Mike Tindall says he would marry Zara Phillips even if she worked in Tesco. Yeah, right.
Still, I'm sure she's happy. So why the long face?
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I would like to plug a book I came across by chance. It's a collection of photographs by a snapper called Steve Lewis who I knew at The Sun but who, like me, started his career at the Ilford Recorder in the sixties and was given a free rein to take pictures of East London that he thought illustrated the area.
And boy did he do that. East Enders, like those from Liverpool or Glasgow or so many other parts of the country, tend to have a rosy-eyed view of the past.
Sure enough, some of the pictures show grizzled old Cockneys selling jellied eels and horses pulling milk carts. But then there are others which paint a realistic picture of life which many others remember.
There's graffitti saying 'Wogs Out' and messages both for and against Enoch Powell. The first black family to move into one road in Forest Gate had a firebomb pushed through their letterbox.
Old people were often confined to their homes because there were no wheelchairs available. Families still lived six or seven to a room. Kids played in bombsites and left school too young because they needed to earn money to support their families. It wasn't all cheery Cockney community spirit.
Temporary Nissen huts built to accommodate the homeless after the war still remained almost thirty years later - there was a row of them opposite my grandparents' house I remember.
We like to think of the East End as Pearly Kings and Kray Twins (they only harmed their own etc) without remembering the other side. Have a look at Steve's website gallery (or buy the book) http://www.stevelewisphotography.com/gallery.html and see the other side.
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Tim Westwood. Or Westwood. Let's face it, when you see him and then hear him speak, every single person watching is thinking exactly the same thing, aren't they?
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According to my kids, they only really find out what I'm thinking by reading my blog. Which is a bit unfair, as I always felt I was pretty vocal. But if that's true, then what I'm thinking is this: they should tidy their rooms and spend less time on the computer/Blackberry/PS3/Facebook etc etc.
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Talking of Facebook, it's easy to criticise but I've enjoyed getting back in contact with old friends from work, school and elsewhere. There's something reassuring to know they're alive and well (particularly that they're alive!) Tomorrow I'm going to Hampshire - which is, like, a zillion miles away - so my wife can see her old university flatmate and I can catch up with a guy I haven't seen for 30 years.
I've been told that as long as I don't get chippy and don't mention politics then I should be okay.
Be seeing you...Solly
Friday, 29 July 2011
Thursday, 28 July 2011
Hack to the Future
I think I see how it's going to pan out. First they'll get News International closed down. Now the Mirror is being dragged into the phone hacking row so we'll get rid of them too. The Mail won't be innocent in all this, you can bet. Plus the police hate them so it will be easier getting the evidence. Shut down Associated and then Express newspapers because there's bound to be something, somewhere, on Desmond. And you can bet the Telegraph doesn't survive the purge. Not after the sneaky way it got Vince Cable to admit he was a wanker. Or whatever it was he admitted.
Without a tabloid press we can gradually get rid of all those celebrity obsessed parts of the culture that relies on the support of gutter journalists for the oxygen of publicity. That means the end of X Factor, Britain's Got Talent, Big Brother and the rest. Though we'll keep Beauty and the Geek because it's hilarious.
Then come the after effects. Football loses its Sky money and so the Premier League, Rugby League, Cricket and Darts collapse.
Naturally this leaves millions of working class people forced into buying The Guardian, reading Proust and watching BBC4 and then we finally get the kind of Utopia the likes of Roy Greenslade really want (ever since he realised that no matter how well he did, other journalists like Piers Morgan would be more successful).
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Sorry to hear about the untimely death, at 43, of Dean Moore, best known as the son of the legend that was Bobby Moore. But to me, he was Deano, who worked on the art desk of The Sunday Sport and then The Sun when I was at both papers.
His dad was a columnist at the former and a regular visitor to the offices. And he really was a nice man, just like everyone says. As a kid I remember bumping into Bobby Moore when I was with my mum shopping in Gants Hill. He was coming out of the butchers and my brother, about four at the time and a Hammers fan I'm ashamed to say (mind you, the other brother's a Gooner which is worse) stood there dumbstruck. It was the sixties and Bobby was possibly the most famous footballer in Britain after George Best. But he smiled, said hello to my toddler brother and walked on - stopping every 10 seconds to chat to a cab driver or sign an autograph.
Deano was also a nice bloke but who, not surprisingly, was forever living in the shadow of his old man.
And you had to feel for him because wherever he went he was always 'Bobby Moore's son.' He had trials at Southend and one or two other clubs, I believe, no doubt with managers desperately hoping a bit of the old magic had rubbed off.
But it hadn't so he took up design and worked on art desks. He was lively and fun to be with. I can remember him asking me to drive his car round to his mum's house - that's the famous Tina - in Loughton, because he was worried he was going to have too much to drink. I lived not far so it was not a hassle.
Years later I bumped into him. In a pub of course. It was at my then local, The Hog's Head in Drury Lane, and Deano was entertaining a group of lads.
He had put on weight, but then hadn't we all. And he had a pint in his hand, which wasn't unusual. He told me he was running a pub in Chelsea, which was popular with Blues fans but that wasn't a problem as, like most supporters of all clubs, they were fans of his dad and wanted to talk about Bobby to him.
Wherever he went he couldn't escape the fact of who his dad was, although he was - I thought - closer to his mum who was divorced from Bobby.
Then today I read that he was found dead in his home in Notting Hill. I don't know what happened. Speculation will be rife I suppose. But it's a sad end at a young age.
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It's 25 years since the siege of Wapping. Back then I was the secretary of the East London branch of the NUJ. A year later I went to work there. Funny how things work out.
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Have you seen that magician Dynamo? His tricks are brilliant and he's like Derren Brown. But without the personality. In fact, without a scintilla of personality. It's so unfortunate. He's obviously gifted but he has both the looks and demeanour of a wet sock. And sounds like an eight-year-old.
Shazam...Solly
Without a tabloid press we can gradually get rid of all those celebrity obsessed parts of the culture that relies on the support of gutter journalists for the oxygen of publicity. That means the end of X Factor, Britain's Got Talent, Big Brother and the rest. Though we'll keep Beauty and the Geek because it's hilarious.
Then come the after effects. Football loses its Sky money and so the Premier League, Rugby League, Cricket and Darts collapse.
Naturally this leaves millions of working class people forced into buying The Guardian, reading Proust and watching BBC4 and then we finally get the kind of Utopia the likes of Roy Greenslade really want (ever since he realised that no matter how well he did, other journalists like Piers Morgan would be more successful).
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sorry to hear about the untimely death, at 43, of Dean Moore, best known as the son of the legend that was Bobby Moore. But to me, he was Deano, who worked on the art desk of The Sunday Sport and then The Sun when I was at both papers.
His dad was a columnist at the former and a regular visitor to the offices. And he really was a nice man, just like everyone says. As a kid I remember bumping into Bobby Moore when I was with my mum shopping in Gants Hill. He was coming out of the butchers and my brother, about four at the time and a Hammers fan I'm ashamed to say (mind you, the other brother's a Gooner which is worse) stood there dumbstruck. It was the sixties and Bobby was possibly the most famous footballer in Britain after George Best. But he smiled, said hello to my toddler brother and walked on - stopping every 10 seconds to chat to a cab driver or sign an autograph.
Deano was also a nice bloke but who, not surprisingly, was forever living in the shadow of his old man.
And you had to feel for him because wherever he went he was always 'Bobby Moore's son.' He had trials at Southend and one or two other clubs, I believe, no doubt with managers desperately hoping a bit of the old magic had rubbed off.
But it hadn't so he took up design and worked on art desks. He was lively and fun to be with. I can remember him asking me to drive his car round to his mum's house - that's the famous Tina - in Loughton, because he was worried he was going to have too much to drink. I lived not far so it was not a hassle.
Years later I bumped into him. In a pub of course. It was at my then local, The Hog's Head in Drury Lane, and Deano was entertaining a group of lads.
He had put on weight, but then hadn't we all. And he had a pint in his hand, which wasn't unusual. He told me he was running a pub in Chelsea, which was popular with Blues fans but that wasn't a problem as, like most supporters of all clubs, they were fans of his dad and wanted to talk about Bobby to him.
