The Mail on Sunday looks like being successful and the Daily Express looks like it will fail in their respective campaigns against and for, respectively, double summertime. That's where the clocks go forward two hours this summer and was cleverly named 'Berlin Time' by the Mail who formed an unlikely alliance with Scottish farmers to campaign against it.
Interestingly, The Times was among those favouring the move to bring us in line with European time. The Mail on Sunday, noted: "The proposal was even backed in a Leader page opinion piece in The Times – perhaps appropriately, given that the same newspaper backed the appeasement of Hitler in the Thirties and Stalin in the Forties."
While it is always amusing to see one paper knock another, it should be remembered that back in the 1930s, it wasn't just our stuttering inbred royal family who were pro-Hitler but a very prominent national newspaper also carried the headline: Hurrah for the Blackshirts. Which paper was it? The Daily Mail of course.
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I caught a film on TV the other night in which Will Smith played a superhero called Hancock whose life was turned around by a PR man. The superhero was a boozy, unpopular slimeball and the PR man was a nice, honest man trying to make the world a better place. Talk about far fetched.
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An old schoolfriend contacted me via Facebook after what must be eight years with the possibility of a writing job for one of his clients. I knew that all those years of telling the world what I had for breakfast via my status updates would eventually pay off.
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Mark Lawrenson is rubbish and anyone who thinks otherwise clearly isn't a true football fan. And I know I'm not alone in thinking that. So there.
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And the Oscars? What's that all about? Yet again a top award goes to someone for doing an impression rather than the much harder 'acting' job of making a two dimensional made up character believable and real (which Colin Firth can do admirably well, by the way).
And why, exactly, were Paris Hilton, Jamie Oliver and Katie Price in Hollywood for Oscar parties? What the hell has anything that happens there got to do with them?
And the award for grouchiest blogger of the day goes to....me. Cheers, Solly
Monday, 28 February 2011
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Espana Wordy
Catherine Zeta Jones got a CBE for something or other. Possibly charity work for Help the Aged, I don't know. But add that to Lord Sugar, Lord Coe and Lord Archer and you see why the honours system in this country is so corrupt and phoney. I hate it, as you can probably guess.
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We all do it. We all pretend that what we do for a living is really complicated and only years of training and experience can make us do it better than everyone else - whether that's plumbing or IT or journalism or teaching. Well, maybe not teaching. And certainly not travel journalism. No offence to all my mates who are travel writers but destination stuff, it's really not rocket science. I've done a couple and all you have to do is remember some simple rules. Let's pick a place at random. Ilford, say. But try this with your own home town and you'll see how easy it is to be a travel writer. It's so easy, some newspapers let celebrities write their own travel pieces. So here's how to do it.
First, start with a cliche. Ilford is a town of contrasts. That's a good one. Google 'a city of contrasts' and you will get results for Havana, Frankfurt, Mumbai, Istanbul, Hamburg, Caracas, Bratislava and Bogota. And that's just the first page. Most of it written by pompous travel writers who probably own a hat and a cream suit and have lost all touch with real people.
Next, chuck in some topographical, geographical and historical shit to justify the city of contrasts shit. Eg: Ilford lies nestled between the old East End of London and the brave new world of Essex, leading to a clash of cultures that has existed for over 100 years.
Say something nice about the people. Mention the phrase 'melting pot' and mention some ethnicity. Ilford was settled by Hugenots, Jews, Chinese, Irish, Indians, that kind of thing.
Chuck in a made up fact posing as a myth or legend using the words 'they say.' Like, 'they say King Arthur stopped in Ilford on the way to Camelot.' And then add a complete non-sequitur to prove you know a wide range of useless facts. 'Centuries later it became the home of the world's first ever disco.'
There's more of course. A bit of personal stuff that you think makes the piece different from someone else who may have written about the same place. 'This is the face of Ilford that you won't find on the tourist map'. Or makes it funny 'this is the Faces of Ilford that you won't find on the map...Faces the nightclub that is.' And imagine the reader holding their sides as they split.
Finally, end with a schmaltzy piece of crap that will make the tourist authority press office love you and possibly help get your quote used on their literature. 'The Romans came to Ilford over 2,000 years ago and liked it so much they stayed for 200 years. And after being treated to the town's famous hospitality, I can see why!' Ho, flaming, ho. And that's how Judith Chalmers made a living for 127 years.
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Saw Guernica the other day. In Madrid, where it wasn't allowed to be shown for decades by Picasso while Franco was in charge. Having laboured under the misapprehension that Picasso was a bit of a fruitcake, I take it all back. I thought the painting was wonderful and completely understand why there is so much fuss about it.
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As you can guess, I've had a few days in Spain. Madrid, Segovia and Salamanca. They all have a Jewish quarter. Was trying to work out why and then it struck me. The reason there's so many Jewish quarters is because we never do anything by halves.
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Back home now after a trip where two return flights cost just £90 and five days of putting a cat and dog into kennels/cattery cost a further £112. Work that one out.
Wish you were here?....Solly
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We all do it. We all pretend that what we do for a living is really complicated and only years of training and experience can make us do it better than everyone else - whether that's plumbing or IT or journalism or teaching. Well, maybe not teaching. And certainly not travel journalism. No offence to all my mates who are travel writers but destination stuff, it's really not rocket science. I've done a couple and all you have to do is remember some simple rules. Let's pick a place at random. Ilford, say. But try this with your own home town and you'll see how easy it is to be a travel writer. It's so easy, some newspapers let celebrities write their own travel pieces. So here's how to do it.
First, start with a cliche. Ilford is a town of contrasts. That's a good one. Google 'a city of contrasts' and you will get results for Havana, Frankfurt, Mumbai, Istanbul, Hamburg, Caracas, Bratislava and Bogota. And that's just the first page. Most of it written by pompous travel writers who probably own a hat and a cream suit and have lost all touch with real people.
Next, chuck in some topographical, geographical and historical shit to justify the city of contrasts shit. Eg: Ilford lies nestled between the old East End of London and the brave new world of Essex, leading to a clash of cultures that has existed for over 100 years.
Say something nice about the people. Mention the phrase 'melting pot' and mention some ethnicity. Ilford was settled by Hugenots, Jews, Chinese, Irish, Indians, that kind of thing.
Chuck in a made up fact posing as a myth or legend using the words 'they say.' Like, 'they say King Arthur stopped in Ilford on the way to Camelot.' And then add a complete non-sequitur to prove you know a wide range of useless facts. 'Centuries later it became the home of the world's first ever disco.'
There's more of course. A bit of personal stuff that you think makes the piece different from someone else who may have written about the same place. 'This is the face of Ilford that you won't find on the tourist map'. Or makes it funny 'this is the Faces of Ilford that you won't find on the map...Faces the nightclub that is.' And imagine the reader holding their sides as they split.
