invoke such memories are even stranger.
It was drizzling today; not an uncommon occurrence in Britain in February. High winds and rain are the usual fare for winter veering into spring in this sceptered isle.
For some reason, I know not not which, I had a hankering after slices of melon; perhaps it was a desire for a summer, which might never come. I was immediately transported back into a time in which slices of near ice-cold melon were as gratifying as ice-cold Dutch lager (brewed no doubt elsewhere 'under licence') but without the alcohol; perhaps more suited to 11am than a post-prandial afternoon.
Anyway, I started to remember those mornings on the beach, the soft sands sucking you in like 'quicksand', the hot sun on your face, the sweat under the arms, the thirst. Melons, like cucumbers, are mostly water but sweet not bitter. But melons are big; you have to slice them; they are too big to eat alone, even two would struggle. Cover them in 'cling film' and refrigerate and it's still not the same as the first time that you slice them. Some water evaporates.
So, I usually opted for a smaller melon; a honeydew; ripe, possibly over-ripe, but manageable. We would spoon out the contents of each half, spitting the seeds into the sand. This thought led to the 'lychee man'.
I have only been on one 'exotic' holiday in my life; Mauritius. One rises early, you have to, if you are to beat the Germans desire to have skin baked like coffee beans. Horses must be ridden, especially galloped, before 7am; before they become too 'hot'. So we would have breakfast as soon as it was available; the fruit 'pyramid' was awesome. (But no muesli; shame!) You could even have a 'full English'! So, what are you going to do but hit the beach; at 8:30 or 9:00.
The Lychee Man would hit the beach an hour or two later!
Now, here's the thing. Mauritius is a tropical paradise, no? Well, not quite. In order to paddle in, or go swimming in, the waters close to shore (at shore's edge), one is advised to wear 'jelly sandals', otherwise one is likely to get 'stung' by some nefarious or noxious beastie. A very real threat, I assure you.
We had no 'jelly sandals' and there were none to be had. Not a problem, you might think. However, the Lychee Man's fruit was crawling with ants; they had to be washed off; killed with salt water!
And so, for the first and only time, in my life, I 'stepped up to the plate'! I waded into the water, up to my waist, sans 'jelly sandals', and washed the Lychee Man's fruit and rid them all of those pesky ants! The things we do for love, ay?
Which leads me onto . . . (you can tell how my brain works, ay?)
In such climes, one scarcely ventures out between the hours of twelve and three; too damn hot. And don't, for goodness sake, attempt to play squash unless you want to provoke a heart attack!
Well, we were sitting in one of the hotel's many restaurants, eating our 'croque monsieurs' and drinking our beer, when one of the 'tourist' fishing boats pulled in. A big, burly man (six feet plus and pecs like Schwarzenegger, biceps to match) lurches onto the dock seemingly much the worse for wear. They sat at the table closest to the dock, next to us.
Why, I enquired, would somebody spend so much money hiring a boat, even if South African, just to get drunk? Oh no, his pals replied, he is simply exhausted. He had been 'playing' the marlin/swordfish for over three hours and, just when he thought it 'beat', it leapt out of the water and 'threw the hook'. He was still shaking when we left him at three.
And, as Vonnegut would have it; so it goes.
I was in a fishing tackle shop in Norfolk one day, looking for bait and some hooks; elvers have a tendency to swallow size 24 hooks, and there was a 'little old lady', five feet nothing and limbs like pipe cleaners, looking to buy a rod and a reel for her great grand son. We got talking.
"What's the largest fish you've ever caught?" she asked. Me, I was a fisherman! I had a 29lb pike, a 34lb carp, a 3lb roach, a 4lb perch to my name. I was so full of myself; I was so proud!
She invited me back to her house for a cup of tea; just for friendship's sake. Along the walls of her hallway were photographs of her standing beside marlin, swordfish. porbeagle sharks! "That's what I meant by 'biggest'.
It was drizzling today; not an uncommon occurrence in Britain in February. High winds and rain are the usual fare for winter veering into spring in this sceptered isle.
For some reason, I know not not which, I had a hankering after slices of melon; perhaps it was a desire for a summer, which might never come. I was immediately transported back into a time in which slices of near ice-cold melon were as gratifying as ice-cold Dutch lager (brewed no doubt elsewhere 'under licence') but without the alcohol; perhaps more suited to 11am than a post-prandial afternoon.