Wherever he went he couldn't escape the fact of who his dad was, although he was - I thought - closer to his mum who was divorced from Bobby.
Then today I read that he was found dead in his home in Notting Hill. I don't know what happened. Speculation will be rife I suppose. But it's a sad end at a young age.
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It's 25 years since the siege of Wapping. Back then I was the secretary of the East London branch of the NUJ. A year later I went to work there. Funny how things work out.
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Have you seen that magician Dynamo? His tricks are brilliant and he's like Derren Brown. But without the personality. In fact, without a scintilla of personality. It's so unfortunate. He's obviously gifted but he has both the looks and demeanour of a wet sock. And sounds like an eight-year-old.
Shazam...Solly
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
Coarse you can Malcolm
Oh to be a fly on the wall. Apparently Alastair Campbell bumped into Peter Capaldi today - that's right, the actor who played Malcolm Tucker, the foul mouthed press secretary to the Prime Minister in The Thick of It who, quite clearly, based his whole character on Campbell.
Now, what we all really, really want is a swear off. Like the fashion walk off in Zoolander except with expletives.
Unfortunately, what happened was nothing. They said hello, had a bit of a chat and didn't swear once. Not even a miserly bollocks. What a letdown. Campbell's mellowed since I knew him.
Far better when Campbell meets Adam Boulton.
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I keep banging on to my kids about how great music was when I was their age. Naturally they don't believe me. So when the BBC started repeating Top of the Pops from the seventies, I switched on an edition from 1976 (pre-punk mind) to show them what I meant.
I was wrong. It was crap. Presented by a ridiculous looking Noel Edmonds who appeared to have come straight to the studio from working behind the counter in a bank (and was there ever a bigger banker), it featured insipid, long haired nobodies singing wishy washy ballads about drag race queens and other non-icons that weren't even fashionable then.
Oh well, back to MTV.
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My dad was an official at the 1948 Olympics. He got a blazer with a badge on it and a medal for standing on the pitch at Wembley doing something important with a clipboard. He loved it.
He didn't volunteer. He worked for the Post Office and the government drafted in its own employees to be officials at the first post war games. When he used to say he was a vital government worker I used to think he was a spy but it turned out he used to fix the telegraph and telex machines at Scotland Yard and the then-secret Government rooms hidden in tunnels underground, accessed by mysterious doors around Aldwych and The Strand tube stations.
I mention this because it is a year to go now to the Lord Coe Ego Games, otherwise known as the London Olympics. I want to like it, particularly as it is less than a javelin throw from where my old man grew up and not that far from where I grew up too.
I want to wish it well and get excited about it but it leaves me cold.
I want to feel like getting a wallchart and reading interminably boring interviews by Mihir Bose in the Evening Standard with some bloke who can ride a bike or a flat chested but pretty woman who swims well but I really can't summon up the enthusiasm.
I want to look at that advert with Tom Daley and smile instead of grimace. I want to glimpse Lord Coe without feeling like bashing his smug face in with a discus.
And I want to believe that it's going to regenerate East London and that the stadium will make a great football ground and millions of underprivileged kids will take up basketball and running to escape the poverty of the area and that the flats being built will provide genuine homes for low paid workers and not become buy to let hobbies for 4x4-driving wives of blokes in the City.
Of course my dad, in his blue blazer and white slacks, watching Fanny Blankers-Koen going into the history books, who worked his way out of the East End that is now going to host the games next year, would have none of my cynicism. He'd have welcomed the event and wondered at the buildings going up around what we still remember at Hackney Greyhound Stadium and, as he did when they rebuilt Whitechapel after the war, shrugged and called it progress.
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So, after all that fuss about the Royal Wedding given the nation a boost, it turns out that the extra day off nobbled economic growth for the quarter to the extent that it was way down on expectations.
Told you so.
It's all very well ogling some posh bird's arse and meeting some the neighbours for the first and last time but the only ones who really benefitted from the whole thing are tacky souvenir shops and the Royal Family themselves whose own income has soared.
And it couldn't happen to a nicer bunch of inbred Germans.
Auf Wiedersehen pets...Solly
Now, what we all really, really want is a swear off. Like the fashion walk off in Zoolander except with expletives.
Unfortunately, what happened was nothing. They said hello, had a bit of a chat and didn't swear once. Not even a miserly bollocks. What a letdown. Campbell's mellowed since I knew him.
Far better when Campbell meets Adam Boulton.
----------------------------------------------------------------
I keep banging on to my kids about how great music was when I was their age. Naturally they don't believe me. So when the BBC started repeating Top of the Pops from the seventies, I switched on an edition from 1976 (pre-punk mind) to show them what I meant.
I was wrong. It was crap. Presented by a ridiculous looking Noel Edmonds who appeared to have come straight to the studio from working behind the counter in a bank (and was there ever a bigger banker), it featured insipid, long haired nobodies singing wishy washy ballads about drag race queens and other non-icons that weren't even fashionable then.
Oh well, back to MTV.
----------------------------------------------------------------
My dad was an official at the 1948 Olympics. He got a blazer with a badge on it and a medal for standing on the pitch at Wembley doing something important with a clipboard. He loved it.
He didn't volunteer. He worked for the Post Office and the government drafted in its own employees to be officials at the first post war games. When he used to say he was a vital government worker I used to think he was a spy but it turned out he used to fix the telegraph and telex machines at Scotland Yard and the then-secret Government rooms hidden in tunnels underground, accessed by mysterious doors around Aldwych and The Strand tube stations.
I mention this because it is a year to go now to the Lord Coe Ego Games, otherwise known as the London Olympics. I want to like it, particularly as it is less than a javelin throw from where my old man grew up and not that far from where I grew up too.
I want to wish it well and get excited about it but it leaves me cold.
I want to feel like getting a wallchart and reading interminably boring interviews by Mihir Bose in the Evening Standard with some bloke who can ride a bike or a flat chested but pretty woman who swims well but I really can't summon up the enthusiasm.
I want to look at that advert with Tom Daley and smile instead of grimace. I want to glimpse Lord Coe without feeling like bashing his smug face in with a discus.
And I want to believe that it's going to regenerate East London and that the stadium will make a great football ground and millions of underprivileged kids will take up basketball and running to escape the poverty of the area and that the flats being built will provide genuine homes for low paid workers and not become buy to let hobbies for 4x4-driving wives of blokes in the City.
Of course my dad, in his blue blazer and white slacks, watching Fanny Blankers-Koen going into the history books, who worked his way out of the East End that is now going to host the games next year, would have none of my cynicism. He'd have welcomed the event and wondered at the buildings going up around what we still remember at Hackney Greyhound Stadium and, as he did when they rebuilt Whitechapel after the war, shrugged and called it progress.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
So, after all that fuss about the Royal Wedding given the nation a boost, it turns out that the extra day off nobbled economic growth for the quarter to the extent that it was way down on expectations.
Told you so.
It's all very well ogling some posh bird's arse and meeting some the neighbours for the first and last time but the only ones who really benefitted from the whole thing are tacky souvenir shops and the Royal Family themselves whose own income has soared.
And it couldn't happen to a nicer bunch of inbred Germans.
Auf Wiedersehen pets...Solly
Sunday, 24 July 2011
Smartie Pants
Those papers who initially blamed the Norway attacks on Muslim terrorists should hang their heads in shame. Yes, that means you The Financial Times who continued to claim it was Al Qaeda (or however it's currently spelt) even after the arrest of a single, blonde haired, blue eyed, nutter.
The man himself claimed to be a conservative, a Christian and a Mason. Naturally I'm shocked that this combination could possibly be associated with someone who holds such extreme right wing views.
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But, and it's both a fault and a quality, journalists are simply over-informed at times. As a rule I read - for the purposes of work - around ten newspapers a day, albeit fleetingly, plus 100 press releases, several long winded stories from medical journals, around 20 magazines a week from Morning Advertiser to New Scientist, news websites, blogs, work related Twitter posts and emails. Then I occasionally read something for pleasure - a favourite columnist or blog, people's Facebook postings and the odd book.
