It was all rather downplayed and overlooked amidst the fuss over phone hacking, but spare a thought or two for 'Airmiles Andy', dropped and sidelined, no longer 'Special Envoy' for British industry. Where were the lavish tributes from export titans and other heavy hitters? Nicholas Witchell, normally reliably wet and sycophantic on matters royal, contributed a rather bitchy look back at Andy's role. There was snide reference elsewhere to unfortunate friendships and Jeffrey Epstein not being the kind of guy a roving prince should hang out with.
Perhaps the wrong chap for the wrong job? It must be said that quizzed on his role batting for Britain, Andrew did tend to glaze over. You got the impression his heart might not really be in flogging missile systems to potentates or whatever he did. Never mind. I'm sure there are plenty of other openings out there. Perhaps a directorship of a strip club franchise, or a more active role at Norwich City, too much foreign travel having prevented regular attendance at Carrow Road.
While even hardened republicans may concede that the Queen is pretty good at her job, that Charles, albeit in a rather batty way, cares about the planet and Anne has more than done her stuff for Save the Children and other noble causes, the gloves tend to come off when it comes to the younger princes. What can be said in Prince Edward's favour? At least he had the nouse to quit the Marines in the face of his father's contempt and appears to be more naff than nasty. And as for Andy....
Born in 1960, Andrew was the first son born to a reigning monarch in 100 years. For years, wicked tongues have wagged, suggesting he was the product of a tryst between Her Majesty and Harry Porchester, manager ofthe Queen's racing stable. Inexplicably, Prince Phillip made little reference to this in his recent round of 90th birthday interviews.
Long before Harry did his stuff in Afghanistan, Andrew was in a helicopter over the Falklands, part of his 20-year career in the Royal Navy. But even then, the Press always went for the 'Randy Andy' angle, rather than the 'Helicopter Hero'. My favourite punch-line to off-colour royal joke:
"the Argies couldn't blow up Andy 's chopper".
It is fair to say that the 'chopper' in question has seen quite a bit of active service,prompting suggestions that Andy was more interested in trophy escorts that UK exports. Year ago, there was Vicki Hodge, older and naughtier, one time star of 'Confessions of a Sex Maniac'. Better remembered is Koo Stark, who has battled breast cancer and bankruptcy in recent years and sounds to have been ill-treated by the Royals. There has been a Bond girl or two, a Cadbury's Flake model, Robert Maxwell's daughter. Rock diva Courtney Love said Andrew knocked on her door, but to no avail.
Andy may be a double-chinned playboy, but he also seemes to be a devoted dad and a stout friend to the wayward, but unforgettable Fergie, whose goals come in hat-tricks.
I have never met a Royal, but did once attend a rather dour event hosted by Anne, which involved skipping lunch in recognition of gloval hunger. I can't see that being Andrew's kind of caper. But I can imagine a night on the town with him, on th back of some boring export promotion gig. . "Where's the totty round here?" he would enquire and we would head off to a 'Pimps and Hookers' party across town, the booze flowing freely, the conversation getting ever more louche and indiscreet, while Andy assured me I was a "bloody good bloke". You are too,sir. Trebles all round.
Sunday 24 July 2011
Friday 22 July 2011
ANORAK ATTACK - WAS BEEFY THE BUSINESS?
Cricket lovers have a lot of anniversaries to choose from in 2011. Much has already been made of Graham Gooch’s doggedly magnificent century against the Windies in 1991, which helped England to their first home win since 1969 against opponents just beginning to lose their sheen. Australians will remember Richie Benaud (oh so missed when Channel Five give us the smarmy Mark Nicholas) spinning Australia to victory in 1961. In retaliation, there was Illingworth’s Ashes victory Down Under, 1970-71.
But inevitably, most of the attention has gone to 1981, year of Royal Wedding, Toxteth, Ricky Villa at Wembley, Aldaniti’s epic Grand National Victory, ‘Ghosttown’ (and ‘Japanese Boy’) and this writer’s twin failures: to secure a place at Oxford University and lose his virginity to a Swedish engineering student and Beatles/Bowie fan on a ferry to Crete.
But inevitably, much of the focus has been on ‘Beefy’s Ashes’, how a bearded I.T.Botham, still only 25, stripped of the captaincy after a double duck at Lords (bowled by slow left armer Ray Bright in the second innings, ouch) blasted his way back, helped by shrink and guru Mike Brearley. The rest everybody knows: “Botham bats like Jessop” to make 149 at Headingley, the prelude to an amazing Bob Willis demolition; Botham given ball at Edgebaston and cleans up with five wickets for one run; Botham goes on the rampage at Old Trafford, quick-fire, pugnacious ton off Lillee and company after crowd treated to warm-up act of Tavare and Boycott crawling along at 1.5 runs an over.
The BBC documentary, “Botham: the Legend of ‘81” was predictably reverential, but quite good in parts. Contemporaries, notably a still chippy Bob Willis, long without those fabulous locks, Viv Richards, Joel Garner, David Gower and Mike Brearley were all up for it. It would have been good to have something from Geoff Boycott or Brian Close. Peter Roebuck, the enemy of Taunton, was also missing, but this was maybe not the time or place.
Botham’s other biographer, the languid Simon Wilde, was fair enough, but the non-cricketing pundits brought little but clichés, cod analysis and drooling schoolboy hero worship. Pick of the bunch was Elton John, who clearly knows the man, even if one winced at all that "he was James Dean...Marlon Brando" stuff. I would rather lend my Playfair annuals to Elton John than Mick Jagger, whose love of cricket has always seemed as much an affectation as as his love of the Blues. "He was a real anti-establishment hero", said the Street-fighting knight. Takes one to know one, Mick. Botham is a good Tory, I suspect. It would surely be more entertaining to meet the un-knighted Keef in the Long Room. The ubiquitous Stephen Fry was over-indulged as always and wholly surplus to requirements. So too were most of the accompanying pop tracks: “Starman” by David Bowie (1972, when Botham was in Somerset Second XI), Blondies’s unmemorable ‘Atomic’ (1980, when our man and team-mates were losing to the Windies).
To my shame, John Major’s over-professed love of cricket, tea-time chats with Jonners, spotted on camera looking studious at The Oval etc, has softened my contempt for the man, but I think we have heard enough from this quarter. “It was a miracle like Dunkirk”, gushed John. “What Botham did really lifted the nation”. I’m not sure all those hooked sixes and Aussie batting collapses meant all that much to the hundreds of thousands unemployed, John. It was the Falklands Factor, not the Botham Factor that saved Maggie at the polls. I’d still be curious to know if Major and Edwina Currie were tuned into Test Match Special on while getting it on, but that’s just me. Nothing from Tim Hudson, the man who saw Ian Botham storming Hollywood, one of many king-sized prats to attach themselves to the great game and its icons.
On the credit side, Botham’s wife and kids were good value. The man’s marching campaign against leukemia was moving and well told. I could have done with a bit more former Miss Barbados, broken beds and dope-smoking, plus his infamous take on Pakistan as “the kind of place you’d send your mother-in-law on holiday”, but no matter. At least we didn’t Ian in panto, angling or playing football for Scunthorpe.
On the pitch, we did get hints of the disappointments that came later. A journalist friend, less-than-charmed by a declining cricket champion during a terse, unrevealing phone interview, commented acidly that “most of Botham’s highlights in recent years have been in his hair”. The haircuts did get pretty horrible at times. Mercifully, the man who smote the Aussies in ’81 had a solid yeoman look; the blonde mullet came later.