Finally, end with a schmaltzy piece of crap that will make the tourist authority press office love you and possibly help get your quote used on their literature. 'The Romans came to Ilford over 2,000 years ago and liked it so much they stayed for 200 years. And after being treated to the town's famous hospitality, I can see why!' Ho, flaming, ho. And that's how Judith Chalmers made a living for 127 years.
--------------------------------------------------------
Saw Guernica the other day. In Madrid, where it wasn't allowed to be shown for decades by Picasso while Franco was in charge. Having laboured under the misapprehension that Picasso was a bit of a fruitcake, I take it all back. I thought the painting was wonderful and completely understand why there is so much fuss about it.
--------------------------------------------------------
As you can guess, I've had a few days in Spain. Madrid, Segovia and Salamanca. They all have a Jewish quarter. Was trying to work out why and then it struck me. The reason there's so many Jewish quarters is because we never do anything by halves.
--------------------------------------------------------
Back home now after a trip where two return flights cost just £90 and five days of putting a cat and dog into kennels/cattery cost a further £112. Work that one out.
Wish you were here?....Solly
Sunday, 20 February 2011
Banger out of order
Why do we say VW as an abbreviation for Volkswagen when there are four syllables in the former and only three in the latter?
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This is why I love local papers.
http://www.harlowstar.co.uk/News/Harlow-man-cleared-of-assault-by-sausage.html
It's not just the story, which is funny enough in its own right, but they even illustrated it with a picture of a sausage. Just in case we don't know what one looks like. And they don't caption it. So we don't know if it's the banger used in the assault, or 'a sausage, similar to the one used in the assault.'
The best example of lazy picture captioning came last year during the annual flying ants crisis.
http://www.metro.co.uk/news/835511-flying-ants-plague-london
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I've packed one off skiing. Another is spending half term with her mum. And the third is going to Valencia for some concert or other. So me and Mrs Solly have decided to go out to Salamanca for a couple of days. I've managed to book a hotel next to a casino! She thinks we're going for a second honeymoon, but I had to point out that, as I've been married before, our honeymoon was a second honeymoon. For me anyway. She doesn't see the funny side of jokes about my first marriage. Women, eh?
On the plus side, I'm not taking my laptop and I don't have a fancy phone so no more blogs until the end of next week. Hopefully she'll appreciate the sacrifices I make!
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Something strange is happening in the garden of Solly (that's not a euphemism. I mean my garden). Loads of our trees are dying. Cordylines at the front (they're like palm trees, we get a lot of them in Essex) and Acacias in the back (I like the upper case though it may not be completely necessary).
Looking it up online I think the Cordylines are a victim of the snow but not sure about the Acacias. We're going to leave them to see if they recover but if anyone has any advice.
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Hate's a negative emotion and I try not to dislike people who I don't know just because they come across as wazzocks on TV. But the blokes who present The Gadget Show? I'd like to see them do a consumer test on electric chairs. Particularly that geezer with the white hair and dark eyebrows who tries really, really hard to make us all think he's eccentric. It's like the bloke at work who says 'I'm completely mad I am' and wears a tie with Disney characters on to prove it.
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Tickets to the Champions League final this year, which is at Wembley, are going to be around £225-300. I don't think my lot will get there but having seen the prices, I have got this over-riding hope that Arsenal get there and lose.
Hasta la vista...Solly
Thursday, 17 February 2011
Irie Member You-oo
According to secret police files, Rastamouse is seven times more likely to be stopped by the police than Fingermouse or Dangermouse.
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Had my first taste of live Wagner last night (the composer not the X Factor one). Which was different. Imagine singing to you missus 'Would you like a cup of tea?' and she sings back 'yes, I would' and I go 'with milk and no sugar' and...well you get the idea. It's not got a lot of songs, there was an anti-semitic subtext that I totally missed until I read about it in the programme and it was in English, which is just odd. But that's the ENO for you, a people's palace of a theatre in Covent Garden. Unlike the nearby Royal Opera House, it has far fewer of those corporate types you see milling round Bow Street. The advantage of this is that the seats and drinks are cheaper and the staff are a bit chattier (they'll let you change seats in the interval if there's one spare).
It also makes for a strange crowd. Predominantly old, mainly posh (neither of which are that surprising I suppose) but very gay. Lots of Quentin Crisp types discussing the time they saw Tristan at the ENO (and I think they mean Wagner again, not some mate) and quite a few middle aged women who look like a cross between Sandi Toksvig and a female vicar.
Still, better than the tube home where I found myself surrounded by Arsenal fans and was overcome with the smell of Eau de Smug.
Back to Parsifal. Thoroughly enjoyable, though I would prefer a few more songs but then I don't know my arias from my elbow.
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The Telegraph used to be very particular about language. Nowadays, though, if you register on the Telegraph website they don't allow you to use upper case letters for your screen name. A proper noun, in lower case? The world's gone mad, as Richard Littlejohn might say.
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Dinner with my brother this Saturday night. He's bringing his new girlfriend who, apparently, is very young and married. She's nervous about meeting me in case I judge her. Which is ridiculous. I'm narrow minded enough to judge people long before I ever meet them. I think it comes from selling stories to the Daily Mail.
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Dave King, with whom I studied journalism at Harlow has decided to join me in writing for fun rather than work and has started his own blog. A link appears at the side of this page.
Our whole year was banned from The Hare in Harlow, one of my proudest moments. And that group includes people like Daily Mail columnist Sandra Parsons, Guardian diarist Hugh Muir and Andy Roberts, who wrote one of the finest books on Northampton Town you are ever likely to read.
All of use went into local papers after college and Dave went one further by becoming editor of one, the Swindon Advertiser. Like a growing number of my middle aged friends, he is an exercise freak. Don't understand the fascination myself but then I dare say he'll outlive me by a few decades and have the last laugh.
I remember Dave as a very fast and occasionally erratic winger in our football matches. I can only hope he writes in the same style.
I told him that writing a blog is cathartic. Until he gets his first critical comment. Good luck mate.
I reckon the secret is to have a good headline and a good sign off.
Er...bye. Solly
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Had my first taste of live Wagner last night (the composer not the X Factor one). Which was different. Imagine singing to you missus 'Would you like a cup of tea?' and she sings back 'yes, I would' and I go 'with milk and no sugar' and...well you get the idea. It's not got a lot of songs, there was an anti-semitic subtext that I totally missed until I read about it in the programme and it was in English, which is just odd. But that's the ENO for you, a people's palace of a theatre in Covent Garden. Unlike the nearby Royal Opera House, it has far fewer of those corporate types you see milling round Bow Street. The advantage of this is that the seats and drinks are cheaper and the staff are a bit chattier (they'll let you change seats in the interval if there's one spare).
