The "son I never wanted" has taken issue with me over my last blog entry.
Lee insists I should point out that we never discussed the possibility of a fox with a sub-machine gun.
"That's a ludicrous concept," he chided. "It was a fox with a handgun - and we decided that each weapon would be specially adapted because the animals concerned did not possess opposable thumbs. You should make these things clear."
He was, however, delighted to acknowledge that he was becoming something of a regular in the blog. A sort of Ando to my Hiro, I observed with another Heroes' reference.
He did not approve of that either...
Showing posts with label heroes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heroes. Show all posts
Monday, March 07, 2011
Friday, March 04, 2011
A heroic vision
I’ve had BT Vision for 10 days now – and it has worked more than it hasn’t, which I’m reliably informed is probably as good as it gets with BT Vision.
I have managed, via its on-demand service, to watch the entire series three of Heroes, with which I have become obsessed.
So obsessed in fact that every day when I come into work my young colleague Lee – remember him? The son I never wanted? – asks me where I’m up to. He saw the series when it was broadcast on BBC2 and is, therefore, familiar with the story.
We were having a discussion during lunch the other day about super-powers and I – completely lost in the world of fiction – claimed I felt I had a super-power.
“I realised last night,” I said, in an earnest tone which might well have sent him scurrying for the exit calling for men in white coats, “that my super-power is the ability to eat lots without actually suffering a heart attack.”
“That’s not really a super-power,” countered Lee, shaking his head contemptuously, “it just means you’re a fat bastard with a death wish.”
“But just look at it. It COULD be a super-power…” I insisted optimistically.
“How would it be useful? It’s hardly likely to help you save the world. If anything it’s going to necessitate a whole new wardrobe. You’re no Hero; just a greedy, idle git…”
In print this may seem quite harsh. True, but harsh. In fact the whole conversation was carried out in an atmosphere of jocularity, as are many of our discussions. In the past we have discussed such obscure subjects as the potential outcome of a fight between a badger with a flick-knife and a fox with a sub-machine gun.
We hardly rank alongside the great philosophers, but our stream-of-consciousness conversations have passed many a slow hour on the road to an exhibition or other, or a lunchtime when our planned walk around the nearby heath (yeah right!) has been rained off.
What’s more, this time something really positive came out of the discussion. Having realised that I would not give up until I became acknowledged as a genuine super-hero, my young sidekick suggested a name - having dismissed my attempt of Pieman as too obvious. He came up with 'Calorifo'.
At this point I realised my other super-power was to laugh so much I can almost wet myself…
I have managed, via its on-demand service, to watch the entire series three of Heroes, with which I have become obsessed.
So obsessed in fact that every day when I come into work my young colleague Lee – remember him? The son I never wanted? – asks me where I’m up to. He saw the series when it was broadcast on BBC2 and is, therefore, familiar with the story.
We were having a discussion during lunch the other day about super-powers and I – completely lost in the world of fiction – claimed I felt I had a super-power.
“I realised last night,” I said, in an earnest tone which might well have sent him scurrying for the exit calling for men in white coats, “that my super-power is the ability to eat lots without actually suffering a heart attack.”
“That’s not really a super-power,” countered Lee, shaking his head contemptuously, “it just means you’re a fat bastard with a death wish.”
“But just look at it. It COULD be a super-power…” I insisted optimistically.
“How would it be useful? It’s hardly likely to help you save the world. If anything it’s going to necessitate a whole new wardrobe. You’re no Hero; just a greedy, idle git…”
In print this may seem quite harsh. True, but harsh. In fact the whole conversation was carried out in an atmosphere of jocularity, as are many of our discussions. In the past we have discussed such obscure subjects as the potential outcome of a fight between a badger with a flick-knife and a fox with a sub-machine gun.
We hardly rank alongside the great philosophers, but our stream-of-consciousness conversations have passed many a slow hour on the road to an exhibition or other, or a lunchtime when our planned walk around the nearby heath (yeah right!) has been rained off.
What’s more, this time something really positive came out of the discussion. Having realised that I would not give up until I became acknowledged as a genuine super-hero, my young sidekick suggested a name - having dismissed my attempt of Pieman as too obvious. He came up with 'Calorifo'.
