Ring Round the Moon

It’s not often, these days, that I’m the junior member at any gathering. But yesterday, at Ring Round the Moon, it felt as if I’d reduced the average age of the audience by a few years merely by being part of it. It was like being at an Age Concern AGM, held among the gilded caryatids of the Playhouse. Perhaps the attraction was nostalgia for the time of the play’s setting in 1947 and its description of being a “charming, witty and elegant divertissement” – not the first things you associate with West End productions, but clearly a big draw for a certain section of Home Counties pensioners for whom there is little left to look forward to now that Masonic Balls aren’t what they used to be.

Jean Anouilh’s romantic comedy falls somewhere between Wodehouse and Wilde in a convoluted plot about a working-class beauty being paid to take part in an aristocratic weekend house-party, so as to make a twin brother change his mind about the girl he (thinks he) loves. Other guests have their own bewilderingly intertwined relationships and infidelities, of course, and that means paying close attention to the dialogue and hairdos to have any clue as to why certain scenes are important. I suspect most of the audience was as baffled as me but, all in all, those of us who stayed with it seemed to have enjoyed it by the time the finale’s fireworks crashed round the auditorium.

Best performances were: Angela Thorne – supremely dry as the archly batty Dowager; Joanna David, her downtrodden companion (best line, “I feel so excited – like a little yeasty bun in a good oven”); Peter Eyre the butler with the right mixture of servility and disdain; Belinda Lang’s upwardly mobile stage-mother from Hell and Emily Bruni as Lady India, the deluded, lusting, drama-queen whose faultlessly funny tango-with-dialogue was an absolute highlight.

I’d have preferred it left as a Woosteresque bit of nonsense, myself. But of course.. being legitimate theatre the thing just HAD to have a message – which was: ‘too much money is a Bad Thing and the Upper Classes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be’. Well, who’d have guessed?

Smoking Zone

Lemmy's in big trouble. Not the acid or speed catching up with him, nor even any of the 2000 birds he's shagged. Nope. The diehard rocker has (gasp) smoked a cigarette on stage! I bet 1000s of horrified heavy-metal fans clutched their tattooed knuckles to their noses and rushed for the exits as soon as he lit up.

And he might have got away with it on the night, too, but oh no; Sheffield Council Officers are on his case, one said," Other venues on the tour will be notified and appropriate action may be taken should any further incidents take place." Bloody hell. I really really want to be there when some oik from the Ways and Means Committee gets up and asks him his name, half way through Ace of Spades.

Things could get even worse if the tour takes in Naples. No chance of nipping out for a quick puff between sets there. The council has banned smoking outside, in public parks and during "demonstrations and cultural events" if children or pregnant women are nearby.

I wonder whether anyone actually sat down and worked out the odds about being struck down by 1 tobacco smoke molecule per squillion cubic litres of air? Here's a helpful article saying that the dangers of it happening are slightly less than winning the lottery whilst being struck by lightning during a blue moon. No matter. Naples Council will say you can't prove that never happened, can you? Aha then! Banned! Next!

It's neo-eco-envy-health-fascism, it really is. What is it with people that they have to find some other group or individual to detest and persecute. I think the demonisation of smokers, or reveling in the trials of people like Britney, Amy and the McCanns happens because so many desperately need someone else to be better than... that it's easier for people to focus on others instead of on improving their own selves.

I really do hope that next time Mt. Vesuvius erupts nobody gets hurt. But if a tragedy does occur, that Sheffield Council is on a twinning visit to its Neapolitan counterpart at the time.

Ginjinha joints

First of all, a couple of hints for how the whole experience of jetting off on a lovers break could be improved by the Powers That Be:

Airlines: Take a stand on fatties. To protect the comfort of normally-sized passengers, anybody over 12st. must pay excess baggage. And you know those frame thingies at check-in that cabin-baggage has to fit into before it can go aboard? Well make one like a plane seat. And if they can’t get their arses into it, make them pay for two seats or throw them off the flight. Serves them right.