As for the cricket…Botham rated his century at Brisbane in 86/87 as more important than anything in 1981. In truth, there was not much thereafter. Injury took its toll after 1987. International appearances dried up. There was the odd cameo in the 1992 World Cup, plus some old-fashioned Aussie-bashing for lack of respect for the monarchy, but as in previous tournaments (1979, 1983 etc), the Botham input was modest as it always was in international one-day cricket. Critics (cynics?) point out that many of the best-known Botham heroics came against lesser teams. He destroyed a post-Packer Pakistan 2nd XI in 1978 and the 1981 Aussies, led by Kim Hughes not Greg Chappell, were not overburdened with stars, although Allan Border was fast-emerging. Botham may be held in great regard by Richards and Garner, but his record against the Windies in their pomp was decidedly poor.
I’m still a bit unconvinced. I only saw Botham in action twice. Brought in for n early one-day match in 1976 against Lloyd, Richards, Holding and co, Botham was carted out of Edgebaston by Gordon Greenidge. Two years later, Botham made 80 against Sussex in the Gillette Cup Final and had a quick burst of wickets, looking a straightforward bet for Man of the Match. But that honour went to Paul Parker, who steered Sussex to a comfortable victory. Parker played only one Test for England, appearing at The Oval in the last match of Botham’s summer.
But inevitably, most of the attention has gone to 1981, year of Royal Wedding, Toxteth, Ricky Villa at Wembley, Aldaniti’s epic Grand National Victory, ‘Ghosttown’ (and ‘Japanese Boy’) and this writer’s twin failures: to secure a place at Oxford University and lose his virginity to a Swedish engineering student and Beatles/Bowie fan on a ferry to Crete.
But inevitably, much of the focus has been on ‘Beefy’s Ashes’, how a bearded I.T.Botham, still only 25, stripped of the captaincy after a double duck at Lords (bowled by slow left armer Ray Bright in the second innings, ouch) blasted his way back, helped by shrink and guru Mike Brearley. The rest everybody knows: “Botham bats like Jessop” to make 149 at Headingley, the prelude to an amazing Bob Willis demolition; Botham given ball at Edgebaston and cleans up with five wickets for one run; Botham goes on the rampage at Old Trafford, quick-fire, pugnacious ton off Lillee and company after crowd treated to warm-up act of Tavare and Boycott crawling along at 1.5 runs an over.
The BBC documentary, “Botham: the Legend of ‘81” was predictably reverential, but quite good in parts. Contemporaries, notably a still chippy Bob Willis, long without those fabulous locks, Viv Richards, Joel Garner, David Gower and Mike Brearley were all up for it. It would have been good to have something from Geoff Boycott or Brian Close. Peter Roebuck, the enemy of Taunton, was also missing, but this was maybe not the time or place.
Botham’s other biographer, the languid Simon Wilde, was fair enough, but the non-cricketing pundits brought little but clichés, cod analysis and drooling schoolboy hero worship. Pick of the bunch was Elton John, who clearly knows the man, even if one winced at all that "he was James Dean...Marlon Brando" stuff. I would rather lend my Playfair annuals to Elton John than Mick Jagger, whose love of cricket has always seemed as much an affectation as as his love of the Blues. "He was a real anti-establishment hero", said the Street-fighting knight. Takes one to know one, Mick. Botham is a good Tory, I suspect. It would surely be more entertaining to meet the un-knighted Keef in the Long Room. The ubiquitous Stephen Fry was over-indulged as always and wholly surplus to requirements. So too were most of the accompanying pop tracks: “Starman” by David Bowie (1972, when Botham was in Somerset Second XI), Blondies’s unmemorable ‘Atomic’ (1980, when our man and team-mates were losing to the Windies).
To my shame, John Major’s over-professed love of cricket, tea-time chats with Jonners, spotted on camera looking studious at The Oval etc, has softened my contempt for the man, but I think we have heard enough from this quarter. “It was a miracle like Dunkirk”, gushed John. “What Botham did really lifted the nation”. I’m not sure all those hooked sixes and Aussie batting collapses meant all that much to the hundreds of thousands unemployed, John. It was the Falklands Factor, not the Botham Factor that saved Maggie at the polls. I’d still be curious to know if Major and Edwina Currie were tuned into Test Match Special on while getting it on, but that’s just me. Nothing from Tim Hudson, the man who saw Ian Botham storming Hollywood, one of many king-sized prats to attach themselves to the great game and its icons.
On the credit side, Botham’s wife and kids were good value. The man’s marching campaign against leukemia was moving and well told. I could have done with a bit more former Miss Barbados, broken beds and dope-smoking, plus his infamous take on Pakistan as “the kind of place you’d send your mother-in-law on holiday”, but no matter. At least we didn’t Ian in panto, angling or playing football for Scunthorpe.
On the pitch, we did get hints of the disappointments that came later. A journalist friend, less-than-charmed by a declining cricket champion during a terse, unrevealing phone interview, commented acidly that “most of Botham’s highlights in recent years have been in his hair”. The haircuts did get pretty horrible at times. Mercifully, the man who smote the Aussies in ’81 had a solid yeoman look; the blonde mullet came later.
As for the cricket…Botham rated his century at Brisbane in 86/87 as more important than anything in 1981. In truth, there was not much thereafter. Injury took its toll after 1987. International appearances dried up. There was the odd cameo in the 1992 World Cup, plus some old-fashioned Aussie-bashing for lack of respect for the monarchy, but as in previous tournaments (1979, 1983 etc), the Botham input was modest as it always was in international one-day cricket. Critics (cynics?) point out that many of the best-known Botham heroics came against lesser teams. He destroyed a post-Packer Pakistan 2nd XI in 1978 and the 1981 Aussies, led by Kim Hughes not Greg Chappell, were not overburdened with stars, although Allan Border was fast-emerging. Botham may be held in great regard by Richards and Garner, but his record against the Windies in their pomp was decidedly poor.
I’m still a bit unconvinced. I only saw Botham in action twice. Brought in for n early one-day match in 1976 against Lloyd, Richards, Holding and co, Botham was carted out of Edgebaston by Gordon Greenidge. Two years later, Botham made 80 against Sussex in the Gillette Cup Final and had a quick burst of wickets, looking a straightforward bet for Man of the Match. But that honour went to Paul Parker, who steered Sussex to a comfortable victory. Parker played only one Test for England, appearing at The Oval in the last match of Botham’s summer.
Wednesday 20 July 2011
SO HURT BY HELEN
It takes time to adjust to the end of another 'Apprentice' series. For reasons too complicated to mention, I have only managed to watch two of these epic, three-month battles and rather wish I had seen more. A poisoned left food and doctor's orders to do nothing too arduous enabled me to see ALL of 2009's offerings, the Year of Jasmina, big-mouthed 'Pantsman' Phillip, sinister Deborah, Sandhurst Ben et al, even tuning into Five Live for the day after expulsion interviews. A shopping expedition to Aylesbury was redeemed by an invaluable, cut-price complation of series past, so I can refer knowingly to 'The Badger' and other stuff.
Ths year it all seemms a bit anti-climactic and pallid. Must admit that, even as a golfaphobe, Darren Clarke's triumph at Sandwich meant a wee bit more than Lord Sugar's wary endorsement of nice but nerdy Tom's Bad Back Chairs. So too did the Murdochs' day out in Westminster.
It was fun but cruel to see Jim run out of cliches and unravel under interrogation. The Eastwood of 'Grand Torino' or 'Dirty Hary' would have fought harder and longer. I will be sure to give winsome Susan a cheery wave should I ever find her flogging exotic soaps and potions at Greenwich Market, but boy was she a pain. But what of Helen? So cool under pressure before, so clear-eyed and focused. Ten wins out of eleven, but her collapse on the last leg was worse than Devon Loch's at Aintree.
Lord Sugar clearly felt let down, so too, one imagines, Helen's friends and family. But the greatest shame and disappointment of all surely fell to Greggs. The finest bakery chain in the land (or in Christendom, I would venture) and she an annointed daughter. But come the hour, come the greatest test of all and what did we get? A half-baked (pun fully intended) life supervision service, seemingly plucked from some fourth-rate American self-improvement manual. Thinking outside the box streamlining the day to day....zzzzzzz.
