It's a funny thing Christmas. It changes one's perceptions.
I could have sworn our shower cubicle was larger a few weeks ago than it is now...
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
No more heroes any more - because I'm getting old
Further evidence of getting old - example number 417.
Putting aside the fact that I keep forgetting to blog, which is a sure sign in itself, I have realised I'm on the way out. The reason?
I've come to the conclusion that two of my big heroes should be put out to pasture.
When I was 15 (years not stone - though the two probably coincided) I appeared on Brucie's Big Night (BBN) on London Weekend Television. BBN was an ITV vehicle for Bruce Forsyth who had been lured away from the BBC's Generation Game by pots of cash and the handing over of Saturday night primetime tv.
BBN started at about 7pm and went on until 10. It featured all manner of things Brucie - including gameshow segments - plus guest singers, dancers, comedians and interviewees. It was probably the last example of variety on tv, save for the annual shindig in front of her madge.
For the period of my segment - I was a contestant not a dancer I should point out - I effectively became Bruce's straight man, both on and off camera. Even when the camera wasn't rolling, the audience were, in the aisles - as Bruce was never off duty.
He was also incredibly kind to me off-stage and generous too. I warmed to him greatly and have been a huge fan ever since. Sadly, even I have to admit, his time as a mainstream entertainer may be coming to an end.
He is 81, after all, and has done well to last this long. But his recent performances on Strictly Come Dancing have been bordering on embarrassing. He has slurred his words, mixed up his words and, one can only assume by the quality of it, insisted on writing his own material.
As much as it pains me to say it Bruce old darling, it's time for you to go. Pick up your knighthood on the way out and enjoy your retirement on the fairways - you deserve it.
I was actually on BBN twice: the first time as a regional contestant by phone from the Southern TV studios in Southampton. I won the regional part of the competition to qualify to go up to LWT the following week.
In the preamble to my participation, Brucie asked me what I wanted to do when I grew out, I mean up. I told him I wanted to be a football commentator, and, when prompted, said John Motson was my favourite.
Motty was usurped in my affections a few years later by Barry Davies, but I still remain a fan of his knowledge, if not his nonsensical ramblings. I'm afraid his commentaries are just banal now.
"Well, you have to say," he says excitedly, with that trembling giggle he persists in utilising, "that that has to go down as a save."
Yes John. When the goalkeeper gets a hand to the ball, deflecting it on to the crossbar that generally does go down as a save.
And, it has to be said John, that, at this stage, you're playing your own equivalent of added time at the end of an extraordinary game.
Nurse! Another knighthood over here please and then put Mr Motson to bed.
Putting aside the fact that I keep forgetting to blog, which is a sure sign in itself, I have realised I'm on the way out. The reason?
I've come to the conclusion that two of my big heroes should be put out to pasture.
When I was 15 (years not stone - though the two probably coincided) I appeared on Brucie's Big Night (BBN) on London Weekend Television. BBN was an ITV vehicle for Bruce Forsyth who had been lured away from the BBC's Generation Game by pots of cash and the handing over of Saturday night primetime tv.
BBN started at about 7pm and went on until 10. It featured all manner of things Brucie - including gameshow segments - plus guest singers, dancers, comedians and interviewees. It was probably the last example of variety on tv, save for the annual shindig in front of her madge.
For the period of my segment - I was a contestant not a dancer I should point out - I effectively became Bruce's straight man, both on and off camera. Even when the camera wasn't rolling, the audience were, in the aisles - as Bruce was never off duty.
He was also incredibly kind to me off-stage and generous too. I warmed to him greatly and have been a huge fan ever since. Sadly, even I have to admit, his time as a mainstream entertainer may be coming to an end.
He is 81, after all, and has done well to last this long. But his recent performances on Strictly Come Dancing have been bordering on embarrassing. He has slurred his words, mixed up his words and, one can only assume by the quality of it, insisted on writing his own material.