And I don't think I'm an exception. It's been one of the first rules pounded into me over the years and the most important three word instruction I use in media training sessions. Read the papers.
All this means we think we know a lot about what's going on in the world while, in reality, we have a little knowledge of a lot of things rather than the other way round.
It's not a defence. Far from it. But when a bomb goes off near government offices, in a Westernised country who supports the UN's involvement in Afghanistan, then you jump to conclusions. The wrong conclusions as it happens.
However, it does perhaps suggest that the best editors - and that includes website and TV as well as in the press - are the ones who wait.
And that includes certain bloggers who don't deserve the publicity, who claimed the bomb was the work of Mossad trying to get Arabs into trouble. Apparently this is called a false flag attack and popular with conspiracy theorists.
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The death of Amy Winehouse is shocking and the natural reaction is on the lines of what a waste of talent. She's a cousin of my mate Stuart, on his dad's side. Strangely and coincidentally Marc Bolan was a cousin on his mum's side. Jewish families, eh? We're all related somewhere down the line.
Back to Amy.
I thing it's a tragic waste of a young life far more than the waste of a talent.
She wasted that talent a long time ago. Don't forget she hasn't released an album for five years.
The talent may or may not have ever resurfaced. Her last album was five years ago and it's quite possible that she may simply have faded into obscurity if it wasn't for the fact she could constantly grab a headline with a drug or drink bender, another scrawled tattoo or a bizarre boob job.
But if she had just stopped recording and stopped drinking and taking drugs at the same time then surely that would have been better all round.
I can remember other jazz-style female singers from Carmel to Marie Wilson who came and went in record-selling terms. We've hardly ever read about them since but that means we haven't read about them being found dead either.
--------------------------------------------------------------
The other day I met a very good child psychologist (for work rather than personal reasons!) How do I know he was good? Because having spent a few hours with him, I was impressed by a lack of psychobabble.
Yet more than that, without ever talking to him in detail about my kids but from listening to him speaking in general about children, I came away thinking that I was the best dad in the world.
Now THAT is what a good psychologist does. No soundbites and no jargon, yet managing to show you what you're doing right, not what you're doing wrong.
Sadly, as I was meeting him in order to get loads of quotes for a story, he was no good whatsoever!
It reminded me of something my parents told me that I have no recollection about, which is they were on the verge of taking me to a child psychologist when I was a toddler because of Smarties. Yes, that's right, the confectionary.
Apparently (and I only ever had their word for this) I use to arrange a tube of Smarties into lines of colours - a row of brown ones, a row of yellow ones and so on. But, I would ever so slightly change it to put one yellow in the row of red ones or an orange one in a row of brown and so on.
My parents were convinced I was colour blind so took me to a succession of doctors and optical experts but apparently no one could find anything wrong.
Until one doctor told them it was obvious that I was doing it deliberately. And he suggested a child psychologist. It may also have had something to do with another habit I had of standing up in my cot and banging my head against the wall. Then later I used to pretend to sleepwalk, apparently.
And the only time I would stop crying is when My Boy Lollipop came on the radio.
Of course my parents decided they didn't have the money to embark on any kind of psychological treatment for me so they left it. And of course I turned out ok. Though as a remnant of my colour-uncoordinated Smarties obsession I still have a slightly bizarre aversion to symmetry.
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Last blog I mentioned that 'starring Jennifer Aniston' were the three words most likely to strike dread into an intelligent person's heart. However, someone made the point to me that 'next. Chris Moyles' may be worse. Any other suggestions for the three words that you most dread hearing will be welcomed.
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There's a lot around at the moment about Terence Rattigan. Something to do with the 100 anniversary of his birth I believe. Now I'm no expert on his works but I will say this. The film The Browning Version, made in 1951 and based on his play, is perhaps the most poignant, moving film I've ever seen.
If you get a chance to see it, do so. Still makes me cry. But then I cry every time a record by Terry Jacks.
Have joy, have fun, have seasons in the sun....Solly
The man himself claimed to be a conservative, a Christian and a Mason. Naturally I'm shocked that this combination could possibly be associated with someone who holds such extreme right wing views.
------------------------------------------------------------------
But, and it's both a fault and a quality, journalists are simply over-informed at times. As a rule I read - for the purposes of work - around ten newspapers a day, albeit fleetingly, plus 100 press releases, several long winded stories from medical journals, around 20 magazines a week from Morning Advertiser to New Scientist, news websites, blogs, work related Twitter posts and emails. Then I occasionally read something for pleasure - a favourite columnist or blog, people's Facebook postings and the odd book.
And I don't think I'm an exception. It's been one of the first rules pounded into me over the years and the most important three word instruction I use in media training sessions. Read the papers.
All this means we think we know a lot about what's going on in the world while, in reality, we have a little knowledge of a lot of things rather than the other way round.
It's not a defence. Far from it. But when a bomb goes off near government offices, in a Westernised country who supports the UN's involvement in Afghanistan, then you jump to conclusions. The wrong conclusions as it happens.
However, it does perhaps suggest that the best editors - and that includes website and TV as well as in the press - are the ones who wait.
And that includes certain bloggers who don't deserve the publicity, who claimed the bomb was the work of Mossad trying to get Arabs into trouble. Apparently this is called a false flag attack and popular with conspiracy theorists.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The death of Amy Winehouse is shocking and the natural reaction is on the lines of what a waste of talent. She's a cousin of my mate Stuart, on his dad's side. Strangely and coincidentally Marc Bolan was a cousin on his mum's side. Jewish families, eh? We're all related somewhere down the line.
Back to Amy.
I thing it's a tragic waste of a young life far more than the waste of a talent.
She wasted that talent a long time ago. Don't forget she hasn't released an album for five years.
The talent may or may not have ever resurfaced. Her last album was five years ago and it's quite possible that she may simply have faded into obscurity if it wasn't for the fact she could constantly grab a headline with a drug or drink bender, another scrawled tattoo or a bizarre boob job.
But if she had just stopped recording and stopped drinking and taking drugs at the same time then surely that would have been better all round.
I can remember other jazz-style female singers from Carmel to Marie Wilson who came and went in record-selling terms. We've hardly ever read about them since but that means we haven't read about them being found dead either.
--------------------------------------------------------------
The other day I met a very good child psychologist (for work rather than personal reasons!) How do I know he was good? Because having spent a few hours with him, I was impressed by a lack of psychobabble.
Yet more than that, without ever talking to him in detail about my kids but from listening to him speaking in general about children, I came away thinking that I was the best dad in the world.
Now THAT is what a good psychologist does. No soundbites and no jargon, yet managing to show you what you're doing right, not what you're doing wrong.
Sadly, as I was meeting him in order to get loads of quotes for a story, he was no good whatsoever!
It reminded me of something my parents told me that I have no recollection about, which is they were on the verge of taking me to a child psychologist when I was a toddler because of Smarties. Yes, that's right, the confectionary.
Apparently (and I only ever had their word for this) I use to arrange a tube of Smarties into lines of colours - a row of brown ones, a row of yellow ones and so on. But, I would ever so slightly change it to put one yellow in the row of red ones or an orange one in a row of brown and so on.
My parents were convinced I was colour blind so took me to a succession of doctors and optical experts but apparently no one could find anything wrong.
Until one doctor told them it was obvious that I was doing it deliberately. And he suggested a child psychologist. It may also have had something to do with another habit I had of standing up in my cot and banging my head against the wall. Then later I used to pretend to sleepwalk, apparently.
And the only time I would stop crying is when My Boy Lollipop came on the radio.
Of course my parents decided they didn't have the money to embark on any kind of psychological treatment for me so they left it. And of course I turned out ok. Though as a remnant of my colour-uncoordinated Smarties obsession I still have a slightly bizarre aversion to symmetry.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Last blog I mentioned that 'starring Jennifer Aniston' were the three words most likely to strike dread into an intelligent person's heart. However, someone made the point to me that 'next. Chris Moyles' may be worse. Any other suggestions for the three words that you most dread hearing will be welcomed.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
There's a lot around at the moment about Terence Rattigan. Something to do with the 100 anniversary of his birth I believe. Now I'm no expert on his works but I will say this. The film The Browning Version, made in 1951 and based on his play, is perhaps the most poignant, moving film I've ever seen.