What we should have had was surely a little Greggsian empire-building and some sound advice to the cash-strapped on how to fill your face for £1.79. All those years working with the company that gave us the Sausage, Beans and Cheese Melt, the awe-inspiring Soup and Sandwich combo, the mighty Tuna Bloomer, plus her own star performances on biscuits and pie n'mash and all we got a was a humiliating, last-ditch attempt to win over critics with a bakery-based Plan B. I was close to tears. Could Helen not have swiped a few secrets (chief assistant to CEO and all that), improvised some recipes (perhaps with inventor Tom) and come up with a GLOBAL range of high carb treats? As a longtime Greggs consumer I would gladly have taken on a consultancy and test piloted a new range of snacks. The mainstays are well-known and reassuringly British. But how about something a bit more Continental? For the savouries, a Wiener Schnitzel, Grueyere and Baked Bean Strudel could be just the ticket, leaving just enough room for a cheekily fattening Fudge Fondant or Marshmallow Mousse?
Waiting for a train at Newcastle, I was tempted by a Greggs Belgian Bun, topped by twinkling cherry. But such a heavenly treat felt wrong in the immediate aftermath of Helen's humbling. But like Gregg's under-rated pastry, she will rise again.
Ths year it all seemms a bit anti-climactic and pallid. Must admit that, even as a golfaphobe, Darren Clarke's triumph at Sandwich meant a wee bit more than Lord Sugar's wary endorsement of nice but nerdy Tom's Bad Back Chairs. So too did the Murdochs' day out in Westminster.
It was fun but cruel to see Jim run out of cliches and unravel under interrogation. The Eastwood of 'Grand Torino' or 'Dirty Hary' would have fought harder and longer. I will be sure to give winsome Susan a cheery wave should I ever find her flogging exotic soaps and potions at Greenwich Market, but boy was she a pain. But what of Helen? So cool under pressure before, so clear-eyed and focused. Ten wins out of eleven, but her collapse on the last leg was worse than Devon Loch's at Aintree.
Lord Sugar clearly felt let down, so too, one imagines, Helen's friends and family. But the greatest shame and disappointment of all surely fell to Greggs. The finest bakery chain in the land (or in Christendom, I would venture) and she an annointed daughter. But come the hour, come the greatest test of all and what did we get? A half-baked (pun fully intended) life supervision service, seemingly plucked from some fourth-rate American self-improvement manual. Thinking outside the box streamlining the day to day....zzzzzzz.
What we should have had was surely a little Greggsian empire-building and some sound advice to the cash-strapped on how to fill your face for £1.79. All those years working with the company that gave us the Sausage, Beans and Cheese Melt, the awe-inspiring Soup and Sandwich combo, the mighty Tuna Bloomer, plus her own star performances on biscuits and pie n'mash and all we got a was a humiliating, last-ditch attempt to win over critics with a bakery-based Plan B. I was close to tears. Could Helen not have swiped a few secrets (chief assistant to CEO and all that), improvised some recipes (perhaps with inventor Tom) and come up with a GLOBAL range of high carb treats? As a longtime Greggs consumer I would gladly have taken on a consultancy and test piloted a new range of snacks. The mainstays are well-known and reassuringly British. But how about something a bit more Continental? For the savouries, a Wiener Schnitzel, Grueyere and Baked Bean Strudel could be just the ticket, leaving just enough room for a cheekily fattening Fudge Fondant or Marshmallow Mousse?
Waiting for a train at Newcastle, I was tempted by a Greggs Belgian Bun, topped by twinkling cherry. But such a heavenly treat felt wrong in the immediate aftermath of Helen's humbling. But like Gregg's under-rated pastry, she will rise again.
Monday 18 July 2011
HATS OFF TO HAILEY
Having already rhapsodised about L. Garde du Peach and early Jilly Cooper, time surely to pay long and lavish tribute to Arthur Hailey. Nope, not Alex Haley of 'Roots' fame, but the Luton-born, Bahamas-based writer of "pure entertainment", who left us in 2004, but not before getting his teeth into politics, the newspaper business, drug company shenanigans, the automobile industry, hotels, airports and...international finance, selling millions as he went. Haileyites may row long into the night over which was Arthur's finest hour, but I was more than happy to get reacquainted with 'The Moneychangers', 50p from Cancer Research in Kelso and described as "his best effort" by American Publishers Weekly.
I would certainly have backed that view in 1977, when Hailey offered a more than welcome distraction from Physics homework and David Soul's domination of the singles charts (forget this being the year of Punk). Years before Enron and the Crash of 2008, Arthur gave us banking deals gone badly wrong,takeovers with strings attached, tales of greed and massive misjudgement. In 'The Moneychangers' boardroom breakdowns and dody ccorporate hospitality are complemented by all manner of nastiness on the streets, where the man you don't want to cross is Tony Bear Marino, a one-way glass devotee (never a good sign) with a penchant for "detailed, graphic reports of gangland beatings". Acid-spraying Tony makes Al Pacino's Tony Montana look like Hugh Grant. Hailey also took us into the cells, as debt-ridden, white collar thief Miles goes through a shaming arrest, confession, conviction, gang rape and a homosexual interracial relationship with lifer Karl, before finding redemption and a cure for his impotence ("what should have been a young man's ardent, rigid sword was flaccid, ineffectual") in the arms of forgiving Juanita ("he knew, through her, he had found his manhood once again").
Hailey adapatations were a mixed bag. Dean Martin was a rough-edged pilot in 'Airport' the movie. Rod Talor made a wooden hotel manager in 'Hotel'. Rock Hudson was meant to turn all the girls on in 'Wheels', the Detroit-based car series, with troubled wifr Lee Remick losing it big time, or having about as much fun as she did in 'The Omen'.
The Moneychangers on TV more than passed muster. A young Timothy Bottoms played Miles, one of the better casting decisions. Christopher Plummer was about the right age and managed the right amount of ironic detachment as randy Roscoe, who eventually (spoiler alert) plunges off a building having clocked up huge escort girl charges fooling around with Avril, "like a Greek Goddess in her nudity". Avril, all tumbling red curls and cool seduction in the book, was played by JOAN COLLINS, already in her early forties, pre-Dynasty. But some of the blokes were even more implausible. Kirk Douglas,pushing sixty, appeared as young Alex, the banking hero. Even at 13, I could see there was something not quite right with Kirk's make-up. Surely he could have given this one to Michael.
I would certainly have backed that view in 1977, when Hailey offered a more than welcome distraction from Physics homework and David Soul's domination of the singles charts (forget this being the year of Punk). Years before Enron and the Crash of 2008, Arthur gave us banking deals gone badly wrong,takeovers with strings attached, tales of greed and massive misjudgement. In 'The Moneychangers' boardroom breakdowns and dody ccorporate hospitality are complemented by all manner of nastiness on the streets, where the man you don't want to cross is Tony Bear Marino, a one-way glass devotee (never a good sign) with a penchant for "detailed, graphic reports of gangland beatings". Acid-spraying Tony makes Al Pacino's Tony Montana look like Hugh Grant. Hailey also took us into the cells, as debt-ridden, white collar thief Miles goes through a shaming arrest, confession, conviction, gang rape and a homosexual interracial relationship with lifer Karl, before finding redemption and a cure for his impotence ("what should have been a young man's ardent, rigid sword was flaccid, ineffectual") in the arms of forgiving Juanita ("he knew, through her, he had found his manhood once again").
Hailey adapatations were a mixed bag. Dean Martin was a rough-edged pilot in 'Airport' the movie. Rod Talor made a wooden hotel manager in 'Hotel'. Rock Hudson was meant to turn all the girls on in 'Wheels', the Detroit-based car series, with troubled wifr Lee Remick losing it big time, or having about as much fun as she did in 'The Omen'.
