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!

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?

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!