If you get a chance to see it, do so. Still makes me cry. But then I cry every time a record by Terry Jacks.
Have joy, have fun, have seasons in the sun....Solly
Friday, 22 July 2011
Oil's well that ends well
Latest on the News of the World redundo package that promised they would try and get everyone a job in the company. A mate of mine who lost his subbing job after decades with the firm has been referred to a vacancy within the company. It's as an oil reporter for the Dow Jones, based in Barcelona at £14,000 a year.
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It's always nice to do something for the first time, particularly when you get to a certain age. This week I have had three whole new experiences.
First. I watched a Harry Potter film for the first time. Appropriately it was the very first one. I've never read the books either. I've nothing against the concept. The film was fairly entertaining. But it's like Dr Who. It's. For. Kids. That whole notion of putting the books in adult-style covers was, for me, pathetic. If you want to read a children's book, read a children's book. But don't pretend it's an adult one.
My second, I read a book on Kindle. It was a novel experience. Oh ha, bloody ha.
I quite enjoyed the weight and the accessibility. And I liked the little bar at the bottom that tells you how much you've read in percentage terms. I miss the physical feel of a book and the knowledge of how far there is to go by the number of pages left. It's a rough science but one that works. I also like reading the dust cover and other details.
However, you can have both. You can use the Kindle to download books you're not sure you're going to like - they're cheaper that way. And it will work well for taking half a dozen books on holiday without Ryanair charging you an extra £45 or whatever it is.
But you'd never download anything with pictures for instance. And other books look good on the shelf - mind you we used to say that about vinyl and then CDs and now these are gradually being consigned to the garages, lofts and car boot sales of Britain.
My third new experience was a bit of an eye opener. I went to a reception on the roof of Cannon Street station. It's a hidden gem up there. A massive garden right over the Thames with some of the best outdoor views I've ever seen in London. Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner but watching the sun go down over St Paul's is one of the most uplifting sights in the world to me. It's a fantastic skyline. And one of the things I love about London, out of many, is that you have never seen it all, no matter how long you live there. Try and get yourself invited up to the roof of Cannon Street station if you can.
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Strange experience outside my office. One of my colleagues was having a cigarette when the usual sort comes along, shirtless, carrying a can of Strongbow, a few cuts on his face, and asked for a fag. Given one, the topless guy took out a £10 note pushed it into my mate's palm and said 'I'm not drunk, I've got money, ta.' Completely the wrong way round of course but that's Bermondsey for you.
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What are the three words that most make you squirm. For me it's thinking of seeing a film only to hear the words 'starring Jennifer Aniston'.
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I know we should all hate Rupert Murdoch even more than we used to but, honestly, do we really still need to take morality lessons from whoring posh boy Hugh Grant? Yet again he's popping up on TV to tell the nation how awful News International is and make out he's the man to save us. And if that wasn't enough, other talking heads to tut tut at the amoral nature of the media include David Mellor and Max Mosley.
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My dog's got something wrong with his ear. Either it's a bit of an infection which will go with ear drops or he's got a wheat grain in there and we'll need to go back to the vets. Each visit costs £85. I've decided, it's an infection.
Life's ruff...Solly
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It's always nice to do something for the first time, particularly when you get to a certain age. This week I have had three whole new experiences.
First. I watched a Harry Potter film for the first time. Appropriately it was the very first one. I've never read the books either. I've nothing against the concept. The film was fairly entertaining. But it's like Dr Who. It's. For. Kids. That whole notion of putting the books in adult-style covers was, for me, pathetic. If you want to read a children's book, read a children's book. But don't pretend it's an adult one.
My second, I read a book on Kindle. It was a novel experience. Oh ha, bloody ha.
I quite enjoyed the weight and the accessibility. And I liked the little bar at the bottom that tells you how much you've read in percentage terms. I miss the physical feel of a book and the knowledge of how far there is to go by the number of pages left. It's a rough science but one that works. I also like reading the dust cover and other details.
However, you can have both. You can use the Kindle to download books you're not sure you're going to like - they're cheaper that way. And it will work well for taking half a dozen books on holiday without Ryanair charging you an extra £45 or whatever it is.
But you'd never download anything with pictures for instance. And other books look good on the shelf - mind you we used to say that about vinyl and then CDs and now these are gradually being consigned to the garages, lofts and car boot sales of Britain.
My third new experience was a bit of an eye opener. I went to a reception on the roof of Cannon Street station. It's a hidden gem up there. A massive garden right over the Thames with some of the best outdoor views I've ever seen in London. Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner but watching the sun go down over St Paul's is one of the most uplifting sights in the world to me. It's a fantastic skyline. And one of the things I love about London, out of many, is that you have never seen it all, no matter how long you live there. Try and get yourself invited up to the roof of Cannon Street station if you can.
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Strange experience outside my office. One of my colleagues was having a cigarette when the usual sort comes along, shirtless, carrying a can of Strongbow, a few cuts on his face, and asked for a fag. Given one, the topless guy took out a £10 note pushed it into my mate's palm and said 'I'm not drunk, I've got money, ta.' Completely the wrong way round of course but that's Bermondsey for you.
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What are the three words that most make you squirm. For me it's thinking of seeing a film only to hear the words 'starring Jennifer Aniston'.
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I know we should all hate Rupert Murdoch even more than we used to but, honestly, do we really still need to take morality lessons from whoring posh boy Hugh Grant? Yet again he's popping up on TV to tell the nation how awful News International is and make out he's the man to save us. And if that wasn't enough, other talking heads to tut tut at the amoral nature of the media include David Mellor and Max Mosley.
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My dog's got something wrong with his ear. Either it's a bit of an infection which will go with ear drops or he's got a wheat grain in there and we'll need to go back to the vets. Each visit costs £85. I've decided, it's an infection.
Life's ruff...Solly
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
Rhubarb and custard pies
So who did Rupert look like most? Mr Burns alongside his Smithers, Waldorf or Statler? As for the bloke who threw a flan at the old man, he's now in custardy. I'm here all week.
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It's a very Jewish trait to blame your poorer traits on being Jewish. All failings relate to one of three things - the Bible (our bit of course, not the new, fancy schmancy 'part two'), the Pogroms and the Holocaust.
Reading the very good (so far) book The Finkler Question, there is a bit in there about a Jewish woman who always left the washing up till the morning with the argument that it stemmed from the Pogroms where Jews were always in such a rush to escape the Cossacks that they never had time to tidy.
Other arguments include the wearing of too much garish jewellery (we had to carry our gold with us as we were chased out of Europe or Egypt) and general moaning (after 2,000 years of persecution you'd moan too etc).
I once asked my Auntie Cissie how she was and she replied 'what's the point of complaining?' Really, she did.
But you can use the arguments both ways. I hate leaving the washing up - or at the very least, have it in the dishwasher rather than on the table. My wife thinks it's a bit OCD. But I too, claim this is a Jewish trait, as indeed is being unable to do DIY, hold my booze or failure to resist a crafy social cigarette every now and again.
Joan Rivers once said that if Jewish women were meant to do aerobics God would have left diamonds on the floor.
For me, tidying up after a meal is a bit like wearing clean underwear in case you get run over, you want the place to look nice when they come to take you away. They can find you guilty of all sorts of things, but failing to clear the table? Never.
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I worked at The Sun for six years. Occasionally I'd see Rupert Murdoch. He once said hello to me in a lift and I think I blushed. I always thought he never knew my name because I was pretty insignificant though he once told Kelvin that he liked a story I had written in that day's paper. But he didn't know me from Adam. But so what? It turns out he doesn't know anyone's name. Not even News of the World executives who have been there for 25 years, it seems.
Mind you, the NoW is only one per cent of his empire, he told the Select Committee. But if it's so unimportant, why was today the most humble day of his life?