Anyway, I started to remember those mornings on the beach, the soft sands sucking you in like 'quicksand', the hot sun on your face, the sweat under the arms, the thirst. Melons, like cucumbers, are mostly water but sweet not bitter. But melons are big; you have to slice them; they are too big to eat alone, even two would struggle. Cover them in 'cling film' and refrigerate and it's still not the same as the first time that you slice them. Some water evaporates.
So, I usually opted for a smaller melon; a honeydew; ripe, possibly over-ripe, but manageable. We would spoon out the contents of each half, spitting the seeds into the sand. This thought led to the 'lychee man'.
I have only been on one 'exotic' holiday in my life; Mauritius. One rises early, you have to, if you are to beat the Germans desire to have skin baked like coffee beans. Horses must be ridden, especially galloped, before 7am; before they become too 'hot'. So we would have breakfast as soon as it was available; the fruit 'pyramid' was awesome. (But no muesli; shame!) You could even have a 'full English'! So, what are you going to do but hit the beach; at 8:30 or 9:00.
The Lychee Man would hit the beach an hour or two later!
Now, here's the thing. Mauritius is a tropical paradise, no? Well, not quite. In order to paddle in, or go swimming in, the waters close to shore (at shore's edge), one is advised to wear 'jelly sandals', otherwise one is likely to get 'stung' by some nefarious or noxious beastie. A very real threat, I assure you.
We had no 'jelly sandals' and there were none to be had. Not a problem, you might think. However, the Lychee Man's fruit was crawling with ants; they had to be washed off; killed with salt water!
And so, for the first and only time, in my life, I 'stepped up to the plate'! I waded into the water, up to my waist, sans 'jelly sandals', and washed the Lychee Man's fruit and rid them all of those pesky ants! The things we do for love, ay?
Which leads me onto . . . (you can tell how my brain works, ay?)
In such climes, one scarcely ventures out between the hours of twelve and three; too damn hot. And don't, for goodness sake, attempt to play squash unless you want to provoke a heart attack!
Well, we were sitting in one of the hotel's many restaurants, eating our 'croque monsieurs' and drinking our beer, when one of the 'tourist' fishing boats pulled in. A big, burly man (six feet plus and pecs like Schwarzenegger, biceps to match) lurches onto the dock seemingly much the worse for wear. They sat at the table closest to the dock, next to us.
Why, I enquired, would somebody spend so much money hiring a boat, even if South African, just to get drunk? Oh no, his pals replied, he is simply exhausted. He had been 'playing' the marlin/swordfish for over three hours and, just when he thought it 'beat', it leapt out of the water and 'threw the hook'. He was still shaking when we left him at three.
And, as Vonnegut would have it; so it goes.
I was in a fishing tackle shop in Norfolk one day, looking for bait and some hooks; elvers have a tendency to swallow size 24 hooks, and there was a 'little old lady', five feet nothing and limbs like pipe cleaners, looking to buy a rod and a reel for her great grand son. We got talking.
"What's the largest fish you've ever caught?" she asked. Me, I was a fisherman! I had a 29lb pike, a 34lb carp, a 3lb roach, a 4lb perch to my name. I was so full of myself; I was so proud!
She invited me back to her house for a cup of tea; just for friendship's sake. Along the walls of her hallway were photographs of her standing beside marlin, swordfish. porbeagle sharks! "That's what I meant by 'biggest'.
Tuesday 25 February 2020
Hustle, Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes
I did not possess a television set during much of 1980-90s or the twenty-first century but over the last three years, I have found a plethora of programmes that I missed 'first time around' on, mainly, BBC iPlayer/
Most of the 'old stuff' on itv.com are mostly either 'too dated', like 'The Sweeney'' or too pedestrian like 'Vera' or 'Poirot'; you don't want to go with 'The Protectors' or 'The Saint'!
But the BBC is, or seems to be, pulling out all the stops of their back catalogue of 'prime-time viewing', which on reflection is not half bad. As well as informative documentaries, which belie their limited audience, history, astronomy, physics, chemistry et al, we have 'Silent Witness', 'The Three Musketeers', 'Robin Hood', 'Waking the Dead' as well as the very excellent 'Thirteen' and 'Killing Eve', which both starred the beyond awesome Jodie Comer. If some forty years on, she doesn't become a 'national treasure', there is something very wrong with the world!