At this point I realised my other super-power was to laugh so much I can almost wet myself…
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Jeffrey Bernard's not the only one
I've been quiet, sorry. Or, depending on your perspective, I'm back, sorry.
I've been ill. Just 24 hours before I was due to fly away on a well-deserved family holiday to Rhodes I was diagnosed with cellulitis in my right leg. Naturally, I was unable to fly so whole damned thing had to be cancelled.
I then spent more than a week with my leg elevated and, as I don't use a laptop, I could not get anywhere near a PC to add to the blog.
However, that doesn't mean to say nothing stirred my juices while I was inactive. I had a lot of time to reflect on all manner of things, so here, in no particular order, are some of them.
Caster Semanya: you don't say... There have been some butch female athletes down the years - I think back to the days of Jarmila Kratochvilova, when, even as a single fella, I wouldn't have touched her with Sergey Bubka's - but young Caster's 16-second improvement in a year needs to be examined carefully. As does 18-year-old Caster for that matter. Forget all the "how dare they" liberals out there, something just isn't right.
The West Wing: Lying in bed or sitting in a recliner all day is mighty tedious. But thankfully I had the fourth series of TWW to view on DVD. What a stunning programme - and why is it that we can't produce drama of similar quality over here. The best TV shows I've seen in recent years have all come out of the US: The West Wing, The Sopranos, Heroes . . . all first-rate dramas. And what does Britain offer the world? The Romantics? All sex and no substance; numerous reality TV programmes which simply aren't worth the dock leaves with which they wipe their celebrity backsides; and third-rate comedies - My Family for example, has enjoyed nine series, which is more than I have. Like Last of the Summer Wine, it appears to go on and on without ever producing a laugh - surely a prerequisite for a comedy?
I will admit, though, that there have been one or two decent programmes produced in the UK recently, though they tend to be in the fields where we excel: documentaries or sci-fi.
I really enjoy Coast, and Torchwood is top-notch. Top Gear is hugely entertaining if you enjoy seeing middle-aged blokes acting like kids in a sweet-shop and Would I Lie to You? maintains our fine tradition of humorous panel games. But don't even get me started on soap operas or the likes of X Factor...
And daytime TV really is pants!
Football: I'm trying not to care about Pompey's plight. Trying not to care that we're becoming a joke; trying not to care that we appear to be nailed-on certs for relegation according to all the 'experts'; and trying not to care that every time 'Portsmouth' is mentioned in the national press it is prefixed by 'crisis club'.
And it has to be said, I'm doing quite well in not caring. I've already resigned myself to a season of struggle and I don't feel too bad about it. And what's the worst that can happen? Relegation? I'm not sure the Premiership is the place for proper football fans any more anyway. It's such a sanitised experience in the top flight nowadays. At least that's what I keep telling myself.
The Ashes: I really don't give a ****! I hate cricket with the same passion I normally reserve for racists or people who can eat cream cakes without fretting about the effect on their waistline.
Pub quiz: I'm part of a team called Jammy's Dodgers which participates in the fortnightly quiz in the White Hart pub in Petersfield - or at least I was. During my enforced absence they roped in another hack friend of mine and won quite convincingly. I feel like Phil Jagielka must have felt as Everton played in last season's FA Cup final . . . except of course Everton lost, and he was sorely missed. I am trying not to care though.
Abdelbaset al-Megrahi: Seldom do I find myself agreeing with the knee-jerk, gun-toting parochial populace of the mighty US of A, particularly when it touches on foreign policy, but every dog has its day.
What possible motive could we have for releasing this guy? Compassion? Do me a favour. Where was his compassion when he planted the bomb? He should have been left to die in his cell; he would have received good medical care to his dying breath.
The only spin the UK Government can put on this is that a) we no longer have to foot the bill for his incarceration; and b) he won't die a martyr in an infidel jail cell. If that justifies his release and subsequent hero's welcome back home then I'm in the same corner as our American cousins against the black pudding-eating soft-on-terror surrender monkeys - or whatever they choose to call us.