Bet that makes the 218 sacked employees feel better. I said this earlier and I'll say it again. My prediction is that he will not remain in charge of the company for more than another month or two.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Every ounce of James Murdoch's crisis management training was put to the fore. The monotone voice, the hand gestures (point the hands outwards for humility), the waffling answers, the use of words like 'quantum' to confuse us and 'if we knew then what we know now' to say 'we're sorry, but it's not our fault'.
But in my humble opinion, he got it wrong when he professed shock that News International paid Glenn Mulcaire's and Clive Goodman's legal bills.
What he should have said is 'yes, of course we did' not 'it was a shock to me when I found out.' If someone who once worked for you is up in court for something they did while working for you, wouldn't you want your best lawyers representing him rather than some Lionel Hutz he'd been landed with on legal aid?
I mean, just in case he said something that would reflect badly on the company?
If he had hired his own brief, his defence may well have been 'that woman with the red hair made me do it.' But with slick NewsInt QCs, chances are that side of the argument would have been well hidden. All James had to say to the Select Committee was that the case was about the company's reputation so it was only right the company should provide the best legal team it could.
But he didn't. He professed shock and wonderment that the company he runs paid out all that money for its own legal team and, frankly, whether it's because he's called Murdoch or his accent, no one believed him.
---------------------------------------------------------
Is there any town in Britain that hasn't now got a mini version of The London Eye. There's one in Birmingham about as big as a wagon wheel (the wheel off a wagon) and one in Liverpool that's about the size of a Wagon Wheel - the biscuit. Which, as any football fan knows, is much smaller now than it used to be. Unlike most football fans.
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Has anyone seen that advert for Sodastream (which was popular at about the same time as Wagon Wheels)? There's a kid talking about his family. But his sister is clearly Chinese while his mum and dad are not. Nothing wrong with that. But doesn't it remind you of that Tommy Cooper gag in which he says, something like: "Apparently one in five people in the world are Chinese and there are five people in my family so it must be one of them. It's either my mum or my dad, or my older brother Colin, or my younger brother Ho Cha-Chu. But I think it's Colin."
----------------------------------------------------------
Talking of Chinese - what's the headline going to be tomorrow? Ding deng round One? Hidden Tiger Crouching Wendi (hat tip to Troupy)? Wendi Foils Foam Hacking Scandal?
All I can say is Wendi Murdoch...ding dong Deng. Phwoarrr....
Cheerio...Solly
------------------------------------------------------------------
It's a very Jewish trait to blame your poorer traits on being Jewish. All failings relate to one of three things - the Bible (our bit of course, not the new, fancy schmancy 'part two'), the Pogroms and the Holocaust.
Reading the very good (so far) book The Finkler Question, there is a bit in there about a Jewish woman who always left the washing up till the morning with the argument that it stemmed from the Pogroms where Jews were always in such a rush to escape the Cossacks that they never had time to tidy.
Other arguments include the wearing of too much garish jewellery (we had to carry our gold with us as we were chased out of Europe or Egypt) and general moaning (after 2,000 years of persecution you'd moan too etc).
I once asked my Auntie Cissie how she was and she replied 'what's the point of complaining?' Really, she did.
But you can use the arguments both ways. I hate leaving the washing up - or at the very least, have it in the dishwasher rather than on the table. My wife thinks it's a bit OCD. But I too, claim this is a Jewish trait, as indeed is being unable to do DIY, hold my booze or failure to resist a crafy social cigarette every now and again.
Joan Rivers once said that if Jewish women were meant to do aerobics God would have left diamonds on the floor.
For me, tidying up after a meal is a bit like wearing clean underwear in case you get run over, you want the place to look nice when they come to take you away. They can find you guilty of all sorts of things, but failing to clear the table? Never.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I worked at The Sun for six years. Occasionally I'd see Rupert Murdoch. He once said hello to me in a lift and I think I blushed. I always thought he never knew my name because I was pretty insignificant though he once told Kelvin that he liked a story I had written in that day's paper. But he didn't know me from Adam. But so what? It turns out he doesn't know anyone's name. Not even News of the World executives who have been there for 25 years, it seems.
Mind you, the NoW is only one per cent of his empire, he told the Select Committee. But if it's so unimportant, why was today the most humble day of his life?
Bet that makes the 218 sacked employees feel better. I said this earlier and I'll say it again. My prediction is that he will not remain in charge of the company for more than another month or two.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Every ounce of James Murdoch's crisis management training was put to the fore. The monotone voice, the hand gestures (point the hands outwards for humility), the waffling answers, the use of words like 'quantum' to confuse us and 'if we knew then what we know now' to say 'we're sorry, but it's not our fault'.
But in my humble opinion, he got it wrong when he professed shock that News International paid Glenn Mulcaire's and Clive Goodman's legal bills.
What he should have said is 'yes, of course we did' not 'it was a shock to me when I found out.' If someone who once worked for you is up in court for something they did while working for you, wouldn't you want your best lawyers representing him rather than some Lionel Hutz he'd been landed with on legal aid?
I mean, just in case he said something that would reflect badly on the company?
If he had hired his own brief, his defence may well have been 'that woman with the red hair made me do it.' But with slick NewsInt QCs, chances are that side of the argument would have been well hidden. All James had to say to the Select Committee was that the case was about the company's reputation so it was only right the company should provide the best legal team it could.
But he didn't. He professed shock and wonderment that the company he runs paid out all that money for its own legal team and, frankly, whether it's because he's called Murdoch or his accent, no one believed him.
---------------------------------------------------------
Is there any town in Britain that hasn't now got a mini version of The London Eye. There's one in Birmingham about as big as a wagon wheel (the wheel off a wagon) and one in Liverpool that's about the size of a Wagon Wheel - the biscuit. Which, as any football fan knows, is much smaller now than it used to be. Unlike most football fans.
---------------------------------------------------------
Has anyone seen that advert for Sodastream (which was popular at about the same time as Wagon Wheels)? There's a kid talking about his family. But his sister is clearly Chinese while his mum and dad are not. Nothing wrong with that. But doesn't it remind you of that Tommy Cooper gag in which he says, something like: "Apparently one in five people in the world are Chinese and there are five people in my family so it must be one of them. It's either my mum or my dad, or my older brother Colin, or my younger brother Ho Cha-Chu. But I think it's Colin."
----------------------------------------------------------
Talking of Chinese - what's the headline going to be tomorrow? Ding deng round One? Hidden Tiger Crouching Wendi (hat tip to Troupy)? Wendi Foils Foam Hacking Scandal?
All I can say is Wendi Murdoch...ding dong Deng. Phwoarrr....
Cheerio...Solly
Monday, 18 July 2011
NoW that's what I call timing...
So in the end Alan (can't bring myself to call him Lord) Sugar, decides to pick a winner based on 'gut instinct.' In which case, what was the point of the previous 11 weeks of competition and contest?
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Not much more to say about News International that hasn't already been said but an interesting point was made to me by Twitter-obsessed '@suburbman', as my PR pal Hamish Thompson likes to call himself. He pointed out that much of the chronology of events smacks of classic crisis management training.
Now it's debatable as to whether or not NewsInt has handled this well but certainly, they have been quite calculating about how their side of the story has been dripfed to the waiting world.
For instance, it seems likely that Brooks was always going to resign but that she deliberately jumped after the announcement of the closure of the News of the World to deflect attention.
The newspaper's demise is the single event in this that will be most talked about in ordinary circles - ie: not the media bubble and Westminster village but in the pub or the office.
So that takes some of the publicity away from the other events which Rupert may consider more important - ie: the bid to buy Sky, the role of James Murdoch and the other arms of his empire which he wants to keep much more than a Sunday newspaper which may well have been replaced, eventually, by a new Sun on Sunday anyway.
You don't sack the chief executive on day one. You wait a while for all the clamour to build up and then get rid of them, in the hope it blows the top off the pressure cooker and lets everything else die down. That's what BP did after the pollution crisis, it's what the more PR-conscious football clubs do as managers come under pressure. Banks are the same. It doesn't suit the board (and via them, the shareholders) to get rid of an under fire chief immediately. Let the chief soak up the flak for a few days and then let them go. The press chase the exited boss and the company gets on with its business.