However, I would like to concentrate my 'critique', if that what it is, on three programmes. First up is 'Hustle'. OK, I'll admit, somebody watched 'The Sting' and thought 'I could make a series out this concept'; the same thing happened with 'Now you see it, now you don't'. (Parts one and two; is there a three on the cards? I enjoyed them immensely.)
The basic premise is that a group of five set out to 'con' a 'mark', who is not very nice to know. This gets you rooting for the criminals; the con men and woman. To defraud 'nice' people out of their money would be somewhat immoral and so is avoided; just like 'The Sting'. The skill in the plotting and in the script-writing is to use the old 'magical trick' of misdirection; you think that you see but you actually don't. And sometimes it works,and sometimes it doesn't. Eventually one wises up to the tricks the 'story plotters' play. However, the 'reveal' does give a certain amount of pleasure or contentment if you spotted it ten minutes in to the programme.
'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes', both Bowie songs, is about a policeman and, in 'Ashes to Ashes', a policewoman suddenly thrown back in time to a totally different era of 'policing'; fans of 'The Sweeney' will love it! The question is; can they deal with it? Robert Glenister is absolutely superb in his role as DI and DCI. There are numerous questions to be answered at the end of 'Life on Mars'. Was it a dream? A mere fantasy cooked up by a screen-writer looking for an interesting plot-line? A suicide whose life flashes before him in an instant? Was it real? These questions puzzled me for a time.
'Ashes to Ashes' poses the same questions in a different way, still interesting to keep you engaged, However, one realises that the reason why the ending of 'Life on Mars' was ambiguous was that 'Ashes to Ashes' would resolve the issue in the final episode. I will not spoil the ending but I will say that the policewoman is good enough to enjoy a night in the pub; the way the Met always celebrated in the 70s and 80s.
As an idea, I thought it wonderful; As a concept that would carry two series, let alone one, I thought it awesome!
Most of the 'old stuff' on itv.com are mostly either 'too dated', like 'The Sweeney'' or too pedestrian like 'Vera' or 'Poirot'; you don't want to go with 'The Protectors' or 'The Saint'!
But the BBC is, or seems to be, pulling out all the stops of their back catalogue of 'prime-time viewing', which on reflection is not half bad. As well as informative documentaries, which belie their limited audience, history, astronomy, physics, chemistry et al, we have 'Silent Witness', 'The Three Musketeers', 'Robin Hood', 'Waking the Dead' as well as the very excellent 'Thirteen' and 'Killing Eve', which both starred the beyond awesome Jodie Comer. If some forty years on, she doesn't become a 'national treasure', there is something very wrong with the world!
However, I would like to concentrate my 'critique', if that what it is, on three programmes. First up is 'Hustle'. OK, I'll admit, somebody watched 'The Sting' and thought 'I could make a series out this concept'; the same thing happened with 'Now you see it, now you don't'. (Parts one and two; is there a three on the cards? I enjoyed them immensely.)
The basic premise is that a group of five set out to 'con' a 'mark', who is not very nice to know. This gets you rooting for the criminals; the con men and woman. To defraud 'nice' people out of their money would be somewhat immoral and so is avoided; just like 'The Sting'. The skill in the plotting and in the script-writing is to use the old 'magical trick' of misdirection; you think that you see but you actually don't. And sometimes it works,and sometimes it doesn't. Eventually one wises up to the tricks the 'story plotters' play. However, the 'reveal' does give a certain amount of pleasure or contentment if you spotted it ten minutes in to the programme.
'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes', both Bowie songs, is about a policeman and, in 'Ashes to Ashes', a policewoman suddenly thrown back in time to a totally different era of 'policing'; fans of 'The Sweeney' will love it! The question is; can they deal with it? Robert Glenister is absolutely superb in his role as DI and DCI. There are numerous questions to be answered at the end of 'Life on Mars'. Was it a dream? A mere fantasy cooked up by a screen-writer looking for an interesting plot-line? A suicide whose life flashes before him in an instant? Was it real? These questions puzzled me for a time.
'Ashes to Ashes' poses the same questions in a different way, still interesting to keep you engaged, However, one realises that the reason why the ending of 'Life on Mars' was ambiguous was that 'Ashes to Ashes' would resolve the issue in the final episode. I will not spoil the ending but I will say that the policewoman is good enough to enjoy a night in the pub; the way the Met always celebrated in the 70s and 80s.
As an idea, I thought it wonderful; As a concept that would carry two series, let alone one, I thought it awesome!
Friday 21 February 2020
God, it's twelve years since I started this blog. What on earth was I thinking?