As much as it pains me to say it Bruce old darling, it's time for you to go. Pick up your knighthood on the way out and enjoy your retirement on the fairways - you deserve it.
I was actually on BBN twice: the first time as a regional contestant by phone from the Southern TV studios in Southampton. I won the regional part of the competition to qualify to go up to LWT the following week.
In the preamble to my participation, Brucie asked me what I wanted to do when I grew out, I mean up. I told him I wanted to be a football commentator, and, when prompted, said John Motson was my favourite.
Motty was usurped in my affections a few years later by Barry Davies, but I still remain a fan of his knowledge, if not his nonsensical ramblings. I'm afraid his commentaries are just banal now.
"Well, you have to say," he says excitedly, with that trembling giggle he persists in utilising, "that that has to go down as a save."
Yes John. When the goalkeeper gets a hand to the ball, deflecting it on to the crossbar that generally does go down as a save.
And, it has to be said John, that, at this stage, you're playing your own equivalent of added time at the end of an extraordinary game.
Nurse! Another knighthood over here please and then put Mr Motson to bed.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Mea culpa
I have been taken to task by several people following yesterday's blog - including one of my best mates and my wife!
Mea culpa. I did over-egg the racist line yesterday and that was a mistake on my part. The point I was trying to make is that many newspapers and magazines are fully aware of other people's misdemeanors - no names obviously for legal reasons - but choose to ignore them. Why?
Because it's easier to kick somebody when they're down rather than to be brave, investigate a story properly and break the news themselves, that's why. The fact the people to whom I was referring are white may, or may not be coincidence. And I should have made that clear.
But sod it. I'm not a national newspaper. My blogs tend to be written in a five-minute spell in my lunch-hour. It does not go through a sub-editor nor get passed by a legal team. I speak from the heart so may phrase something a little wildly at times. I'm sorry.
I'm an angry, grumpy malcontent at times and that's what galvanises me to write this rubbish.
And I have, for some time, been appalled by the right-wing media in the US who do not approve of a non-caucasion being the world's #1 golfer. You might think that is ridiculous, but try asking people who work in golf.
It is a minority of the media, but it does prevail. Some things are pushed under the carpet. Woods' infidelity was manna from heaven.
As Michael Gilchrist commented on my post yesterday, Woods SHOULD be ashamed for what he has done. I'm not defending him, I'm just appalled by the attitude of a media which chooses what to and what not to report.
I hope that's clear now. And I also hope to write in a more light-hearted vein the next time I vent my spleen.
Mea culpa. I did over-egg the racist line yesterday and that was a mistake on my part. The point I was trying to make is that many newspapers and magazines are fully aware of other people's misdemeanors - no names obviously for legal reasons - but choose to ignore them. Why?
Because it's easier to kick somebody when they're down rather than to be brave, investigate a story properly and break the news themselves, that's why. The fact the people to whom I was referring are white may, or may not be coincidence. And I should have made that clear.
But sod it. I'm not a national newspaper. My blogs tend to be written in a five-minute spell in my lunch-hour. It does not go through a sub-editor nor get passed by a legal team. I speak from the heart so may phrase something a little wildly at times. I'm sorry.
I'm an angry, grumpy malcontent at times and that's what galvanises me to write this rubbish.
And I have, for some time, been appalled by the right-wing media in the US who do not approve of a non-caucasion being the world's #1 golfer. You might think that is ridiculous, but try asking people who work in golf.
It is a minority of the media, but it does prevail. Some things are pushed under the carpet. Woods' infidelity was manna from heaven.
As Michael Gilchrist commented on my post yesterday, Woods SHOULD be ashamed for what he has done. I'm not defending him, I'm just appalled by the attitude of a media which chooses what to and what not to report.
I hope that's clear now. And I also hope to write in a more light-hearted vein the next time I vent my spleen.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Tiger, Tiger taking flight
So now there are seven. Or possibly eight. Nine, if it's true about a fling with a British TV presenter.