Arguably, as a tactic, this failed with NewsInt and the saga rumbles on. Murdoch doesn't get to buy BSkyB, James is still under pressure and the fuss won't go away.
And if it fails, then you have to wonder about all those MBA-qualified geeks employed in Wapping. Will Lewis and Simon Greenberg. with various corporate roles in the company, were both sent to Harvard or Yale or somewhere in America to get the massively expensive business qualification (Spurs-supporting Simon was sent there by Abramovich when he worked at Chelsea).
They will have had tons of lectures on what to do in a crisis. Though, frankly, you could wrap it up in one morning with a five slide Powerpoint presentation in a hotel room in Milton Keynes if you really wanted to.
The MBA club is like Old Etonians. David Yelland, former editor and an old friend of mine, was sent off to Harvard to get one too. Interestingly, many of the MBA club like to feed their stories to BBC's Robert Peston. He hasn't got an MBA (I'm pretty sure) but is one of the few journalists who genuinely has a grasp of economics and business.
That's because he knows his stuff (and his dad was an economist). Not because he was sent to the States for a fancy qualification that gives him entry to a kind of Masonlike organisation.
There's probably a few MBA types in the Met too. There's certainly quite a few in the City who will be involved in the corporate, share price, wheeler-dealer side of things which are more important to Murdoch than the future of 200 or so honest journalists and innocent secretaries and admin staff who lost their job with the decision to close down the NoW.
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In other news. Lovely story in the papers about husband and wife drug dealers on benefits who spent their ill-gotten gains on surgery for the missus. She got new boobs, teeth whitening and various stuff yet, really, should have had a facelift. Sorry love, but it's true. But the best bit was the quote from an unnamed neighbour (yeah, right) who told the papers: "“If she’s used ill-gotten gains to pay for plastic surgery then that’s just disgusting. It shouldn’t be allowed."
Actually, it isn't, technically, 'allowed.' But ignoring that, the neighbour is quite right. Never mind dealing drugs which may find their way into children's playgrounds. What is really disgusting is spending the money on something as obscene as cosmetic surgery, she thinks.
On the North East council estate where this couple are from, the money should be spent on pitbull terriers, white tracksuits and gold pendants in the shape of a dollar sign, perhaps.
Or maybe those chrome rims that keep spinning when the car comes to a halt. What would Stringer Bell have thought about these women who, to vaguely quote the excellent 'Gold Digger' by Kanye West 'got lypo wit yer money.' See, I really am down with the kids!
Where will it all end? Next thing you know, drug dealers will be spending their cash on other disgusting things like folk dancing lessons, a subscription to the British Medical Journal and a holiday trekking to Machu Pichu.
-------------------------------------------------------------
A fat bloke who likes the occasional cigarette won the greatest golf tournament in the world. I feel strangely heartened by this. Well, maybe it's not so strange.
-------------------------------------------------------------
And, I promise, my final thoughts about my holiday in Scotland which I loved so much. Loch Gairloch (so good they named it one-and-a-half-times). Go there. It's wonderful.
Deep fried Mars Bars - I tried them for the first time and they are not as bad as you might think. Deep fried pizzas - again, my first time and, frankly, I was disappointed. You couldn't even taste the pizza.
Malt whisky - always have had a soft spot for the hard stuff. If you're looking for a good one, may I recommend either Talisker or Glenkinchie or Dalwhinie.
The Isle of Skye. Didn't see enough of it but the bridge to it is wonderful and the scenery spectacular. And so much better knowing Rupert Murdoch only owns some of it and won't be buying the rest.
Roofboxes - nope, not a fan. It freed up space but one of the bolts (put in by a bloke at Halfords) came out on the journey up there. And the thing whistles so much I thought Roger Whittaker had hidden in it. Appropriate for our journey to Skye I guess. And if you don't understand that one, then ask your dad.
--------------------------------------------------------------
As I write this, two things are going on. One is a Panorama programme on the hacking scandal featuring Sean Hoare. The other is emails and Facebook postings from friends to tell me that Sean has been found dead in his flat.
It's very sad, although the scandal and Sean's death may not be linked. We'll have to wait and see.
Sorry to end on a morbid note...Solly
------------------------------------------------------------------
Not much more to say about News International that hasn't already been said but an interesting point was made to me by Twitter-obsessed '@suburbman', as my PR pal Hamish Thompson likes to call himself. He pointed out that much of the chronology of events smacks of classic crisis management training.
Now it's debatable as to whether or not NewsInt has handled this well but certainly, they have been quite calculating about how their side of the story has been dripfed to the waiting world.
For instance, it seems likely that Brooks was always going to resign but that she deliberately jumped after the announcement of the closure of the News of the World to deflect attention.
The newspaper's demise is the single event in this that will be most talked about in ordinary circles - ie: not the media bubble and Westminster village but in the pub or the office.
So that takes some of the publicity away from the other events which Rupert may consider more important - ie: the bid to buy Sky, the role of James Murdoch and the other arms of his empire which he wants to keep much more than a Sunday newspaper which may well have been replaced, eventually, by a new Sun on Sunday anyway.
You don't sack the chief executive on day one. You wait a while for all the clamour to build up and then get rid of them, in the hope it blows the top off the pressure cooker and lets everything else die down. That's what BP did after the pollution crisis, it's what the more PR-conscious football clubs do as managers come under pressure. Banks are the same. It doesn't suit the board (and via them, the shareholders) to get rid of an under fire chief immediately. Let the chief soak up the flak for a few days and then let them go. The press chase the exited boss and the company gets on with its business.
Arguably, as a tactic, this failed with NewsInt and the saga rumbles on. Murdoch doesn't get to buy BSkyB, James is still under pressure and the fuss won't go away.
And if it fails, then you have to wonder about all those MBA-qualified geeks employed in Wapping. Will Lewis and Simon Greenberg. with various corporate roles in the company, were both sent to Harvard or Yale or somewhere in America to get the massively expensive business qualification (Spurs-supporting Simon was sent there by Abramovich when he worked at Chelsea).
They will have had tons of lectures on what to do in a crisis. Though, frankly, you could wrap it up in one morning with a five slide Powerpoint presentation in a hotel room in Milton Keynes if you really wanted to.
The MBA club is like Old Etonians. David Yelland, former editor and an old friend of mine, was sent off to Harvard to get one too. Interestingly, many of the MBA club like to feed their stories to BBC's Robert Peston. He hasn't got an MBA (I'm pretty sure) but is one of the few journalists who genuinely has a grasp of economics and business.
That's because he knows his stuff (and his dad was an economist). Not because he was sent to the States for a fancy qualification that gives him entry to a kind of Masonlike organisation.
There's probably a few MBA types in the Met too. There's certainly quite a few in the City who will be involved in the corporate, share price, wheeler-dealer side of things which are more important to Murdoch than the future of 200 or so honest journalists and innocent secretaries and admin staff who lost their job with the decision to close down the NoW.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
In other news. Lovely story in the papers about husband and wife drug dealers on benefits who spent their ill-gotten gains on surgery for the missus. She got new boobs, teeth whitening and various stuff yet, really, should have had a facelift. Sorry love, but it's true. But the best bit was the quote from an unnamed neighbour (yeah, right) who told the papers: "“If she’s used ill-gotten gains to pay for plastic surgery then that’s just disgusting. It shouldn’t be allowed."
Actually, it isn't, technically, 'allowed.' But ignoring that, the neighbour is quite right. Never mind dealing drugs which may find their way into children's playgrounds. What is really disgusting is spending the money on something as obscene as cosmetic surgery, she thinks.
On the North East council estate where this couple are from, the money should be spent on pitbull terriers, white tracksuits and gold pendants in the shape of a dollar sign, perhaps.
Or maybe those chrome rims that keep spinning when the car comes to a halt. What would Stringer Bell have thought about these women who, to vaguely quote the excellent 'Gold Digger' by Kanye West 'got lypo wit yer money.' See, I really am down with the kids!