A way of explaining myself to me by dressing up as a penguin.
Or, perhaps, a way of explaining myself to her.
Call it an obsession if you must but I scarce had designs of that nature, despite what her husband might have thought. Oh, how I long for your smile; merely your smile.
Ten years on and I can still feel your smile. How your face would radiate the glow of friendship; nothing more. A delicate drizzle on a balmy summer's eve. 'Sometimes I feel like a motherless child . . .' There was nothing more.
I thought this to be a long, philosophical treatise on the whichness of the why but instead it turns out to be a plaintive cry to a woman (or women) who has (have) long since gone.
So, instead, I give you a poem. 'Ulrike' is but a name; it is not her real name. The circumstances are real and perhaps mirror an evening 'in the pub' but who is to tell. She invited me round for an evening's quiet solitude; it was nothing more, A gesture of friendship; no more was on offer even if I had managed to summon the courage to act.
I seldom write poetry; prose has always been more to my liking. I don't like the rigour that poetry forces upon you. The telling of tales couched in the despair, which I often feel, I find suits me better. I find a certain solace in pouring my heart out in words that no-one but me will ever understand.
I scarce know why this minor piece of trivia should be recalled some thirty years later or why it should promote a poem. I only wanted to help. If that involved tipping copious quantities of Cognac down her throat; then so be it.
Perhaps, that is the key. Not lust or passion but simple friendship. Between a man and a woman is such a thing possible?
A way of explaining myself to me by dressing up as a penguin.
Or, perhaps, a way of explaining myself to her.
Call it an obsession if you must but I scarce had designs of that nature, despite what her husband might have thought. Oh, how I long for your smile; merely your smile.
Ten years on and I can still feel your smile. How your face would radiate the glow of friendship; nothing more. A delicate drizzle on a balmy summer's eve. 'Sometimes I feel like a motherless child . . .' There was nothing more.
I thought this to be a long, philosophical treatise on the whichness of the why but instead it turns out to be a plaintive cry to a woman (or women) who has (have) long since gone.
So, instead, I give you a poem. 'Ulrike' is but a name; it is not her real name. The circumstances are real and perhaps mirror an evening 'in the pub' but who is to tell. She invited me round for an evening's quiet solitude; it was nothing more, A gesture of friendship; no more was on offer even if I had managed to summon the courage to act.
I seldom write poetry; prose has always been more to my liking. I don't like the rigour that poetry forces upon you. The telling of tales couched in the despair, which I often feel, I find suits me better. I find a certain solace in pouring my heart out in words that no-one but me will ever understand.
I scarce know why this minor piece of trivia should be recalled some thirty years later or why it should promote a poem. I only wanted to help. If that involved tipping copious quantities of Cognac down her throat; then so be it.
Perhaps, that is the key. Not lust or passion but simple friendship. Between a man and a woman is such a thing possible?
For Ulrike
In a fumbling ecstasy of panic and
dread, I sit;
A cross-legged, chequered harlequin on
the wooden floor.
There is but only a bed for homely
comfort and yet,
Wrapped in your shrouds of stark,
eburnean probity,
You sit there and, out of fear, I
cannot.
I drink the dregs, the bitter lees of
the grape, leftover wine;
A vinegared sponge to test and torment
the faithful.
Sour, faintly green it dances around my
tongue and yet,
Little of Terpsichoré remains in this
moonlight
And in my mind, I long for
Carolina.
Your tousled, mousy hair frames your
delicate, button nose,
Those long, ivory legs, your toes’
gentle inward curl,
They sing to me in voiceless contraltos,
beckoning yet;
A mute Circe tempts once more noble,
brave Ulysses
And perhaps I too should now be
leaving.
For it is past-midnight late and I am no
longer fun;
It is past the time for laughter, Plato,
Socrates.
Coffee would be welcome but I fear I
must decline yet;
Alone abed, Argus lies dozing,
awaiting me;
You still wear propriety as a caul.
I’d happily trade Xeno for nights of
unbridled passion,
Pay any price to lie in your arms,
damning the dog.
It would take but a single move, white
knight to queen three, check
But I lack the courage for boldness, to
gamble all
And any excuse is better than none.
None better, the final, only resort;
Unremitting, terminal aloofness.
It doesn't rhyme but at least it scans; seven, nine with a full stop!
It doesn't rhyme but at least it scans; seven, nine with a full stop!
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