The Moneychangers on TV more than passed muster. A young Timothy Bottoms played Miles, one of the better casting decisions. Christopher Plummer was about the right age and managed the right amount of ironic detachment as randy Roscoe, who eventually (spoiler alert) plunges off a building having clocked up huge escort girl charges fooling around with Avril, "like a Greek Goddess in her nudity". Avril, all tumbling red curls and cool seduction in the book, was played by JOAN COLLINS, already in her early forties, pre-Dynasty. But some of the blokes were even more implausible. Kirk Douglas,pushing sixty, appeared as young Alex, the banking hero. Even at 13, I could see there was something not quite right with Kirk's make-up. Surely he could have given this one to Michael.
Sunday 17 July 2011
GONE ON GOOGIE
My memories of 'Within These Walls' are a bit hazy. Early evening on LWT? A little less camp and outrageous than the supremely silly 'Bad Girls'. Did it segue into 'The Professionals' at one point? Doyle and Bodie put away, or take out the bad boys. Sensible Governor Faye Boswell takes care of the errant girls.In a perfect world, she would have hooked up with Cowley, CI5's boss, a Googie-Gordon combo. They must have been of a similar vintage.
I know Withers was in 'The Lady Vanishes' (1938) and was a steady second division star of stage and screen for years. But prison governess roles linger longer in the memory. Obituaries suggested that the Aussie creators of legendary 'Prisoner Cell Block H' wanted Googie to get back in the office and sort out the hard nuts at Wentworth. She declined, leaving the stage free for the fabulous Patsy King to become Erica Davidson, boss to Jim, Vera, Meg and co. Patsy was also classically trained. I know little of her other work, but still dream of her on a regular basis, fantasising that I am sent to Wentworth for skipped deadlines or poor washing up and left in her tender charge. She did brave the London stage, one of a handful of cast originals to grace the deplorable stage production of 'Prisoner' put on at the Dominion in 1989. I had hopes for a post-performance gin-and-tonic with Erica/Patsy afterwards, but the sheer awfulness of the first act provoked a mutiny by my companions and we quit the theatre at half-time.
I know Withers was in 'The Lady Vanishes' (1938) and was a steady second division star of stage and screen for years. But prison governess roles linger longer in the memory. Obituaries suggested that the Aussie creators of legendary 'Prisoner Cell Block H' wanted Googie to get back in the office and sort out the hard nuts at Wentworth. She declined, leaving the stage free for the fabulous Patsy King to become Erica Davidson, boss to Jim, Vera, Meg and co. Patsy was also classically trained. I know little of her other work, but still dream of her on a regular basis, fantasising that I am sent to Wentworth for skipped deadlines or poor washing up and left in her tender charge. She did brave the London stage, one of a handful of cast originals to grace the deplorable stage production of 'Prisoner' put on at the Dominion in 1989. I had hopes for a post-performance gin-and-tonic with Erica/Patsy afterwards, but the sheer awfulness of the first act provoked a mutiny by my companions and we quit the theatre at half-time.
Friday 15 July 2011
A HOOK, A TWAT AND A POINTLESS COMPILATION
Rock group fall-outs can be vicious and unrelenting. You suspect that Lennon and McCartney never really got on after 1969, whatever Paul said about impromptu jams at the Dakota in John's last years. The rift between Roger Waters and the rest of the Pink Floyd millionaires was risible, but deadly serious to rival fans as I know from bitter, boring experience. An Algerian friend refused to have the name Gilmour mentioned in the same sentence as Pink Floyd. "Roger is a visionary", he enthused. A sex club hostess in Prague produced a battered photo of Gilmour from her wallet and swore he was the man.
The Rolling Stones went through World War Three at some point in the mid-1980s when Mick's preening got too much for Keef. Fleetwood Mac survived years of marital and studio-based turbulence, drugs and shagging featuring strongly. Best not to mention The Kinks, or Oasis. Then there was Paul Weller having nothing good to say about Bruce and Rick from The Jam, who finally went off and formed 'From The Jam'. Touchingly, Paul and Bruce appear to have got over all that, so you can listen to 'Beat Surrender' again without wincing. Jerry Dammers was not part of the comeback by The Specials. And...whisper it quietly, even the Rubettes don't appear to get along these days.
I find all this both needless and strangely distressing. Does inter-band friction generate great music? Yes and no. The endearing greatness of The Fall appears to owe little to the fun and harmony fostered by Mark E.Smith.
Now, according to an excellent piece by Rob Fitzpatrick in The Guardian http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2011/jul/14/new-order-split-peter-hook
there are fresh schisms in New Order. The podgy fiftysomethings, one time kings of the north-west, have fallen out over the Joy Division heritage and an upcoming compilation. Peter Hook calls Bernard Sumner, his Salford boyhood friend of over 40 years "a twat". Bernard, Steve and Gillian say it's the other way round
All good stuff, but really... New Order have never suffered fools gladly, but have often come across as fairly earthbound, wry and mercifully unpompous. They survived the suicide of their singer and friend Ian Curtis and the morbid veneration that came with it. Just a few years ago, a blogger wrote up his Bed and Breakfast visit to a Macclesfield homestead to see the room where Curtis killed himself, surely the kind of devotee Hook, Sumner or Morris would denounce as a 'twat'.
I was never in that league, but like many slightly pathetic sixteen-year-olds of the time, had an Ian Curtis poster in 1980. Actually, it was a photo cut out from an NME post-suicide feature on the band (Paul Morley, I believe). From having barely heard a Joy Division track, I doggedly acquired most of the limited back catalogue. I have read Deborah Curtis's 'Touching from a Distance' memoir, more honest and banal than its pretentious title, and own both Anton Corbijn's doomy but solid 'Control' and the 'must-see' (so said The Guardian) documentary on Joy Division. I greatly enjoyed '24 Hour Party People' and drank to the ludicrous, but much-missed Tony Wilson when he passed on and regretted missing the exhibition based around the group at the Macclesfield Silk Museum in 2010. I have a cherished 12-inch version of New Order's first single, 'Ceremony' (written by Curtis?) and still like 'Procession' and 'Temptation', but can't rhapsodise with great conviction about 'Republic' and other releases.
Does anyone really need a Joy Division/New Order compilation (remastered?). I guess previous financial cock-ups and mismanagement have left them all shorter on funds than they should be, but does it have to end like this?
Ian Curtis is long gone, so too Tony Wilson, manager Rob Gretton and producer Martin Hannett. It would be nice if there were some mutually loved mucker from the old Manchester scene to sort things out.
The Rolling Stones went through World War Three at some point in the mid-1980s when Mick's preening got too much for Keef. Fleetwood Mac survived years of marital and studio-based turbulence, drugs and shagging featuring strongly. Best not to mention The Kinks, or Oasis. Then there was Paul Weller having nothing good to say about Bruce and Rick from The Jam, who finally went off and formed 'From The Jam'. Touchingly, Paul and Bruce appear to have got over all that, so you can listen to 'Beat Surrender' again without wincing. Jerry Dammers was not part of the comeback by The Specials. And...whisper it quietly, even the Rubettes don't appear to get along these days.
I find all this both needless and strangely distressing. Does inter-band friction generate great music? Yes and no. The endearing greatness of The Fall appears to owe little to the fun and harmony fostered by Mark E.Smith.
Now, according to an excellent piece by Rob Fitzpatrick in The Guardian http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2011/jul/14/new-order-split-peter-hook
there are fresh schisms in New Order. The podgy fiftysomethings, one time kings of the north-west, have fallen out over the Joy Division heritage and an upcoming compilation. Peter Hook calls Bernard Sumner, his Salford boyhood friend of over 40 years "a twat". Bernard, Steve and Gillian say it's the other way round
All good stuff, but really... New Order have never suffered fools gladly, but have often come across as fairly earthbound, wry and mercifully unpompous. They survived the suicide of their singer and friend Ian Curtis and the morbid veneration that came with it. Just a few years ago, a blogger wrote up his Bed and Breakfast visit to a Macclesfield homestead to see the room where Curtis killed himself, surely the kind of devotee Hook, Sumner or Morris would denounce as a 'twat'.