It also makes for a strange crowd. Predominantly old, mainly posh (neither of which are that surprising I suppose) but very gay. Lots of Quentin Crisp types discussing the time they saw Tristan at the ENO (and I think they mean Wagner again, not some mate) and quite a few middle aged women who look like a cross between Sandi Toksvig and a female vicar.
Still, better than the tube home where I found myself surrounded by Arsenal fans and was overcome with the smell of Eau de Smug.
Back to Parsifal. Thoroughly enjoyable, though I would prefer a few more songs but then I don't know my arias from my elbow.
------------------------------------------------------------
The Telegraph used to be very particular about language. Nowadays, though, if you register on the Telegraph website they don't allow you to use upper case letters for your screen name. A proper noun, in lower case? The world's gone mad, as Richard Littlejohn might say.
------------------------------------------------------------
Dinner with my brother this Saturday night. He's bringing his new girlfriend who, apparently, is very young and married. She's nervous about meeting me in case I judge her. Which is ridiculous. I'm narrow minded enough to judge people long before I ever meet them. I think it comes from selling stories to the Daily Mail.
------------------------------------------------------------
Dave King, with whom I studied journalism at Harlow has decided to join me in writing for fun rather than work and has started his own blog. A link appears at the side of this page.
Our whole year was banned from The Hare in Harlow, one of my proudest moments. And that group includes people like Daily Mail columnist Sandra Parsons, Guardian diarist Hugh Muir and Andy Roberts, who wrote one of the finest books on Northampton Town you are ever likely to read.
All of use went into local papers after college and Dave went one further by becoming editor of one, the Swindon Advertiser. Like a growing number of my middle aged friends, he is an exercise freak. Don't understand the fascination myself but then I dare say he'll outlive me by a few decades and have the last laugh.
I remember Dave as a very fast and occasionally erratic winger in our football matches. I can only hope he writes in the same style.
I told him that writing a blog is cathartic. Until he gets his first critical comment. Good luck mate.
I reckon the secret is to have a good headline and a good sign off.
Er...bye. Solly
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
Love is...never having to say you're Solly
I always thought if I ever made a bit of money I'd hire a room at The Dorchester, a couple of call girls and a few grams of coke. But let's me honest, it's more likely to be the Travelodge, a dirty mag and a Diet Coke.
That's what Valentine's Day does to your mind when you get to a certain age. Romantic? No, this year was a night watching middle child performing in a school concert.
And I wouldn't have it any other way. I can't have it any other way. Not with my back.
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Tomorrow night my year of culture sees me going to see Parsifal, a very long opera by Wagner that - if I was a character in Curb Your Enthusiasm - would leave me open to accusations of being a self hating Jew. (Do try and see that episode when it's repeated on Sky Atlantic, it's excrutiatingly delicious).
Those who look closely for such things reckon this tale of Christ and dark forces is the most anti-semitic thing Wagner did and there are various tales that he did not want a conductor called Levi to oversee early performances though he relented.
Personally, I don't care. Wagner probably had some unsavoury views at a time when a lot of people were unenlightened. I don't think his music is anti-semitic. It is unfortunate that Hitler decided to adopt it as 'our song' for the Nazis. But he was also a vegetarian dog lover, as am I, and it hasn't made me into a Nazi, nor any of the other folk I meet when I'm walking Goebbels in Epping Forest.
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According to some PR blogs I've been reading recently, it seems the industry is quick to condemn the use of jargon though slow to actually stop using it themselves.
Blue sky thinking and kick it into the long grass are now old hat. New ones I've heard include 'a soup to nuts solution' which is hilarious. Though 'raping the natives' is perhaps too unPC even for this industry.
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When you spend most of your life helping PR companies you lose sight of the fact that, perhaps, sometimes you don't do a very good job of PR-ing yourself. So over the next week or so we'll be sending out a little flier to all our friends in the world of PR telling them how wonderful our agency is. As I'm in a PR mood I may ring you up three times to see if you got it, opening the conversation with 'hi, how was your weekend'. Or I may just get my most junior member of staff to do it.
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According to the papers, the Elle Magazine awards gave a gong to Cheryl Cole for her contribution to music. And they say satire is dead.
Auf wiedersehen pets...Solly
That's what Valentine's Day does to your mind when you get to a certain age. Romantic? No, this year was a night watching middle child performing in a school concert.
And I wouldn't have it any other way. I can't have it any other way. Not with my back.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tomorrow night my year of culture sees me going to see Parsifal, a very long opera by Wagner that - if I was a character in Curb Your Enthusiasm - would leave me open to accusations of being a self hating Jew. (Do try and see that episode when it's repeated on Sky Atlantic, it's excrutiatingly delicious).
Those who look closely for such things reckon this tale of Christ and dark forces is the most anti-semitic thing Wagner did and there are various tales that he did not want a conductor called Levi to oversee early performances though he relented.
Personally, I don't care. Wagner probably had some unsavoury views at a time when a lot of people were unenlightened. I don't think his music is anti-semitic. It is unfortunate that Hitler decided to adopt it as 'our song' for the Nazis. But he was also a vegetarian dog lover, as am I, and it hasn't made me into a Nazi, nor any of the other folk I meet when I'm walking Goebbels in Epping Forest.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
According to some PR blogs I've been reading recently, it seems the industry is quick to condemn the use of jargon though slow to actually stop using it themselves.
Blue sky thinking and kick it into the long grass are now old hat. New ones I've heard include 'a soup to nuts solution' which is hilarious. Though 'raping the natives' is perhaps too unPC even for this industry.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When you spend most of your life helping PR companies you lose sight of the fact that, perhaps, sometimes you don't do a very good job of PR-ing yourself. So over the next week or so we'll be sending out a little flier to all our friends in the world of PR telling them how wonderful our agency is. As I'm in a PR mood I may ring you up three times to see if you got it, opening the conversation with 'hi, how was your weekend'. Or I may just get my most junior member of staff to do it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
According to the papers, the Elle Magazine awards gave a gong to Cheryl Cole for her contribution to music. And they say satire is dead.
Auf wiedersehen pets...Solly
Friday, 11 February 2011
Bellend Sebastian
Did you know West Ham United is an anagram of The New Stadium. Thanks to happy Hammer John Halpin for that one.
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I so want this story to be true but I fear it may be apochyphal. It's a very funny tale about Sebastian Coe, or Lord Smug of Uphisownarsington as I believe he became under some Tory government.
A few years ago a reporter went to interview him and as he approached Seb, the former runner who was never as well liked as Steve Ovett, put down a copy of Herzog by Saul Bellow and stood up to greet him. The reporter was impressed that here was a sportsman with a bit of culture.