Where will it all end? Next thing you know, drug dealers will be spending their cash on other disgusting things like folk dancing lessons, a subscription to the British Medical Journal and a holiday trekking to Machu Pichu.
-------------------------------------------------------------
A fat bloke who likes the occasional cigarette won the greatest golf tournament in the world. I feel strangely heartened by this. Well, maybe it's not so strange.
-------------------------------------------------------------
And, I promise, my final thoughts about my holiday in Scotland which I loved so much. Loch Gairloch (so good they named it one-and-a-half-times). Go there. It's wonderful.
Deep fried Mars Bars - I tried them for the first time and they are not as bad as you might think. Deep fried pizzas - again, my first time and, frankly, I was disappointed. You couldn't even taste the pizza.
Malt whisky - always have had a soft spot for the hard stuff. If you're looking for a good one, may I recommend either Talisker or Glenkinchie or Dalwhinie.
The Isle of Skye. Didn't see enough of it but the bridge to it is wonderful and the scenery spectacular. And so much better knowing Rupert Murdoch only owns some of it and won't be buying the rest.
Roofboxes - nope, not a fan. It freed up space but one of the bolts (put in by a bloke at Halfords) came out on the journey up there. And the thing whistles so much I thought Roger Whittaker had hidden in it. Appropriate for our journey to Skye I guess. And if you don't understand that one, then ask your dad.
--------------------------------------------------------------
As I write this, two things are going on. One is a Panorama programme on the hacking scandal featuring Sean Hoare. The other is emails and Facebook postings from friends to tell me that Sean has been found dead in his flat.
It's very sad, although the scandal and Sean's death may not be linked. We'll have to wait and see.
Sorry to end on a morbid note...Solly
Saturday, 16 July 2011
RANT...now I know where I get it from
My grandfather was given away as a baby. Otherwise things might have been different. He was born in Australia to a Scottish couple who ran a pub. They were told to either give up the pub or give up the baby so guess what they did.
To those who knew him, he was called Frederick Hawkesworth. By a strange coincidence (or is it genetic?) he ran a pub in Staffordshire until he eventually drank himself to death.
But that wasn't his real name. He added an 'e' to his surname to try and sound posher - he was on the council, during which time the local authority built a bus stop outside his pub (where, handily, the buses terminated) and got a phone box built outside too, in the days when none of the homes had a phone.
This meant that to use the phone, people had to come outside the pub and, if it was cold, would usually pop in too.
But even this minor change to his name wasn't the first. He was, in fact, born Robert Atwood Norton Taylor, in Perth, Australia.
His parents, with the rather actor-sounding names of Robert and Elizabeth Taylor, were Scottish and emigrated just before WWI to Oz where they ran a pub-come-social club.
The rules of the tenancy was that there could not be any children. So when they had RANT they gave him away to an English couple, called Hawksworth, who returned to Blighty and brought him up as Frederick.
All families are mixed up. Mine as much as anyone else's. But it's a great tale. He died when I was six, in the pub of course. It was only after my mum died a few years ago that her sister revealed to me that my grandad was an alcoholic who drank himself to death. I guess running a pub wasn't a good idea.
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I'm in a Scottish kind of mood, having just returned from a week in the far North West of the country where I had a blinding time. I even got a tan. I kid you not, we spent three days on the most glorious and deserted beaches soaking up the sun in a part of the world where it is supposed to rain every three hours on average.
We saw dolphins - tons of them. At times it seemed we were knee deep in cetaceans as seals and whales surrounded us.
I saw a Golden Eagle, though it was on the way home. Plus birds you just don't see that often round my way like twites and divers and mergansers and warblers and all sorts.
And, to keep in with the locals, I tried a different malt or two every night. I recommend Glenkinchie and Jura and Talisker and one with no name that was 104 per cent proof. But just one of those at a time, eh?
I don't want to sound like a tourist board advert. Chances are we could go another 100 times and not get weather like that. But if the setting and the experience had been in, say, Canada or New Zealand, everyone would be raving. So why not Scotland? I've converted. The clan McSolly is now open for membership.
-------------------------------------------------------
For me, it was the perfect break. No phone signal, no internet, no newspapers and very little TV. I come back to find what remains of Fleet Street in chaos.
There are even stories that former NoW deputy ed Neil Wallis may be in a bit of trouble. I worked with Neil at The Currant Bun. Well, I say 'worked with'. I'm not sure anyone, ever, has actually worked 'with' him. You tend to feel lucky if he isn't working against you. Machiavellian doesn't cover it.
If he is in trouble because someone has grassed him up over something, then my guess is that there will be at least 1,259 possible suspects!
Those with a long enough memory will recall Neil used to have the title 'world's greatest reporter.' However there are also those who remember the nickname given to him by one of The Sun's most respected veteran reporters who dubbed him 'the rasp voiced fuckwit'.
I'm far too diplomatic to comment.
See you Jimmy...McSolly
To those who knew him, he was called Frederick Hawkesworth. By a strange coincidence (or is it genetic?) he ran a pub in Staffordshire until he eventually drank himself to death.
But that wasn't his real name. He added an 'e' to his surname to try and sound posher - he was on the council, during which time the local authority built a bus stop outside his pub (where, handily, the buses terminated) and got a phone box built outside too, in the days when none of the homes had a phone.
This meant that to use the phone, people had to come outside the pub and, if it was cold, would usually pop in too.
But even this minor change to his name wasn't the first. He was, in fact, born Robert Atwood Norton Taylor, in Perth, Australia.
His parents, with the rather actor-sounding names of Robert and Elizabeth Taylor, were Scottish and emigrated just before WWI to Oz where they ran a pub-come-social club.
The rules of the tenancy was that there could not be any children. So when they had RANT they gave him away to an English couple, called Hawksworth, who returned to Blighty and brought him up as Frederick.
All families are mixed up. Mine as much as anyone else's. But it's a great tale. He died when I was six, in the pub of course. It was only after my mum died a few years ago that her sister revealed to me that my grandad was an alcoholic who drank himself to death. I guess running a pub wasn't a good idea.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I'm in a Scottish kind of mood, having just returned from a week in the far North West of the country where I had a blinding time. I even got a tan. I kid you not, we spent three days on the most glorious and deserted beaches soaking up the sun in a part of the world where it is supposed to rain every three hours on average.
We saw dolphins - tons of them. At times it seemed we were knee deep in cetaceans as seals and whales surrounded us.
I saw a Golden Eagle, though it was on the way home. Plus birds you just don't see that often round my way like twites and divers and mergansers and warblers and all sorts.
And, to keep in with the locals, I tried a different malt or two every night. I recommend Glenkinchie and Jura and Talisker and one with no name that was 104 per cent proof. But just one of those at a time, eh?
I don't want to sound like a tourist board advert. Chances are we could go another 100 times and not get weather like that. But if the setting and the experience had been in, say, Canada or New Zealand, everyone would be raving. So why not Scotland? I've converted. The clan McSolly is now open for membership.
-------------------------------------------------------
For me, it was the perfect break. No phone signal, no internet, no newspapers and very little TV. I come back to find what remains of Fleet Street in chaos.
There are even stories that former NoW deputy ed Neil Wallis may be in a bit of trouble. I worked with Neil at The Currant Bun. Well, I say 'worked with'. I'm not sure anyone, ever, has actually worked 'with' him. You tend to feel lucky if he isn't working against you. Machiavellian doesn't cover it.
If he is in trouble because someone has grassed him up over something, then my guess is that there will be at least 1,259 possible suspects!
Those with a long enough memory will recall Neil used to have the title 'world's greatest reporter.' However there are also those who remember the nickname given to him by one of The Sun's most respected veteran reporters who dubbed him 'the rasp voiced fuckwit'.
I'm far too diplomatic to comment.
See you Jimmy...McSolly
Thursday, 7 July 2011
NoW Is The Time To Say Goodbye
So, the middle class intelligentsia has had its way and decided that the working class proles should not be allowed their newspaper of choice.
Ok, maybe not quite that simple. But it comes to something when the high moral ground is taken by grasping, thieving, members of Parliament, the whoring Hugh Grant and every two bit celebrity with a Twitter account. Thanks, Lily Allen, for telling us what we should boycott and what we're allowed to read!