I was never in that league, but like many slightly pathetic sixteen-year-olds of the time, had an Ian Curtis poster in 1980. Actually, it was a photo cut out from an NME post-suicide feature on the band (Paul Morley, I believe). From having barely heard a Joy Division track, I doggedly acquired most of the limited back catalogue. I have read Deborah Curtis's 'Touching from a Distance' memoir, more honest and banal than its pretentious title, and own both Anton Corbijn's doomy but solid 'Control' and the 'must-see' (so said The Guardian) documentary on Joy Division. I greatly enjoyed '24 Hour Party People' and drank to the ludicrous, but much-missed Tony Wilson when he passed on and regretted missing the exhibition based around the group at the Macclesfield Silk Museum in 2010. I have a cherished 12-inch version of New Order's first single, 'Ceremony' (written by Curtis?) and still like 'Procession' and 'Temptation', but can't rhapsodise with great conviction about 'Republic' and other releases.
Does anyone really need a Joy Division/New Order compilation (remastered?). I guess previous financial cock-ups and mismanagement have left them all shorter on funds than they should be, but does it have to end like this?
Ian Curtis is long gone, so too Tony Wilson, manager Rob Gretton and producer Martin Hannett. It would be nice if there were some mutually loved mucker from the old Manchester scene to sort things out.
JILLY'S BRIGHTEST JEWEL
"All happy families are alike but an unhappy family is unhappy after its own fashion". So Tolstoy chose to begin 'Anna Karenin', still frequently referred to as the greatest novel of all time. "Miss Brook had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress". George Eliot's 'Middlemarch', said by no lesser critic than Virginia Woolf to be "one of the few English novels written for grown-up people", a horribly arid recommendation. Both intros are undoubtedly snappy and attention-grabbing, but for the best high voltage opening in England literature you need to take yourself off to a hot summer night in the 1970s for a nightcap at Arabella's and a vintage blast of the early Jilly Cooper: "The moment I set eyes on Jeremy West I knew I had to have him".
The narrator is Octavia, self-confessed bitch and manstealer, who uses a canal boat holiday to try to snare weak-willed poet Jeremy, but is crossed by big-bellied Welsh industrialist Gareth, intent on breaking brittle Octavia's pampered existence into little pieces. He puts her on the road to redemption with a stern spanking in a country house bathroom, not a scenario Jilly's feminist contemporaries can have been wild about, then strips her of her assets. Gone are the luxury Green Park flat and flashy life-style to pay off debts. Octavia struggles through the summer of drought (1976?) as an office dogsbody and Putney waitress, forced into a porn shoot to save disgraced brother Alexander (the hugely dishy 'Xander'). The rains eventually come and so too comes redemption, Octavia moving from cat fights to catharsis, helped on her way by a magnificent supporting cast of dumpy schoolfriends, kindly capitalists and thoroughoing sleazeballs. Why was there never a movie?
Unlike the later, thicker, inferior Cooper novels, there is precious little bonking in 'Octavia', or indeed in most of the other pitch perfect novellas that early Cooper fans cherish: 'Harriet', 'Emily', 'Imogen', 'Prudence' etc... . Our naughty heroine beds the dapper Charlie with some aplomb in the first few pages, although the bedroom gymnastics are dedicated to the preening Jeremy. Diagnosed by her Welsh nemesis as frigid and manipulative, Octavia realises that her valley is best tended by the man from the valleys (apologies for that) and her reward is a big 'O' like a "great, glorious, whooshing washing machine". Well done that girl.
While I have met literary bores who read 'David Copperfield' or (God help them) 'Pride and Prejudice' on an annual basis, I would go for 'Octavia' every time, a frothy (but surprisingly deep) summer read, eminently quotable and wholly unforgettable. According to my calculations, Octavia would be around 61 now. I suspect the Welshman, fast-living and impetuous, may no longer be with us, but couldn't La Cooper give Octavia an equally troubled daughter to learn from Mum?
The narrator is Octavia, self-confessed bitch and manstealer, who uses a canal boat holiday to try to snare weak-willed poet Jeremy, but is crossed by big-bellied Welsh industrialist Gareth, intent on breaking brittle Octavia's pampered existence into little pieces. He puts her on the road to redemption with a stern spanking in a country house bathroom, not a scenario Jilly's feminist contemporaries can have been wild about, then strips her of her assets. Gone are the luxury Green Park flat and flashy life-style to pay off debts. Octavia struggles through the summer of drought (1976?) as an office dogsbody and Putney waitress, forced into a porn shoot to save disgraced brother Alexander (the hugely dishy 'Xander'). The rains eventually come and so too comes redemption, Octavia moving from cat fights to catharsis, helped on her way by a magnificent supporting cast of dumpy schoolfriends, kindly capitalists and thoroughoing sleazeballs. Why was there never a movie?
Unlike the later, thicker, inferior Cooper novels, there is precious little bonking in 'Octavia', or indeed in most of the other pitch perfect novellas that early Cooper fans cherish: 'Harriet', 'Emily', 'Imogen', 'Prudence' etc... . Our naughty heroine beds the dapper Charlie with some aplomb in the first few pages, although the bedroom gymnastics are dedicated to the preening Jeremy. Diagnosed by her Welsh nemesis as frigid and manipulative, Octavia realises that her valley is best tended by the man from the valleys (apologies for that) and her reward is a big 'O' like a "great, glorious, whooshing washing machine". Well done that girl.
While I have met literary bores who read 'David Copperfield' or (God help them) 'Pride and Prejudice' on an annual basis, I would go for 'Octavia' every time, a frothy (but surprisingly deep) summer read, eminently quotable and wholly unforgettable. According to my calculations, Octavia would be around 61 now. I suspect the Welshman, fast-living and impetuous, may no longer be with us, but couldn't La Cooper give Octavia an equally troubled daughter to learn from Mum?
Wednesday 13 July 2011
crying with kristin
So who was this pale and lovely waif on the BBC Breakfast sofa, blubbing and blabbing so passionately for Oxfam and Africa ? A little bleary-eyed and normally used to dealing with the Today programme or Chris Evans, it took me a while to clock the diva back from Dadaab. This was not Angelina Jolie on a bad make-up day, but the wet and winsome Kristin Davis, known to those who care (and I once did, honest) as shrinking southern belle from hell Charlotte in Sex and the City.
One of the biggest disappointments of a four-month stint in New York last year (walking down Madison and all that) was not to catch a glimpse of any of the famour foursome in the bars and boutiques of Manhattan, making do instead with the truly execrable SATC2. But never mind Carrie and co shaking it with the sheikhs in some Arabian pleasure zone. Here was Kristin on Kleenex alert, despatched to BBC soft question sofaland to peddle a personalised account of how bad things are, wowing her vacuous early morning hosts with tales of death and desperation. Or should that be gush and slush? The tears were for real.
So how to respond to this? How heartless can one be to ponder not the ongoing misery of those pouring into the refugee camps, but the judgement of Oxfam, entrusting its message from the crisis zone to a millionaire thespian. Whatever else is on the K Davis acting CV, she appears to be doomed to be forever associated with a TV show that (infamously) celebrates frivolous consumption, rich girl angst, shoes, handbags and missing orgasms.
Oxfam I know of old. As a callow schoolboy, I sang carols for them, gave them the modest proceeds from a school magazine and helped sort out the books in a shop in Cheltenham. Much of my library and wardrobe comes from Oxfam outlets. But I have also taken the Oxfam shilling, joining them on missions to Sierra Leone and the Democratic Republic of Congo. In my naive worldview, Oxfam, warts and all, is still unequivocally on the side of the angels and speak more sense than most about issues that matter.