I wouldn't dream of defending Tiger Woods' philandering but, even as a journalist, I have a distaste for kicking a guy when he's down. And a professional idealogy of relevance. To do neither you need a certain type of newspaper.
In today's edition of a 'certain newspaper' - I will not give it the oxygen of publicity among my 12 regular followers - it drags out the former fiancé of one of the mistresses.
Naturally, to heighten the dramatic effect of the world number one's fall from grace, businessman Derek Schmidt is billed as "a golf fan who used to idolise Woods".
His ex, Jamie Jungers, was first approached by Woods in 2005, according to the right-wing tabloid.
"He immediately started hitting on her and telling her she was beautiful," said Schmidt, who we can only presume from his intimate knowledge of the events that unfolded, was happy to look on armed only with a pocket tape recorder and a Polaroid camera.
"I was a massive Tiger Woods fan. I had Tiger Woods memorabilia all over my house and even collected Tiger Woods videos," continued Schmidt, who, at his age, really should have had a semblance of a life.
Schmidt added: "I think Tiger is a great competitor on the golf course, but away from it he is a horrible person."
One can only assume he can make that judgment because he spent so much time in the company of Woods. His view couldn't be at all clouded because of the presence of a cheque-book.
Woods is an idiot. He's made monumental errors of judgment in his personal life which will probably affect him and his family for the rest of his life. He's left the family home for privacy apparently - he doesn't deserve sympathy. But he's not a murderer - just a naive fool. He's still a great golfer.
And it begs the question would the same newspaper report with such glee similar philandering by a white golfer who was at the top of the tree? Or maybe a popular white British sportsman with a reputation worse than that of Woods?
They must surely have had the opportunity.
They'd be better off trying to analyse the state of Woods' mind. After all he's married to Elin Nordegren - and have you seen some of those women he's alleged to have been with?
And we always thought Tiger didn't like it in the rough...
I wouldn't dream of defending Tiger Woods' philandering but, even as a journalist, I have a distaste for kicking a guy when he's down. And a professional idealogy of relevance. To do neither you need a certain type of newspaper.
In today's edition of a 'certain newspaper' - I will not give it the oxygen of publicity among my 12 regular followers - it drags out the former fiancé of one of the mistresses.
Naturally, to heighten the dramatic effect of the world number one's fall from grace, businessman Derek Schmidt is billed as "a golf fan who used to idolise Woods".
His ex, Jamie Jungers, was first approached by Woods in 2005, according to the right-wing tabloid.
"He immediately started hitting on her and telling her she was beautiful," said Schmidt, who we can only presume from his intimate knowledge of the events that unfolded, was happy to look on armed only with a pocket tape recorder and a Polaroid camera.
"I was a massive Tiger Woods fan. I had Tiger Woods memorabilia all over my house and even collected Tiger Woods videos," continued Schmidt, who, at his age, really should have had a semblance of a life.
Schmidt added: "I think Tiger is a great competitor on the golf course, but away from it he is a horrible person."
One can only assume he can make that judgment because he spent so much time in the company of Woods. His view couldn't be at all clouded because of the presence of a cheque-book.
Woods is an idiot. He's made monumental errors of judgment in his personal life which will probably affect him and his family for the rest of his life. He's left the family home for privacy apparently - he doesn't deserve sympathy. But he's not a murderer - just a naive fool. He's still a great golfer.
And it begs the question would the same newspaper report with such glee similar philandering by a white golfer who was at the top of the tree? Or maybe a popular white British sportsman with a reputation worse than that of Woods?
They must surely have had the opportunity.
They'd be better off trying to analyse the state of Woods' mind. After all he's married to Elin Nordegren - and have you seen some of those women he's alleged to have been with?
And we always thought Tiger didn't like it in the rough...
Friday, December 04, 2009
Where's me Horlicks?
I'm tired. It's been nearly a week since I last blogged. I'm sorry.