Whatever the grand plan is for a Sunday tabloid from the News International stable, the simple truth is several hundred talented and creative people who have never hacked a phone in their lives are without a job while the executives who are responsible are allowed to investigate themselves as part of a 'thorough' inquiry.
I have a lot of good friends at the News of the World. Mind you, I also used to know Andy Coulson very well. And Simon Greenberg, now spokesman for News International, but not so well.
Funny enough, I only knew Simon through Andy. Coulson and I, along with Coulson's brother Paul and his son Billy, used to sit together at Spurs home games. Originally we used to stand together before grounds became all seater. Then we got seats together. That carried on for a good 15 years or so until Andy got the NoW job and gave up his season ticket.
Simon at that time was sports editor of the Evening Standard but a big Spurs fan too so we would all meet up occasionally for a drink or for an away game.
Then Andy took Simon on at the News of the World. Then Simon, despite his allegiance, went to work at Chelsea for Abramovich before going back to News International as whatever it is he is supposed to be doing and failing.
By the time you read this, Andy may well be arrested. I can't help thinking, despite everything, that he is a scapegoat.
I'll tell you what happens at a newspaper. Journalists do whatever they think they can get away to get a story in the paper. But at different papers, the definition of what they can get away with varies. So reporters at The Guardian wouldn't hack into telephones if they thought they would get into trouble for it.
If journalists at the NoW thought they could hack into phones and hire private detectives (and detectives have also been used by The Guardian, Mail and Mirror or course) without the editor sacking them, they would. And that implies the editor approves.
There is a certain 'don't tell me how you got the story, just get it and make sure it's right' at tabloid papers but that doesn't excuse the fact that the buck stops at the editor's desk.
I never had any problem working with Rebekah Wade/Brooks on the odd occasion we would come into contact. But the buck stops with her and not the 200 or so journalists who have lost their jobs.
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I'm going on safari. To Scotland. So I may not blog for a week. Thanks for reading. Please keep reading when I return. Cheers...Solly
Ok, maybe not quite that simple. But it comes to something when the high moral ground is taken by grasping, thieving, members of Parliament, the whoring Hugh Grant and every two bit celebrity with a Twitter account. Thanks, Lily Allen, for telling us what we should boycott and what we're allowed to read!
Whatever the grand plan is for a Sunday tabloid from the News International stable, the simple truth is several hundred talented and creative people who have never hacked a phone in their lives are without a job while the executives who are responsible are allowed to investigate themselves as part of a 'thorough' inquiry.
I have a lot of good friends at the News of the World. Mind you, I also used to know Andy Coulson very well. And Simon Greenberg, now spokesman for News International, but not so well.
Funny enough, I only knew Simon through Andy. Coulson and I, along with Coulson's brother Paul and his son Billy, used to sit together at Spurs home games. Originally we used to stand together before grounds became all seater. Then we got seats together. That carried on for a good 15 years or so until Andy got the NoW job and gave up his season ticket.
Simon at that time was sports editor of the Evening Standard but a big Spurs fan too so we would all meet up occasionally for a drink or for an away game.
Then Andy took Simon on at the News of the World. Then Simon, despite his allegiance, went to work at Chelsea for Abramovich before going back to News International as whatever it is he is supposed to be doing and failing.
By the time you read this, Andy may well be arrested. I can't help thinking, despite everything, that he is a scapegoat.
I'll tell you what happens at a newspaper. Journalists do whatever they think they can get away to get a story in the paper. But at different papers, the definition of what they can get away with varies. So reporters at The Guardian wouldn't hack into telephones if they thought they would get into trouble for it.
If journalists at the NoW thought they could hack into phones and hire private detectives (and detectives have also been used by The Guardian, Mail and Mirror or course) without the editor sacking them, they would. And that implies the editor approves.
There is a certain 'don't tell me how you got the story, just get it and make sure it's right' at tabloid papers but that doesn't excuse the fact that the buck stops at the editor's desk.
I never had any problem working with Rebekah Wade/Brooks on the odd occasion we would come into contact. But the buck stops with her and not the 200 or so journalists who have lost their jobs.
-----------------------------------------------------
I'm going on safari. To Scotland. So I may not blog for a week. Thanks for reading. Please keep reading when I return. Cheers...Solly
Monday, 4 July 2011
Be young, be foolish, be happy
Independence Day has an ironic ring in the Solly household. It was this day that I went on a first date with the woman who is now my wife.
It was 25 years ago and we went to a pub called The Warren Wood. In between then and now we lived together, split up, I got married and divorced and then we met again and got married.
Back then we were young, thin and fairly ambitious. Though, to be honest. I asked her out as part of a bet with her boss.
I was a cocky reporter with the Ilford Recorder and she had not long joined the local council as a press officer.
I thought she targeted me as a contact because I was, naturally, good looking and 'the person to know' among local journalists. It turns out her boss handed her a crap press release and said 'give Solly a ring, he's lazy and he'll use it.'
Her bosses told her that I was on drugs as my eyes were often red. This was because I wore hard contact lenses and smoked and spent a lot of time in pubs. Oh, and took drugs. Usually to fill in time before council planning meetings where in a pot-fuelled haze I would imagine Councillor Hazel Weinberg in a leather dominatrix outfit and...well, that's by the by.
Meanwhile, when my future wife joined the council I had one of those yes/no conversations with her colleague, Mike. 'What's the new girl like?' I said, 'yes' said Mike. 'Is she sitting next to you then?' 'Yes' said Mike. 'Is she attractive?' I asked, 'yes' he replied. 'Do I stand a chance?' 'No'. 'Bet you a fiver then?' 'Ok' he said.
We met before a council meeting at The Angel in Ilford where I wore my best Ben Elton-style shiny suit, black leather pixie boots and thin tie (it was the 1980s for heaven's sake). First thing she said was: 'And what do you want to be when you grow up?'
I asked her for a date and within two weeks had proposed but I was 23, we were far too young and she, sensibly, said no.
I was in love instantly and still am, of course, though we tend to gloss over those years in between when I was married to someone else.
Of course, this being the 25th anniversary we're doing something special. She's gone to Take That with her friend and I'm fixing a roof box to the Prius.
Rock and roll.
Cheers...Solly
It was 25 years ago and we went to a pub called The Warren Wood. In between then and now we lived together, split up, I got married and divorced and then we met again and got married.
Back then we were young, thin and fairly ambitious. Though, to be honest. I asked her out as part of a bet with her boss.
I was a cocky reporter with the Ilford Recorder and she had not long joined the local council as a press officer.
I thought she targeted me as a contact because I was, naturally, good looking and 'the person to know' among local journalists. It turns out her boss handed her a crap press release and said 'give Solly a ring, he's lazy and he'll use it.'
Her bosses told her that I was on drugs as my eyes were often red. This was because I wore hard contact lenses and smoked and spent a lot of time in pubs. Oh, and took drugs. Usually to fill in time before council planning meetings where in a pot-fuelled haze I would imagine Councillor Hazel Weinberg in a leather dominatrix outfit and...well, that's by the by.
Meanwhile, when my future wife joined the council I had one of those yes/no conversations with her colleague, Mike. 'What's the new girl like?' I said, 'yes' said Mike. 'Is she sitting next to you then?' 'Yes' said Mike. 'Is she attractive?' I asked, 'yes' he replied. 'Do I stand a chance?' 'No'. 'Bet you a fiver then?' 'Ok' he said.
We met before a council meeting at The Angel in Ilford where I wore my best Ben Elton-style shiny suit, black leather pixie boots and thin tie (it was the 1980s for heaven's sake). First thing she said was: 'And what do you want to be when you grow up?'
I asked her for a date and within two weeks had proposed but I was 23, we were far too young and she, sensibly, said no.
I was in love instantly and still am, of course, though we tend to gloss over those years in between when I was married to someone else.
Of course, this being the 25th anniversary we're doing something special. She's gone to Take That with her friend and I'm fixing a roof box to the Prius.
Rock and roll.
Cheers...Solly
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