Historically, the focus has been on development as much as individual emergencies, resolutely unsexy and best handled by those who can talk convincingly about wells and irrigation, rather than weep for Africa. Dame Helen Mirren, bless her, can even put her name to a well-nuanced piece on the horrors inflicted by the Ugandan Lord's Resistance Army. I still harbour shy (possibly pathetic) fantasies of a trip together to some African backwater, Dame Helen quietly applauding my shrewd analyis of conflict dynamics while coyly fielding questions about 'The Long Good Friday' and her memories of going naked in 'Caligula'. So far, I have had to make do with a meal out with Nigel from Eastenders in Rwanda.
Which brings us back to Kristin. I have seen worse, Oscar wailer Sally Field promised Americans that "no one in Africa need ever starve again" while raising funds for LiveAid. Kristin's biography reveals that a past fondness for alcohol has given way to an enthusiasm for acupuncture (not readily available in Dadaab, but I'm sure we are getting there). Her Facebook page is a little cute and cloying if baby elephants, dogs, kittens and dead gorillas are not your bag. But she was well on message at the Montreal Milennium Summit, saving the world on all that. So on balance, put away the sick-bag or get out the cheque book? It's an alarmingly tough call.
One of the biggest disappointments of a four-month stint in New York last year (walking down Madison and all that) was not to catch a glimpse of any of the famour foursome in the bars and boutiques of Manhattan, making do instead with the truly execrable SATC2. But never mind Carrie and co shaking it with the sheikhs in some Arabian pleasure zone. Here was Kristin on Kleenex alert, despatched to BBC soft question sofaland to peddle a personalised account of how bad things are, wowing her vacuous early morning hosts with tales of death and desperation. Or should that be gush and slush? The tears were for real.
So how to respond to this? How heartless can one be to ponder not the ongoing misery of those pouring into the refugee camps, but the judgement of Oxfam, entrusting its message from the crisis zone to a millionaire thespian. Whatever else is on the K Davis acting CV, she appears to be doomed to be forever associated with a TV show that (infamously) celebrates frivolous consumption, rich girl angst, shoes, handbags and missing orgasms.
Oxfam I know of old. As a callow schoolboy, I sang carols for them, gave them the modest proceeds from a school magazine and helped sort out the books in a shop in Cheltenham. Much of my library and wardrobe comes from Oxfam outlets. But I have also taken the Oxfam shilling, joining them on missions to Sierra Leone and the Democratic Republic of Congo. In my naive worldview, Oxfam, warts and all, is still unequivocally on the side of the angels and speak more sense than most about issues that matter.
Historically, the focus has been on development as much as individual emergencies, resolutely unsexy and best handled by those who can talk convincingly about wells and irrigation, rather than weep for Africa. Dame Helen Mirren, bless her, can even put her name to a well-nuanced piece on the horrors inflicted by the Ugandan Lord's Resistance Army. I still harbour shy (possibly pathetic) fantasies of a trip together to some African backwater, Dame Helen quietly applauding my shrewd analyis of conflict dynamics while coyly fielding questions about 'The Long Good Friday' and her memories of going naked in 'Caligula'. So far, I have had to make do with a meal out with Nigel from Eastenders in Rwanda.
Which brings us back to Kristin. I have seen worse, Oscar wailer Sally Field promised Americans that "no one in Africa need ever starve again" while raising funds for LiveAid. Kristin's biography reveals that a past fondness for alcohol has given way to an enthusiasm for acupuncture (not readily available in Dadaab, but I'm sure we are getting there). Her Facebook page is a little cute and cloying if baby elephants, dogs, kittens and dead gorillas are not your bag. But she was well on message at the Montreal Milennium Summit, saving the world on all that. So on balance, put away the sick-bag or get out the cheque book? It's an alarmingly tough call.
Tuesday 12 July 2011
HURRAY....HERE COMES THE HOBBIT
'Meet Bilbo!' this month's edition of 'Empire' film magazine suggests, deciding the world needs an update on Peter Jackson's work in progress out in thewilds of New Zealand. Given 'The Hobbit' is still 18 months away from a release date, this seems an unnecessary sop to 'Tolkies' (fans of J.R. Tolkien) and indeed to Warner Brothers, the film's backers. But in case you had forgotten, we are talking about a "long-awaited $500 million, two-film prequel to The Lord of the Rings, as filmed in real 3D"....and the really good news is that Martin Freeman is on board this time, joining Ian McKellen, Bernard Hill,Elijah Wood, Cate Blanchett and all the other lustrous thespians who have sold their souls to the tedious Tolkie super franchise. Oh God, Stephen Fry is in there too, playing the "greedy Master of Lake Town". Is David Mitchell also lurking somewhere in the Tower of Echtelion?
I have no worries about the feeble talents of Wood and Freeman being used in this overblown Dungeons and Dragons drivel. Poor Martin has never topped Tim in The Office. Genuinely endearing in that, his charms have worn very thin elsewhere. Elijah Wood's turn as a 'Green Street' West Ham football thug, cute and so courageous, was laughably bad, as was the actor's professed love of Upton Park. No fear of Millwall when you have battled Middle Earth nasties and held on to the ring.
But Sir Ian? Please....He stares out balefully from the Empire cover ('Your Return to Middle-Earth Starts Here!') long pipe in hand, looking like the Russian emigre brefriended by the Railyway Children.
I hold the man dear, having seen his Romeo opposite the luscious Francesca Annis as Juliet at Stratford many moons ago. His Macbeth was peerless, his Richard III fearless. But will he now be remembered best as a hoary old wisecracking wizard, the captive of Tolkies?
I have no worries about the feeble talents of Wood and Freeman being used in this overblown Dungeons and Dragons drivel. Poor Martin has never topped Tim in The Office. Genuinely endearing in that, his charms have worn very thin elsewhere. Elijah Wood's turn as a 'Green Street' West Ham football thug, cute and so courageous, was laughably bad, as was the actor's professed love of Upton Park. No fear of Millwall when you have battled Middle Earth nasties and held on to the ring.
But Sir Ian? Please....He stares out balefully from the Empire cover ('Your Return to Middle-Earth Starts Here!') long pipe in hand, looking like the Russian emigre brefriended by the Railyway Children.
I hold the man dear, having seen his Romeo opposite the luscious Francesca Annis as Juliet at Stratford many moons ago. His Macbeth was peerless, his Richard III fearless. But will he now be remembered best as a hoary old wisecracking wizard, the captive of Tolkies?
Friday 8 July 2011
URBAN BLIGHT AND MUSICAL SHITE
Was there a better UK Chart-topper in the 1980s than 'Ghost Town' by The Specials? Subtle brass, eery organ, Terry Hall's dead-pan vocals, a flugelhorn in there somewhere and that weird kind of wailing, a blissful, powerful three minutes and forty seconds. The producer was not Elvis Costello, who was at the controls for two of the band's albums, but John Collins. For more details, go to: http://2-tone.info/articles/john_collins.html for his account of the production and the always reliable Alex Petridis in The Guardian on what it all meant. http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2002/mar/08/artsfeatures.popandrock for further details.
The song was recorded in Leamington Spa rather than Coventry, where there probably was not quite as much 'fighting on the dance floors'. But nevertheless, Ghost Town was a bit of a sociologist's dream, going to Number One in the week of Toxteth, Moss Side and all that.
But here I fear endeth the earnest essay on the power of music and its links to urban deprivation and insurrection. Looking at the chart line-up from the week in which Toxteth burned and you don't see many other singles kicking Thatcherism in the teeth and capturing the mood of a forgotten nation.
The rerelease of 'No Woman No Cry', coming after Bob Marley's demise, added much needed quality. Later in the summer there would be Stevie Wonder's joyous homage to Martin Luther King, 'Happy Birthday'. The latter was nearly wrecked for me by later being spun as a disco opener at the Tory conference in Brighton in honour of Thatcher's 63rd birthday. Hang the DJ, hang the DJ, hang the DJ.