I'm all out of inspiration because, not to put too fine a point on it, I'm shagged out. Our current workload is very heavy and, consequently, I could sleep for England.
Admittedly I've never been the most energetic of individuals - or the fittest; indeed, only last week I got out of breath chewing a toffee - but better men than I would wilt under such circumstances.
Sure there have been some things worth blogging about. Tiger Woods' car crashes for example. The one where he hit the fire hydrant and the extended one involving his 'PR advisors' - and I use the term loosely.
But everybody's done that. I could moan about yesterday's trip to Brighton from Petersfield, which instead of taking around an hour and a quarter, took nearly three hours because of some neanderthal in Worthing rubbing two sticks together to discover fire.
Instead of changing at Havant and then tootling into Brighton on a comfortable Southern train, I changed at Havant. Then Barnham. Then Littlehampton. Then caught a replacement bus to Worthing, where I was joined by a nutter straight out of a Jasper Carrott routine who intermittently shrugged his shoulders with a jerk while shouting "DURRINGTON!" or some other conurbation highlighted by a road sign. And from Worthing I caught my final train into Brighton.
I could moan about the fact that if I see that Mexican git eulogising about Southern trains on tv again I will throw our youngest child at the set. I could do that, but I won't because it's the kind of inconvenience I imagine commuters put up with on a daily basis.
Nor will I comment on the farce that is Portsmouth Football Club which is in danger of being the longest-running comedy since Leslie Phillips starred in Oops I've Fallen Over and Planted My Head Between the Breasts of the Vicar's Wife, which enjoyed several strong seasons at the Dewsbury Empire.
I'm too tired for all that. And maybe too old. And maybe even too forgetful.
Nor will I comment on the farce that is Portsmouth Football Club which is in danger of being the longest-running comedy since Leslie Phillips starred in Oops I've Fallen Over and Planted My Head Between the Breasts of the Vicar's Wife, which enjoyed several strong seasons at the Dewsbury Empire.
(Did you see what I did there..?)
I'm all out of inspiration because, not to put too fine a point on it, I'm shagged out. Our current workload is very heavy and, consequently, I could sleep for England.
Admittedly I've never been the most energetic of individuals - or the fittest; indeed, only last week I got out of breath chewing a toffee - but better men than I would wilt under such circumstances.
Sure there have been some things worth blogging about. Tiger Woods' car crashes for example. The one where he hit the fire hydrant and the extended one involving his 'PR advisors' - and I use the term loosely.
But everybody's done that. I could moan about yesterday's trip to Brighton from Petersfield, which instead of taking around an hour and a quarter, took nearly three hours because of some neanderthal in Worthing rubbing two sticks together to discover fire.
Instead of changing at Havant and then tootling into Brighton on a comfortable Southern train, I changed at Havant. Then Barnham. Then Littlehampton. Then caught a replacement bus to Worthing, where I was joined by a nutter straight out of a Jasper Carrott routine who intermittently shrugged his shoulders with a jerk while shouting "DURRINGTON!" or some other conurbation highlighted by a road sign. And from Worthing I caught my final train into Brighton.
I could moan about the fact that if I see that Mexican git eulogising about Southern trains on tv again I will throw our youngest child at the set. I could do that, but I won't because it's the kind of inconvenience I imagine commuters put up with on a daily basis.
Nor will I comment on the farce that is Portsmouth Football Club which is in danger of being the longest-running comedy since Leslie Phillips starred in Oops I've Fallen Over and Planted My Head Between the Breasts of the Vicar's Wife, which enjoyed several strong seasons at the Dewsbury Empire.
I'm too tired for all that. And maybe too old. And maybe even too forgetful.
Nor will I comment on the farce that is Portsmouth Football Club which is in danger of being the longest-running comedy since Leslie Phillips starred in Oops I've Fallen Over and Planted My Head Between the Breasts of the Vicar's Wife, which enjoyed several strong seasons at the Dewsbury Empire.
(Did you see what I did there..?)
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