Jessica Ennis: Dontcha just love her...? Now if they need somebody to carry out a gender test on her I'm up for the challenge.
I've been ill. Just 24 hours before I was due to fly away on a well-deserved family holiday to Rhodes I was diagnosed with cellulitis in my right leg. Naturally, I was unable to fly so whole damned thing had to be cancelled.
I then spent more than a week with my leg elevated and, as I don't use a laptop, I could not get anywhere near a PC to add to the blog.
However, that doesn't mean to say nothing stirred my juices while I was inactive. I had a lot of time to reflect on all manner of things, so here, in no particular order, are some of them.
Caster Semanya: you don't say... There have been some butch female athletes down the years - I think back to the days of Jarmila Kratochvilova, when, even as a single fella, I wouldn't have touched her with Sergey Bubka's - but young Caster's 16-second improvement in a year needs to be examined carefully. As does 18-year-old Caster for that matter. Forget all the "how dare they" liberals out there, something just isn't right.
The West Wing: Lying in bed or sitting in a recliner all day is mighty tedious. But thankfully I had the fourth series of TWW to view on DVD. What a stunning programme - and why is it that we can't produce drama of similar quality over here. The best TV shows I've seen in recent years have all come out of the US: The West Wing, The Sopranos, Heroes . . . all first-rate dramas. And what does Britain offer the world? The Romantics? All sex and no substance; numerous reality TV programmes which simply aren't worth the dock leaves with which they wipe their celebrity backsides; and third-rate comedies - My Family for example, has enjoyed nine series, which is more than I have. Like Last of the Summer Wine, it appears to go on and on without ever producing a laugh - surely a prerequisite for a comedy?
I will admit, though, that there have been one or two decent programmes produced in the UK recently, though they tend to be in the fields where we excel: documentaries or sci-fi.
I really enjoy Coast, and Torchwood is top-notch. Top Gear is hugely entertaining if you enjoy seeing middle-aged blokes acting like kids in a sweet-shop and Would I Lie to You? maintains our fine tradition of humorous panel games. But don't even get me started on soap operas or the likes of X Factor...
And daytime TV really is pants!
Football: I'm trying not to care about Pompey's plight. Trying not to care that we're becoming a joke; trying not to care that we appear to be nailed-on certs for relegation according to all the 'experts'; and trying not to care that every time 'Portsmouth' is mentioned in the national press it is prefixed by 'crisis club'.
And it has to be said, I'm doing quite well in not caring. I've already resigned myself to a season of struggle and I don't feel too bad about it. And what's the worst that can happen? Relegation? I'm not sure the Premiership is the place for proper football fans any more anyway. It's such a sanitised experience in the top flight nowadays. At least that's what I keep telling myself.
The Ashes: I really don't give a ****! I hate cricket with the same passion I normally reserve for racists or people who can eat cream cakes without fretting about the effect on their waistline.
Pub quiz: I'm part of a team called Jammy's Dodgers which participates in the fortnightly quiz in the White Hart pub in Petersfield - or at least I was. During my enforced absence they roped in another hack friend of mine and won quite convincingly. I feel like Phil Jagielka must have felt as Everton played in last season's FA Cup final . . . except of course Everton lost, and he was sorely missed. I am trying not to care though.
Abdelbaset al-Megrahi: Seldom do I find myself agreeing with the knee-jerk, gun-toting parochial populace of the mighty US of A, particularly when it touches on foreign policy, but every dog has its day.
What possible motive could we have for releasing this guy? Compassion? Do me a favour. Where was his compassion when he planted the bomb? He should have been left to die in his cell; he would have received good medical care to his dying breath.
The only spin the UK Government can put on this is that a) we no longer have to foot the bill for his incarceration; and b) he won't die a martyr in an infidel jail cell. If that justifies his release and subsequent hero's welcome back home then I'm in the same corner as our American cousins against the black pudding-eating soft-on-terror surrender monkeys - or whatever they choose to call us.
Jessica Ennis: Dontcha just love her...? Now if they need somebody to carry out a gender test on her I'm up for the challenge.
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