But back to 1981. Other Motown legends joined Stevie in the summer hit parade. I was a teenage sucker for both Michael Jackson's sugary 'One Day in Your Life' and Smokey Robinson's 'Being With You', which hinted at former glories. Also rather lovely was Randy Crawford's 'You Might Need Somebody' and Abba's stern, 12-inch stomper, 'Lay All Your Love on Me'.
Grace Jones was lurking in the lower regions of the charts with 'Pull Up to the Bumper', whose lyrical ambiguity and sense of wicked adventure probably kept it off the Radio One playlist. I did not lose my virginity to that, or indeed (mercifully) to Aneka's 'Japanese Boy' or Shakin' Stevens cover of 'Green Door'. or 'Teddy Bear' by Red Sovine.
There was not much political in these offerings. I fear the tone was really being set by the likes of Duran Duran with 'Girls on Film', and the ever-execrable Spandau Ballet. The Kemp brothers later turned up on a Red Wedge bill to less than rapturous applause from the Labour Party faithful. But I don't think 1981's 'Chant Number One' had much to do with dole queue rage.
"A curious smell,an intangible crime
I'm washing my clothes,but the stain still grows
cover your eyes,the stain still shows".
This suggests either a New Romantic accident at the launderette or (God forbid) in the bathroom. Later the Spandaus take us into the West End:
"you go down Greek street
then it's underground
well it's Soho life
for this mobile knife"
Maybe they were looking for a nearby loo. Bar Italia, just around the corner in Frith Street, does the job nicely, but it's polite to have a four-quid cappucino after you've been.
The song was recorded in Leamington Spa rather than Coventry, where there probably was not quite as much 'fighting on the dance floors'. But nevertheless, Ghost Town was a bit of a sociologist's dream, going to Number One in the week of Toxteth, Moss Side and all that.
But here I fear endeth the earnest essay on the power of music and its links to urban deprivation and insurrection. Looking at the chart line-up from the week in which Toxteth burned and you don't see many other singles kicking Thatcherism in the teeth and capturing the mood of a forgotten nation.
The rerelease of 'No Woman No Cry', coming after Bob Marley's demise, added much needed quality. Later in the summer there would be Stevie Wonder's joyous homage to Martin Luther King, 'Happy Birthday'. The latter was nearly wrecked for me by later being spun as a disco opener at the Tory conference in Brighton in honour of Thatcher's 63rd birthday. Hang the DJ, hang the DJ, hang the DJ.
But back to 1981. Other Motown legends joined Stevie in the summer hit parade. I was a teenage sucker for both Michael Jackson's sugary 'One Day in Your Life' and Smokey Robinson's 'Being With You', which hinted at former glories. Also rather lovely was Randy Crawford's 'You Might Need Somebody' and Abba's stern, 12-inch stomper, 'Lay All Your Love on Me'.
Grace Jones was lurking in the lower regions of the charts with 'Pull Up to the Bumper', whose lyrical ambiguity and sense of wicked adventure probably kept it off the Radio One playlist. I did not lose my virginity to that, or indeed (mercifully) to Aneka's 'Japanese Boy' or Shakin' Stevens cover of 'Green Door'. or 'Teddy Bear' by Red Sovine.
There was not much political in these offerings. I fear the tone was really being set by the likes of Duran Duran with 'Girls on Film', and the ever-execrable Spandau Ballet. The Kemp brothers later turned up on a Red Wedge bill to less than rapturous applause from the Labour Party faithful. But I don't think 1981's 'Chant Number One' had much to do with dole queue rage.
"A curious smell,an intangible crime
I'm washing my clothes,but the stain still grows
cover your eyes,the stain still shows".
This suggests either a New Romantic accident at the launderette or (God forbid) in the bathroom. Later the Spandaus take us into the West End:
"you go down Greek street
then it's underground
well it's Soho life
for this mobile knife"
Maybe they were looking for a nearby loo. Bar Italia, just around the corner in Frith Street, does the job nicely, but it's polite to have a four-quid cappucino after you've been.
Wednesday 6 July 2011
MY VERY OWN CRUSADER
What treats and treasures July 6 offers to historians and make-a-list bores. Not a good day for martyrs. Sir Thomas More, social philosopher, statesman, saint and blogger, lost his head in 1535. Czech religious reformer Jan Hus got to heaven first, burned at the stake in Prague in 1415. The rather less saintly Lawrence of Arabia stormed Aqaba, vanquishing the Turks, although in the film Peter O'Toole, in some discomfort from saddle sores, led the camel charge on a Spanish beach near Almeira.
A more dubious Middle East warrior, Richard the Lionheart, ascended the throne of England on July 6, beginning a ten-year reign spent mostly overseas, bossing the Third Crusade, battling French barons and eventually taking a fatal cross-bow bolt, leaving the kingdom to scheming brother John.
What do we know of Richard? Shakespeare didn't go there, starting his account of warring monarchs with 'King John'. But a much greater dramatist, Sir Tim Rice, mercifully did. Rice gave us 'Blondel', the musical based around the mediaeval legend of the tenacious troubadour who tracked down his king in Austria, having discovered that Richard was not on a skiing holiday, but had been incarcerated by a Crusading rival. Blondel sings outside the castle prison walls. In the original West End production, Blondel was played by Paul Nicholas, who could have serenaded his king (and sealed his execution) with 'Grandma's Party', or 'Dancing with the Captain'. Richard was played by Stephen Tate, formerly of excellent mid-70s TV series 'Survivors'. Andrew Lloyd Webber was not involved this time, but did compose 'Come back Richard, Your Country Needs You', available for ALW completists in a box set or two.
There is still, sadly, no Lionheart biopic, but quite a few thespians have given Richard their best shot. Anthony Hopkins played the stormy princeling in 'The Lion in Winter'. Hopkins,then 32, was up against Dad, Henry II, O'Toole, a boozy 36. Others followed: Julian Glover, Frankie Howerd, Rory Edwards, Patrick Stewart, Danny Huston and memorably (if briefly) Sean Connery giving his blessing to a green-clad Kevin Kostner in 'Robin Hood-Prince of Thieves'.
Richard's alleged support for Robin's Sherwood-based gang may be the stuff of myth. But what of long-standing rumours of Richard's homosexuality? Gay Heroes (http://www.gayheroes.com/rich.htm)
point to Richard's failure to provide spouse Berenagria with a single child, hinting that he preferred the chamber of friend turned rival Philip of France. Other male lovers are alluded to and are in no position to provide injunctions.
But the only Richard you really need is the butch and bold warrior sketched by the late great John Kenney, who adorns the cover of the 1965 Ladybird, 'Richard the Lionheart', another Lawrence du Garde Peach gem from the much-adored 'Adventures from History'. This was undoubtedly my favourite from the series, great locations, awesome battle scenes featuring Richard wielding with sword ands axe, and somewhat fictionalised moments from history, including the famous 'sword contest' involving Richard and 'chivalrous' foe Saladin.
My other heroes at this stage were singer song writer Gilbert O'Sullivan and Gloucestershire and South Africa all-rounder Mike Procter. Gilbert was a bit frizzy to be a full-on hero (and a bit of a drip, if truth be told), Procter a little too porcine. Richard was the business. Kenney's classic image of Richard surveying his soldiers, before they engage in more slaughter of the enemy, is available as a Ladybird print for a tenner. But £175 will secure a framed canvas of the same. Just wondering if any of my summer hosts would like this as a parting gift.
A more dubious Middle East warrior, Richard the Lionheart, ascended the throne of England on July 6, beginning a ten-year reign spent mostly overseas, bossing the Third Crusade, battling French barons and eventually taking a fatal cross-bow bolt, leaving the kingdom to scheming brother John.