A couple of years later the reporter was having a drink with a colleague who had been to meet Lord Coe that day. 'That Lord Coe' said the colleague, 'you'll never guess what he was reading when I met him.'
You know the rest. Maybe he's just a very slow reader or liked the book so much he read it again and again. (I've read it - it's on the required reading list for every atheist Jewish pseudo-intellectual - and it's not THAT good.)
Anyway, that's all I want to say about this week's decision to award the Olympic Stadium - or the Lord Coe's Ego Memorial Ground - to West Ham. Personally, I think it should have gone to Orient.
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So Mubarak has gone. The first dictator to be toppled by Facebook. Like.
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Is the Daily Star supporting the EDL? It's a valid question after a couple of stories the paper has run recently which, to many, have given the right-wing party some very favourable coverage. This is The Guardian's Roy Greenslade on the issue which explains it well http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/greenslade/2011/feb/10/dailystar-english-defence-league
Daily Star (and Daily Express) owner Richard Desmond claims he didn't know that the Star were taking this line.
Personally, I think the Star imagined it would pick up circulation by tapping in to the anti-immigration consensus among a lot of potential working class readers and somehow imagine the EDL is not quite the demon of the right that, say, the BNP is. I think they're wrong.
I've always had a good professional relationship with the Star. Starved of resources, their small cabal of staff do a remarkable job most of the time and they are among the most pleasant to deal with from an agency point of view. I suspect the decision to highlight the EDL was taken high up and will, if continued, backfire when advertisers decide they don't want to be associated with it.
And I think Desmond, who is a very active member of the Jewish jetset, will come to realise that supporting an anti-Islam organisation today is not a million miles away from the Daily Mail supporting the blackshirts in the 1930s. At least I hope he will.
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My mate Kevin's funeral today. A good Catholic send-off, they really know how to do it. Church service in St. Albans with some rousing hymns and the most tear-jerking but also uplifting speech from his magnificently stoic widow, then down to the crematorium where he went to the strains of Don't Stop Me Now by Queen and then to the pub for a glorious drink and cigarette fuelled goodbye. I pretty much held it together until I saw his six-year-old son put a flower on his dad's coffin.
It was at the pub that I heard about one of those 'why the hell not' kind of things blokes do. A couple of Kevin's mates have, for the last year, been going to the nearest pub to every underground station in London and having a drink in each.
The results are published on a very entertaining blog in which every drink and every pub is reviewed and is called Tracks Of My Beers which any sub would be proud of.
Always happy to publicise someone else's blog so... http://tracksofmybeers.wordpress.com/
Cheers....Solly
----------------------------------------------------------------------
I so want this story to be true but I fear it may be apochyphal. It's a very funny tale about Sebastian Coe, or Lord Smug of Uphisownarsington as I believe he became under some Tory government.
A few years ago a reporter went to interview him and as he approached Seb, the former runner who was never as well liked as Steve Ovett, put down a copy of Herzog by Saul Bellow and stood up to greet him. The reporter was impressed that here was a sportsman with a bit of culture.
A couple of years later the reporter was having a drink with a colleague who had been to meet Lord Coe that day. 'That Lord Coe' said the colleague, 'you'll never guess what he was reading when I met him.'
You know the rest. Maybe he's just a very slow reader or liked the book so much he read it again and again. (I've read it - it's on the required reading list for every atheist Jewish pseudo-intellectual - and it's not THAT good.)
Anyway, that's all I want to say about this week's decision to award the Olympic Stadium - or the Lord Coe's Ego Memorial Ground - to West Ham. Personally, I think it should have gone to Orient.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
So Mubarak has gone. The first dictator to be toppled by Facebook. Like.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Is the Daily Star supporting the EDL? It's a valid question after a couple of stories the paper has run recently which, to many, have given the right-wing party some very favourable coverage. This is The Guardian's Roy Greenslade on the issue which explains it well http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/greenslade/2011/feb/10/dailystar-english-defence-league
Daily Star (and Daily Express) owner Richard Desmond claims he didn't know that the Star were taking this line.
Personally, I think the Star imagined it would pick up circulation by tapping in to the anti-immigration consensus among a lot of potential working class readers and somehow imagine the EDL is not quite the demon of the right that, say, the BNP is. I think they're wrong.
I've always had a good professional relationship with the Star. Starved of resources, their small cabal of staff do a remarkable job most of the time and they are among the most pleasant to deal with from an agency point of view. I suspect the decision to highlight the EDL was taken high up and will, if continued, backfire when advertisers decide they don't want to be associated with it.
And I think Desmond, who is a very active member of the Jewish jetset, will come to realise that supporting an anti-Islam organisation today is not a million miles away from the Daily Mail supporting the blackshirts in the 1930s. At least I hope he will.
-------------------------------------------------
My mate Kevin's funeral today. A good Catholic send-off, they really know how to do it. Church service in St. Albans with some rousing hymns and the most tear-jerking but also uplifting speech from his magnificently stoic widow, then down to the crematorium where he went to the strains of Don't Stop Me Now by Queen and then to the pub for a glorious drink and cigarette fuelled goodbye. I pretty much held it together until I saw his six-year-old son put a flower on his dad's coffin.
It was at the pub that I heard about one of those 'why the hell not' kind of things blokes do. A couple of Kevin's mates have, for the last year, been going to the nearest pub to every underground station in London and having a drink in each.
The results are published on a very entertaining blog in which every drink and every pub is reviewed and is called Tracks Of My Beers which any sub would be proud of.
Always happy to publicise someone else's blog so... http://tracksofmybeers.wordpress.com/
Cheers....Solly
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
Bob Marley's doughnuts
Congratulations to Hugh Whittow on becoming the new editor of the Daily Express - and proving that getting sacked by The Sun for not bringing home Blackie the Donkey did not hinder his progress.
Younger readers, look up the tale of Blackie to see Fleet Street tabloids at their best/worst (delete where you think applicable).
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There's something a little sad about the fact that for most white kids living outside Britain's cities, their only exposure to reggae is a BBC children's character called Rastamouse who has the catchphrase Irie.
Growing up in the mean streets of the East End - or the middle class commuter suburbs of Essex, depending on who you are having an argument with - meant you were exposed to a variety of different cultures. Did you know the rowing boat routine to Oops Upside Your Head originated in Room at the Top in Ilford, and the world's first disco (ie where kids danced to records rather than live bands) was created by Jimmy Savile at the Ilford Palais across the road decades earlier?
We got to hear reggae a lot more in those days, it strikes me. There was mainstream stuff, of course. The odd chart hit for someone like Bob Marley (how did he like doughnuts? Wi Jammin' of course), Steel Pulse and Sugar Minott or people like General Saint and Clint Eastwood appearing on the bill at a Save the GLC or CND or Rock Against Racism concert.