What do we know of Richard? Shakespeare didn't go there, starting his account of warring monarchs with 'King John'. But a much greater dramatist, Sir Tim Rice, mercifully did. Rice gave us 'Blondel', the musical based around the mediaeval legend of the tenacious troubadour who tracked down his king in Austria, having discovered that Richard was not on a skiing holiday, but had been incarcerated by a Crusading rival. Blondel sings outside the castle prison walls. In the original West End production, Blondel was played by Paul Nicholas, who could have serenaded his king (and sealed his execution) with 'Grandma's Party', or 'Dancing with the Captain'. Richard was played by Stephen Tate, formerly of excellent mid-70s TV series 'Survivors'. Andrew Lloyd Webber was not involved this time, but did compose 'Come back Richard, Your Country Needs You', available for ALW completists in a box set or two.
There is still, sadly, no Lionheart biopic, but quite a few thespians have given Richard their best shot. Anthony Hopkins played the stormy princeling in 'The Lion in Winter'. Hopkins,then 32, was up against Dad, Henry II, O'Toole, a boozy 36. Others followed: Julian Glover, Frankie Howerd, Rory Edwards, Patrick Stewart, Danny Huston and memorably (if briefly) Sean Connery giving his blessing to a green-clad Kevin Kostner in 'Robin Hood-Prince of Thieves'.
Richard's alleged support for Robin's Sherwood-based gang may be the stuff of myth. But what of long-standing rumours of Richard's homosexuality? Gay Heroes (http://www.gayheroes.com/rich.htm)
point to Richard's failure to provide spouse Berenagria with a single child, hinting that he preferred the chamber of friend turned rival Philip of France. Other male lovers are alluded to and are in no position to provide injunctions.
But the only Richard you really need is the butch and bold warrior sketched by the late great John Kenney, who adorns the cover of the 1965 Ladybird, 'Richard the Lionheart', another Lawrence du Garde Peach gem from the much-adored 'Adventures from History'. This was undoubtedly my favourite from the series, great locations, awesome battle scenes featuring Richard wielding with sword ands axe, and somewhat fictionalised moments from history, including the famous 'sword contest' involving Richard and 'chivalrous' foe Saladin.
My other heroes at this stage were singer song writer Gilbert O'Sullivan and Gloucestershire and South Africa all-rounder Mike Procter. Gilbert was a bit frizzy to be a full-on hero (and a bit of a drip, if truth be told), Procter a little too porcine. Richard was the business. Kenney's classic image of Richard surveying his soldiers, before they engage in more slaughter of the enemy, is available as a Ladybird print for a tenner. But £175 will secure a framed canvas of the same. Just wondering if any of my summer hosts would like this as a parting gift.
BABY YOU'RE A RICH MAN
'Who wants to be a millionaire?" The Guardian asked recently, Patrick Foster providing some interesting 'gestimates' on the chunks of cash trousered by the likes of Chris Moyles, Sir Bruce Forsyth and Graham Norton for BBC work (http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2011/jul/03/bbc-pay-talent-stars-accounts). These revelations are never quite as juicy as you want them to be, (where are the escort services and details of dodgy corporate gigs?) but provide some mild titillation for jealous fringe BBC players like myself and the more embattled parts of the BBC we have served at different times. Blood Boils Copiously? Well, up to a point. Should we begrudge current affairs all-rounders like Marr and Paxman their pay packets? I would certainly expect them to pick up the tab in the (improbable) event of a shared meal or late night drinking session. Sadly, I rarely get to meet such luminaries, although I live in hope of sharing a Greggs lunchtime combo with Gary Lineker (perhaps with some Walkers Crisps on the side?).
I guess levels of outraged correspond in large part to how much one likes or detests those on the pay roll. Surprise, surprise....the reviled 'Top Gear' trio of laddish japesters (or their respective production companies), all appear to be massively loaded. Given that Top Gear is now deemed to be one of the BBC's um...most successful exports, knighthoods or even peerages for Hammond, May and Clarkson should surely follow. My own journalistic earnings sadly don't run to hiring contract killers, but I would love to see the boys abandon their toys and join me on a pre-booked Fun Fare National Express trip. London Victoria to Penzance, Jeremy?
I guess levels of outraged correspond in large part to how much one likes or detests those on the pay roll. Surprise, surprise....the reviled 'Top Gear' trio of laddish japesters (or their respective production companies), all appear to be massively loaded. Given that Top Gear is now deemed to be one of the BBC's um...most successful exports, knighthoods or even peerages for Hammond, May and Clarkson should surely follow. My own journalistic earnings sadly don't run to hiring contract killers, but I would love to see the boys abandon their toys and join me on a pre-booked Fun Fare National Express trip. London Victoria to Penzance, Jeremy?
Saturday 2 July 2011
ARE WE MISSING MORRISON?
It's meant to be the grave you can't miss, but I admit to having twice toured the Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris and failed to find Jim Morrison's resting place, or shrine. No bad thing, according to Wikipedia, which sniffily points out: "Permanent crowds and occasional vandalism surrounding this tomb have caused tensions with the families of other, less famous, interred individuals".
I'm sure on both occasions that there were plenty of semi-stoned, curious Morrisonites I could have asked, but maybe, as a pretentious sixteen-year-old, I wanted to appear less naff and ghoulish and pretend I was after troubled chanteuse Edith Piaf, Resistance hero Jean Moulin or Oscar Wilde. The latter could probably have got some good copy out of Morrison, alive or dead, particularly his (alleged) death in the bath. Surely better than collapsing on the loo, à la Evelyn Waugh, although you do wonder if it was a bubble bath and whether he had a pleasant soaking before choking.
As rock bores will quickly tell you, Morrison was in the '27' club, the age at which Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix also left us, mainly through 'susbtance abuse', or misreading prescriptions. Kurt Cobain came much later, (allegedly) shot by his own gun in April 1994, an event which for sadder rock fans registered more profoundly than the mass slaughter going on in Rwanda at the time.
I supect that Jimi, Janis and Kurt all have a bit more cred and kudos with the cognoscenti these days than poor Jim. Why? Some not very good later albums when the Doors were running out of steam (Waiting for The Sun springs to mind, or have I got that wrong?). Too much myth-making by admirers, including Danny Sugarman's overheated biography 'No One Get Out of Here Alive' (did he just mean the bathroom?). A less-than-enthralling Oliver Stone movie with the unloveable Val Kilmer woefully miscast as the Lizard King. The Doors did little service to their own reputation by hiring Ian Astbury of The Cult as a latter-day stand-in vocalist, offering an even more pointless combo than From The Jam or a Lynott-less Thin Lizzy. There was also that initimate exposure business. Was Jim victim or visionary when he (allegedly) whipped it out in concert? Should he have been given a pardon or a plaque? Joan Didion contributed a quietly withering account of the Doors in rehearsal, getting the vibe together while waiting for their erratic-erotic vocalist to turn up. Give me Joy Division any day. The Doors certainly needed a Peter Hook.
But still...... there were those of us who did hold a bit of a torch for Jim, particularly in the early 1980s when The Doors were hip again, helped by Coppola's heavy-handed, but effective use of 'The End' in Apocalypse Now. Several British bands of that era were self-consciously Doors-influenced. At the top end creatively, there were Echo and the Bunnymen, whose own 'Heaven up Here' frankly knocks socks off anything that Jim, Ray, Robbie and the other one came up with. A month in Crete in 1981 included listening over and over again to The Doors on cassette. Maybe the Greeks also liked that first album's fierce, destructive poetry. "You know the day destroys the night, night divides the day" and off we went, with Zeus nodding his approval. Never mind that the Daily Telegraph later performed critical surgery on Break on Through and found nothing but hot air and empty, very Morrisonian pretension, typical fodder for lazy baby-boomer camp-followers wanting something dark and meaningful without injecting. Anyone for The Crystal Ship? There is still nothing in the fabulous word of rock quite like 'The End'. How many other rock epics give you that Oedipal let's go kill Dad and get dirty with Mum feel?
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