Then there were the real fans who tuned in every week to hear David Rodigan on Capital Radio, who could name every King Tubby hit or the more hardcore dub which some of my friends were into and occasionally I would be dragged to a party in a housing estate in Tottenham to drink Red Stripe, smoke dope and then be sick outside where, hopefully, none of my new ethnic friends would see me.
But even my half hearted interest in reggae seems a lot more than a generation raised in an R&B, X Factor dominated era. I know it's a grumpy old man thing to say but there just doesn't seem to be the same variety any more.
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It's funny but the miniature porn baron David Sullivan has figured on the Solly radar a number of times dating back to my teens.
Baron von Muffhausen (that's enough porn nobility puns...Ed) first came to my notice when I was doing a college course in journalism at Harlow (morning sessions - shorthand, typing, phone hacking, three hour boozy lunch followed by a tutorial on how to fiddle expenses).
We all trooped along for a day trip to Snaresbrook Crown Court to see the legal system at work and lo and behold we witnessed the jailing of Sullivan for some kind of immoral earnings charge. It was great fun. Back then he was not so much a porn magnate as a fridge magnet.
By the time he came out of prison and returned to his Chigwell home (Stradbroke Grove, same road as Bobby Moore as I recall) I was a junior reporter on the Ilford Recorder and was sent to his house to interview him. A Swedish woman let me in to the hall - black carpet, dark walls and I could see in the living room a glitter ball and long stainless steel bar. At the top of the stairs was a large china Leopard on sentry duty. She went up to get the famous Little Lord Fondleroy (no more, please...Ed) when I heard a lot of shouting, a squeaky voice piped up 'Get him out' and what sounded like burly men's voices and the stomp of Dr Marten's approaching. The Scandinavian lady came rushing down the stairs shouting 'you go, now, quick quick, please' with a look of panic in her eyes. That transferred to me and I scarpered.
Then a few years later the diminutive sex thimble (one more and that's it...Ed), by now living just down the road to me in Theydon Bois and dressing like a second rate 1970s quiz master, both hired and fired me in the space of three months. While shifting at The Sun, I took a contract at The Sunday Sport where, amongst other things, I wrote the letters page. Then three months later they fired me. I have been disciplined or had official warning letters everywhere I have ever worked but this was the first place to fire me.
And now, all these years later, he is writing in the Standard (admittedly better than most Standard sports hacks) about how I (and other Spurs supporters) shouldn't be allowed to move to Stratford as if this was his life's dream. And he is accompanied by that hatchet faced assistant who we're not allowed to insult any more. Also, his brother drinks in The Mutant Arms, my old local, so it seems I can't escape The Sultan of Schlong (you're fired...Ed)
----------------------------------------------------
The things I do for a living. Today we wrote a story about how fleas jump. Strikes me everyone knows only two facts about fleas. If humans had the same properties we'd be able to leap over St Paul's Cathedral and have a 10 foot penis. I wonder if David Sullivan knows this.
Cheerio...Solly
Younger readers, look up the tale of Blackie to see Fleet Street tabloids at their best/worst (delete where you think applicable).
-----------------------------------------------------------------
There's something a little sad about the fact that for most white kids living outside Britain's cities, their only exposure to reggae is a BBC children's character called Rastamouse who has the catchphrase Irie.
Growing up in the mean streets of the East End - or the middle class commuter suburbs of Essex, depending on who you are having an argument with - meant you were exposed to a variety of different cultures. Did you know the rowing boat routine to Oops Upside Your Head originated in Room at the Top in Ilford, and the world's first disco (ie where kids danced to records rather than live bands) was created by Jimmy Savile at the Ilford Palais across the road decades earlier?
We got to hear reggae a lot more in those days, it strikes me. There was mainstream stuff, of course. The odd chart hit for someone like Bob Marley (how did he like doughnuts? Wi Jammin' of course), Steel Pulse and Sugar Minott or people like General Saint and Clint Eastwood appearing on the bill at a Save the GLC or CND or Rock Against Racism concert.
Then there were the real fans who tuned in every week to hear David Rodigan on Capital Radio, who could name every King Tubby hit or the more hardcore dub which some of my friends were into and occasionally I would be dragged to a party in a housing estate in Tottenham to drink Red Stripe, smoke dope and then be sick outside where, hopefully, none of my new ethnic friends would see me.
But even my half hearted interest in reggae seems a lot more than a generation raised in an R&B, X Factor dominated era. I know it's a grumpy old man thing to say but there just doesn't seem to be the same variety any more.
---------------------------------------------------------
It's funny but the miniature porn baron David Sullivan has figured on the Solly radar a number of times dating back to my teens.
Baron von Muffhausen (that's enough porn nobility puns...Ed) first came to my notice when I was doing a college course in journalism at Harlow (morning sessions - shorthand, typing, phone hacking, three hour boozy lunch followed by a tutorial on how to fiddle expenses).
We all trooped along for a day trip to Snaresbrook Crown Court to see the legal system at work and lo and behold we witnessed the jailing of Sullivan for some kind of immoral earnings charge. It was great fun. Back then he was not so much a porn magnate as a fridge magnet.
By the time he came out of prison and returned to his Chigwell home (Stradbroke Grove, same road as Bobby Moore as I recall) I was a junior reporter on the Ilford Recorder and was sent to his house to interview him. A Swedish woman let me in to the hall - black carpet, dark walls and I could see in the living room a glitter ball and long stainless steel bar. At the top of the stairs was a large china Leopard on sentry duty. She went up to get the famous Little Lord Fondleroy (no more, please...Ed) when I heard a lot of shouting, a squeaky voice piped up 'Get him out' and what sounded like burly men's voices and the stomp of Dr Marten's approaching. The Scandinavian lady came rushing down the stairs shouting 'you go, now, quick quick, please' with a look of panic in her eyes. That transferred to me and I scarpered.
Then a few years later the diminutive sex thimble (one more and that's it...Ed), by now living just down the road to me in Theydon Bois and dressing like a second rate 1970s quiz master, both hired and fired me in the space of three months. While shifting at The Sun, I took a contract at The Sunday Sport where, amongst other things, I wrote the letters page. Then three months later they fired me. I have been disciplined or had official warning letters everywhere I have ever worked but this was the first place to fire me.
And now, all these years later, he is writing in the Standard (admittedly better than most Standard sports hacks) about how I (and other Spurs supporters) shouldn't be allowed to move to Stratford as if this was his life's dream. And he is accompanied by that hatchet faced assistant who we're not allowed to insult any more. Also, his brother drinks in The Mutant Arms, my old local, so it seems I can't escape The Sultan of Schlong (you're fired...Ed)
----------------------------------------------------
The things I do for a living. Today we wrote a story about how fleas jump. Strikes me everyone knows only two facts about fleas. If humans had the same properties we'd be able to leap over St Paul's Cathedral and have a 10 foot penis. I wonder if David Sullivan knows this.
Cheerio...Solly
Monday, 7 February 2011
I want to grow up not blow up
The story that chocolate is healthier than fruit is the kind of tale we have written but on this occasion it wasn't one of ours. Even we might be thought to be stretching it a bit, considering that the 'independent' scientists who came up with it had been commissioned by Hershey.
Next week: fruit is healthier than chocolate according to a greengrocer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
All this talk of Ronald Reagan will not mean much to most people under 40 but a lot of us with leanings slightly to the left will feel a wave of nostalgia for the days when he had his finger next to the button in America while Maggie did so in this country. That was a golden age to go on a march.
A mate of mine who was very young at the time used to be dragged with his lefty family to stand outside Fullwell Cross Swimming Baths in Barkingside on a weekend holding placards that said 'I want to grow up not blow up' as a protest against nuclear arms proliferation while those of us who were older wore our berets and combat jackets to march on the Embankment in the hope a decent band would perform for nothing (we got our wish when The Jam turned up unannounced and did a gig from the back of a flatbed truck.)
My poor pal outside the swimming baths hated being there, particular as he watched his mates file past to go swimming but he eventually got his own back on the left. He is now a senior executive of the Mail on Sunday.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
It may feel like the kind of newspaper that should have been lining budgie cages in the 19th century but, perhaps surprisingly, the Sunday Telegraph celebrated its 50th birthday at the weekend.
Yes, just 50, even though the Daily is 150 years old (as are most of its readers).
It has spawned a number of high profile journalists over the years from Nigel Lawson and Robert Peston to Peregrine Worsthorne and Christopher Booker but we shouldn't hold it against them.
The first editor of the paper was a man called Donald McLachlan, one of those elder statesmen of Grub Street that you just don't seem to get any more. According to those who knew him he was either brilliant or nuts. No more so than when he announced the first TV critic of the new paper would be the distinguished High Tory T.E.Utley...who had been blind since the age of nine.
Perhaps a sign of how the paper has changed is that the online report in the Telegraph about the anniversary is littered with spelling mistakes and inaccuracies, kindly pointed out by a number of readers.
------------------------------------------------------------------
The death of Gary Moore is one of those events that sets us all off talking about the best gig you ever saw. These debates are interesting because the answer is not necessarily your favourite band or artist but the ones who are the best live. For instance, I can remember seeing The Housemartins in a room above a pub playing to an audience of about 20 of us. They were great live though I didn't rush out and buy everything they ever made. Similarly I saw The Ramones supporting U2 who were equally good. And I saw Thin Lizzy minus Phil Lynott who had already died but with Bob Geldof replacing him. And in Dublin too. I can also recall fantastic live performances by Bowie, The Damned, Teardrop Explodes, The Monochrome Set and the wonderful General Saint and Clint Eastwood. Look them up.
But my favourite gig was Talking Heads at Wembley Arena supported by Tom Tom Club (who included David Byrne's missus so she had a busy night) around 1982. Hard to say why except the music was great, the atmosphere was wonderful and I was with good friends. Just special, that's all.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Speaking of music I have to say that even as an old fart how impressed I am by Jessie James. Good lyrics, great attitude and she looks a lot better in a body stocking than, say, spoilt brat Chloe 'I'm talented in my own right' Madeley. She seems part of some kind of Essex revival in music and comedy and culture that is a welcome antidote to all this 'Only Way Is Essex' rubbish. They may not be to everyone's taste but give me the Essex of Jessie James and Pixie Lott or Dean Kane and Russell Brand or even Jamie Oliver over Jack Tweed or Chantelle Houghton or some other reality TV nomark any day of the week.
Shut uuuupppp....Solly
Next week: fruit is healthier than chocolate according to a greengrocer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
All this talk of Ronald Reagan will not mean much to most people under 40 but a lot of us with leanings slightly to the left will feel a wave of nostalgia for the days when he had his finger next to the button in America while Maggie did so in this country. That was a golden age to go on a march.
A mate of mine who was very young at the time used to be dragged with his lefty family to stand outside Fullwell Cross Swimming Baths in Barkingside on a weekend holding placards that said 'I want to grow up not blow up' as a protest against nuclear arms proliferation while those of us who were older wore our berets and combat jackets to march on the Embankment in the hope a decent band would perform for nothing (we got our wish when The Jam turned up unannounced and did a gig from the back of a flatbed truck.)
My poor pal outside the swimming baths hated being there, particular as he watched his mates file past to go swimming but he eventually got his own back on the left. He is now a senior executive of the Mail on Sunday.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
It may feel like the kind of newspaper that should have been lining budgie cages in the 19th century but, perhaps surprisingly, the Sunday Telegraph celebrated its 50th birthday at the weekend.
Yes, just 50, even though the Daily is 150 years old (as are most of its readers).
It has spawned a number of high profile journalists over the years from Nigel Lawson and Robert Peston to Peregrine Worsthorne and Christopher Booker but we shouldn't hold it against them.
The first editor of the paper was a man called Donald McLachlan, one of those elder statesmen of Grub Street that you just don't seem to get any more. According to those who knew him he was either brilliant or nuts. No more so than when he announced the first TV critic of the new paper would be the distinguished High Tory T.E.Utley...who had been blind since the age of nine.
Perhaps a sign of how the paper has changed is that the online report in the Telegraph about the anniversary is littered with spelling mistakes and inaccuracies, kindly pointed out by a number of readers.
------------------------------------------------------------------
The death of Gary Moore is one of those events that sets us all off talking about the best gig you ever saw. These debates are interesting because the answer is not necessarily your favourite band or artist but the ones who are the best live. For instance, I can remember seeing The Housemartins in a room above a pub playing to an audience of about 20 of us. They were great live though I didn't rush out and buy everything they ever made. Similarly I saw The Ramones supporting U2 who were equally good. And I saw Thin Lizzy minus Phil Lynott who had already died but with Bob Geldof replacing him. And in Dublin too. I can also recall fantastic live performances by Bowie, The Damned, Teardrop Explodes, The Monochrome Set and the wonderful General Saint and Clint Eastwood. Look them up.
But my favourite gig was Talking Heads at Wembley Arena supported by Tom Tom Club (who included David Byrne's missus so she had a busy night) around 1982. Hard to say why except the music was great, the atmosphere was wonderful and I was with good friends. Just special, that's all.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Speaking of music I have to say that even as an old fart how impressed I am by Jessie James. Good lyrics, great attitude and she looks a lot better in a body stocking than, say, spoilt brat Chloe 'I'm talented in my own right' Madeley. She seems part of some kind of Essex revival in music and comedy and culture that is a welcome antidote to all this 'Only Way Is Essex' rubbish. They may not be to everyone's taste but give me the Essex of Jessie James and Pixie Lott or Dean Kane and Russell Brand or even Jamie Oliver over Jack Tweed or Chantelle Houghton or some other reality TV nomark any day of the week.
Shut uuuupppp....Solly
Friday, 4 February 2011
Long John Silverberg
Was there ever a better example of how things turn a full circle?
Treasure Island was written in 1883. My son (12) is in his school production of the famous old story. His name is Harry and he plays Ben Gunn. His friend Jack plays the character Harry. Their mate John plays someone called Gentleman Jack. Another kid called Joe plays John (Long John Silver of course). George plays a pirate called Joe (you can see where this is going) and Finlay plays George. And on top of that, a kid called Ben plays Jim.
Apart from being a nightmare for the teacher who claims to have had no idea of the confusion before it all began, it just shows how unorignal all us parents are.
I think we did Treasure Island at my primary school, Ilford Jewish but in those days the pirates were called things like Sheldon, Leon, Russell and Morton. They didn't strike fear into English merchant ships but several years later they would become the fiercest accountants this side of the Cape of Good Hope. Aharrrrrr.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If the death penalty is such a good deterrent why is America's prison population the biggest in the world?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
To all journalists everywhere...I have seen the power of what simply saying 'yes' can do. I'll explain.
In my office I work a few feet from a fashon PR company who employ a very young intern - at least she seems very young to me.
She often has to do the donkeywork of ringing magazine journalists to ask them if they'll feature the latest fashion gimmick - let's say it's a bagpod which allows the busy fashonista to transfer all her belongings from one handbag to another without any fuss - and repeat the same patter time after time after time.
Sometimes she doesn't even get to the end of a sentence. Sometimes she does but finishes with 'oh well, thanks for your time anyway'.
Then one day she put down the phone and shrieked with delight, punched the air and phoned all her mates to explain that someone had actually said they would do something on it. It is hard to put into words the sheer feeling of joy she expressed at this one simple - and quite likely hollow - promise.
And briefly, just for one millisecond, I felt guilty for all those times I'd been a bit curt to a PR trainee just setting out. Only very briefly mind.
Because you can bet that sooner or later I'll get a call from someone named Samantha or Gavin who will ask me how my weekend was even though they've never met me, before going into the usual spiel.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I've given it a month but enough's enough. My hour long journey to and from work is taking, on average, an hour and 20 minutes to an hour and a half each way. And so after a brief affair with the newest line on the underground, I have decided that the Jubilee Line and I can no longer go on like this. From now on it's the Northern Line. Old, dirty, rickety but reliable. I'm sorry Jubilee. I was impressed by your longer carriages and smart extra door opening system on the platforms and by the fact you can get the whole of Canary Wharf tower lying flat in Canary Wharf station. But the fact is, you're all fur coat and no knickers. And I'm leaving you. Let's see if you get better in time for the Olympics.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I haven't made up my mind about Boardwalk Empire yet. Of course it's better than most things on TV. But is it as good as expected? Ask me again in another two or three episodes.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The King's Speech. It's just a posh version of Open All Hours as far as I can tell.
G-g-g-good night...Solly
Treasure Island was written in 1883. My son (12) is in his school production of the famous old story. His name is Harry and he plays Ben Gunn. His friend Jack plays the character Harry. Their mate John plays someone called Gentleman Jack. Another kid called Joe plays John (Long John Silver of course). George plays a pirate called Joe (you can see where this is going) and Finlay plays George. And on top of that, a kid called Ben plays Jim.
Apart from being a nightmare for the teacher who claims to have had no idea of the confusion before it all began, it just shows how unorignal all us parents are.
I think we did Treasure Island at my primary school, Ilford Jewish but in those days the pirates were called things like Sheldon, Leon, Russell and Morton. They didn't strike fear into English merchant ships but several years later they would become the fiercest accountants this side of the Cape of Good Hope. Aharrrrrr.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If the death penalty is such a good deterrent why is America's prison population the biggest in the world?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
To all journalists everywhere...I have seen the power of what simply saying 'yes' can do. I'll explain.
In my office I work a few feet from a fashon PR company who employ a very young intern - at least she seems very young to me.
She often has to do the donkeywork of ringing magazine journalists to ask them if they'll feature the latest fashion gimmick - let's say it's a bagpod which allows the busy fashonista to transfer all her belongings from one handbag to another without any fuss - and repeat the same patter time after time after time.
Sometimes she doesn't even get to the end of a sentence. Sometimes she does but finishes with 'oh well, thanks for your time anyway'.
Then one day she put down the phone and shrieked with delight, punched the air and phoned all her mates to explain that someone had actually said they would do something on it. It is hard to put into words the sheer feeling of joy she expressed at this one simple - and quite likely hollow - promise.
And briefly, just for one millisecond, I felt guilty for all those times I'd been a bit curt to a PR trainee just setting out. Only very briefly mind.
Because you can bet that sooner or later I'll get a call from someone named Samantha or Gavin who will ask me how my weekend was even though they've never met me, before going into the usual spiel.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I've given it a month but enough's enough. My hour long journey to and from work is taking, on average, an hour and 20 minutes to an hour and a half each way. And so after a brief affair with the newest line on the underground, I have decided that the Jubilee Line and I can no longer go on like this. From now on it's the Northern Line. Old, dirty, rickety but reliable. I'm sorry Jubilee. I was impressed by your longer carriages and smart extra door opening system on the platforms and by the fact you can get the whole of Canary Wharf tower lying flat in Canary Wharf station. But the fact is, you're all fur coat and no knickers. And I'm leaving you. Let's see if you get better in time for the Olympics.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I haven't made up my mind about Boardwalk Empire yet. Of course it's better than most things on TV. But is it as good as expected? Ask me again in another two or three episodes.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The King's Speech. It's just a posh version of Open All Hours as far as I can tell.
G-g-g-good night...Solly
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
These are sex people
When our office was in Covent Garden we would forever be seeing the odd famous person. Gary Oldman in the sandwich shop one day, Paul Merton buying a newspaper the next, and that small woman who used to be in Coronation Street and is now in Casualty - Tina Holby City? - the next.
I expect far fewer now we are London Bridge way but I've spotted my first one. Stephen Mangan, North Londoner, Spurs supporter and comedy actor responsible, in my opinion, for one of the finest episodes of one of the finest TV comedies of all time.
If you haven't seen it and get the chance, catch the episode of I'm Alan Partridge in which he meets kitchen salesman extraordinaire Dan Moody. And then you'll see where this blog's headline comes from.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Bit of a cultural week this week. Went to the Royal Academy on Saturday to see an exhibition purporting to represent modern British sculpture though it included stuff that was centuries old - apparently this is because modern, in art terms, can mean anything which represents a change from what went before (so I was informed).
Anyhoo, it's a good exhibition if you don't like art exhibitions as there are only 12 rooms, some of which only have one piece of work in them such as Damien Hirst's picnic table and cow's head covered in millions of flies. It stinks. Literally that is.
It also had some Barbara Hepworth - which is the reason I wanted to go, to be honest.
I'm not going to get into one of those 'what is art' debates but if they allow Hirst's exhibit then they should have had something by Rachel Whiteread and could have had Tracey Emin's bed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
As if that wasn't cultural enough I then went to the Royal Opera House last night to see The Barber of Seville. Or, to give it the original Italian title, Da Barbera ovva da Sevilla Innit.
It's the ultimate Opera Buffa. Don't worry, I had to look that up too.
The lady playing Rosina was just as you'd expect a Latin firebrand to be, dark and sexy and forceful. Turns out she's Polish. And she was brilliant. So there was I watching an English opera company perform an Italian opera set in Spain with a Polish leading lady.
We had relatively cheap seats, at £60 each but that's not where they make their money. Two glasses of Champagne and two glasses of wine in the bar cost a total of £40.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
And while we're in a cultural mood, when I was a kid I went with the school twice to see Twelfth Night - we weren't meant to but the school cocked it up. I've seen it twice since as well. Yet in all this time I only found out today that Shakespeare slipped in the c-word, kinda, into this comedy.
Apparently it was when Malvolio read out a letter he thinks has been written by Olivia and says he can tell it is by her hand because of her 'Cs and Us N her Ts' adding, just so we all know, that this is where her great 'Ps' come from.
And we have a go at Jeremy Paxman.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
All the papers agree, football's gone mad. Cue angry readers queueing up to berate players for earning so much and for fans for lining the players' pockets. And how awful it is that all this money washes around during a recession.
A couple of points. If 20 fans all buy a season ticket it may just about cover one week's wages for a half decent premiership player. The clubs could play to empty stadiums and probably make more money as they wouldn't have to hire stewards and programme sellers and policemen etc.
Secondly, if you have an economy in recession, you need money to be spent to lift it from recession - not by government necessarily, but by others. So let it be millionaire footballers spending Mr Murdoch's money as far as I care. And leave us fans to enjoy spending what we spend and love the game no matter how much how idols get paid.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm 48 years old, quite respectable and sensible and generally law abiding. If I ever had a rebellious streak it has long gone. But once in a blue moon I still get that same urge that once ended with the prefect hut getting burned down all those years ago and it is when I see those little mini-me community support policemen.
I don't know what it is. I realise they are only doing their job, whatever that is, but they look ridiculous and seem to be power mad, stopping people taking photos in public places while citing the data protection act or going all health and safety for no reason.
As I drive past I have to suppress a compelling urge to wind down the window and shout 'wankers' at the top of my voice. I know it's a fault, I know I'm wrong, but I can't help it.
And as I write this, Mariella Frostup has just appeared on TV. I want to scream....
Aaaarrggghhhh.....love Solly
I expect far fewer now we are London Bridge way but I've spotted my first one. Stephen Mangan, North Londoner, Spurs supporter and comedy actor responsible, in my opinion, for one of the finest episodes of one of the finest TV comedies of all time.
If you haven't seen it and get the chance, catch the episode of I'm Alan Partridge in which he meets kitchen salesman extraordinaire Dan Moody. And then you'll see where this blog's headline comes from.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Bit of a cultural week this week. Went to the Royal Academy on Saturday to see an exhibition purporting to represent modern British sculpture though it included stuff that was centuries old - apparently this is because modern, in art terms, can mean anything which represents a change from what went before (so I was informed).
Anyhoo, it's a good exhibition if you don't like art exhibitions as there are only 12 rooms, some of which only have one piece of work in them such as Damien Hirst's picnic table and cow's head covered in millions of flies. It stinks. Literally that is.
It also had some Barbara Hepworth - which is the reason I wanted to go, to be honest.
I'm not going to get into one of those 'what is art' debates but if they allow Hirst's exhibit then they should have had something by Rachel Whiteread and could have had Tracey Emin's bed.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
As if that wasn't cultural enough I then went to the Royal Opera House last night to see The Barber of Seville. Or, to give it the original Italian title, Da Barbera ovva da Sevilla Innit.
It's the ultimate Opera Buffa. Don't worry, I had to look that up too.
The lady playing Rosina was just as you'd expect a Latin firebrand to be, dark and sexy and forceful. Turns out she's Polish. And she was brilliant. So there was I watching an English opera company perform an Italian opera set in Spain with a Polish leading lady.
We had relatively cheap seats, at £60 each but that's not where they make their money. Two glasses of Champagne and two glasses of wine in the bar cost a total of £40.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
And while we're in a cultural mood, when I was a kid I went with the school twice to see Twelfth Night - we weren't meant to but the school cocked it up. I've seen it twice since as well. Yet in all this time I only found out today that Shakespeare slipped in the c-word, kinda, into this comedy.
Apparently it was when Malvolio read out a letter he thinks has been written by Olivia and says he can tell it is by her hand because of her 'Cs and Us N her Ts' adding, just so we all know, that this is where her great 'Ps' come from.
And we have a go at Jeremy Paxman.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
All the papers agree, football's gone mad. Cue angry readers queueing up to berate players for earning so much and for fans for lining the players' pockets. And how awful it is that all this money washes around during a recession.
A couple of points. If 20 fans all buy a season ticket it may just about cover one week's wages for a half decent premiership player. The clubs could play to empty stadiums and probably make more money as they wouldn't have to hire stewards and programme sellers and policemen etc.
Secondly, if you have an economy in recession, you need money to be spent to lift it from recession - not by government necessarily, but by others. So let it be millionaire footballers spending Mr Murdoch's money as far as I care. And leave us fans to enjoy spending what we spend and love the game no matter how much how idols get paid.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm 48 years old, quite respectable and sensible and generally law abiding. If I ever had a rebellious streak it has long gone. But once in a blue moon I still get that same urge that once ended with the prefect hut getting burned down all those years ago and it is when I see those little mini-me community support policemen.
I don't know what it is. I realise they are only doing their job, whatever that is, but they look ridiculous and seem to be power mad, stopping people taking photos in public places while citing the data protection act or going all health and safety for no reason.
As I drive past I have to suppress a compelling urge to wind down the window and shout 'wankers' at the top of my voice. I know it's a fault, I know I'm wrong, but I can't help it.
And as I write this, Mariella Frostup has just appeared on TV. I want to scream....
Aaaarrggghhhh.....love Solly
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