Passport Control: OK, here’s a test. If it takes about 20 seconds to check each document, how long will it take for a planeload of 200 passengers to get through immigration? Answer: Over an hour. So given that a plane lands at Luton every 5 minutes, why have only two officers on duty? Oh wait.... it's the Home Office, innit? Useless gits.
Well, here I am back in cold, dank, over-complicated England, torn away from hole-in-the-wall Ginjinha bars where you sip sweet cherry liqueur for a euro a tot, lazy outdoor lunches of freshly caught/freshly grilled sardines and young-pressed vinho verde, world class coffee and pastries, and aromatic roast chestnuts to be relished in late autumn temperatures in the 60s and 70s.
As you’ll have guessed, I spent the whole flight home squashed up next to a member of the Obese Community who needed a seat and a half to pour his blubbery bulk into and then God knows how long queuing up with the Poles, Romanians and Bulgars for the privilege of being allowed back into my own fucking country.
But Lisbon is beautiful. It has a vibe, charm and pace all of its own, more like a provincial town than a capital city even though the whole museum, arts and opera thing is there if you look for it. It’s got a unique lived-in feel to it thanks to its central shopping and cultural area being right on the doorstep of its residential heartlands, so that tourists share easily in the everyday world of Lisboetas. And luckily for everyone, the Portuguese have resisted the worst excesses of mass Starbuckisation, so instead of having to search around for a ‘typical’ experience, you can drop in anywhere and be served with the courtesy, friendliness and natural hospitality that’s the hallmark of this gentle, decent country.Sadly, this might be the last foreign sojourn for quite some time. Our terrier (who is far too spoiled to be left in kennels) disgraced himself by widdling on the curtains of the lady who looks after him while we're away. So unless another can be found - that's it. But good to have gone out on a high... Portugal was the first holiday I ever shared with Mme., many years ago. It's aged well.. so has she. We had no money, drove all the way through France and Spain with a tent in the boot of a little car. A memory that's stuck with me all this time is of a rifle range at a small town fiesta. You had to fire at a target that released a spring so's a furry toy tied to a length of elastic flew at you when you hit. The prize was a glass of ginjinha - I couldn't miss and at 5 shots an escudo, I had them lined up along the counter. Cheers and shouts of "mais ginjinha!" went up from a growing crowd of hangers on every time I scored a bullseye - we all got merry except for the poor stallholder who got ever more miserable as he just kept on pouring.So there I was again... downing ginjinha with the priceless extra benefit of its flavour bringing back the memories, as tastes, sounds and scents always do best. Life is circles.

**** OFF, YOU ****!

"**** off Gordon ****ing Ramsey and **** yourself, you ****ing jumped-up ****ing ****er. Oh, so you think the ****ing food in ****ing Skegness is ****ing atrocious do you? Well let me tell you, Mr. ****ing so-called Michelin One Star (One B*****k more like) Ramsey. You’re ****ed because nobody comes here to eat your poncey ****ing rocket salad on a bed of sun-dried ****ing organic bananas ***p anyway. So do us a ****ing favour and **** off to ****ing Bognor ****ing Regis instead where they don’t know one ****ing end of a ****ing King Prawn ****ing Biryani from the other." Mabel Thorpe (Mrs.) (69).

Yes, Skegness is in the news again. Twice in fact. But more of that, as they say, later. Last time a famous cook tried to change eating habits, it was Jamie Oliver’s doomed effort to wean the nation’s schoolchildren off Turkey Twizzlers (cost £486m, results - falling school-dinner sales and fatter kids). Now TV’s celeb chef Ramsey wants to start a crusade to change the menus at Britain’s seaside resorts – this in the country that has introduced the All Day Breakfast to the Costa Blanca and whose national dish is Chicken Tikka Masala.

I can’t see it myself. Blaming the restaurants for poor food is like blaming the BBC for Strictly Ballroom – if there wasn’t an appetite for this kind of ready-chewed pap, they wouldn’t offer it. We have to face facts... Britain is dumb and tasteless. Sad but as true as any generalisation ever can be. Newspapers realise this, so do record companies, fashion designers, retailers and advertisers. So does the Government, for that matter. In the end, the consumer always gets his way. If enough people want rubbish, that’s what they’ll get. And we do. That’s why the biggest selling tabloids appeal to the worst instincts of the barely literate, music has been the same old tosh for years, tat clothes are sold on the basis of having the ‘right’ labels, shops cash in on the shopping-as-a-hobby OCD and goods are sold on image rather than features.

But forget the food, ignore the weather... Skegness has triumphed in the British Toilet Association’s prestigious Best Loo Award of 2007 (sponsored by Dyson Airblade), winning the coveted Four Star Commendation for several of its conveniences. So there you are, Ramsey. Shove that up your ****ing **** and smoke it. We’ve got our priorities straight without you. Our best selling plat du jour might only be chips with cheese, but when we go, we go in style.

Spotty-youths

I can’t work out whether having a bandage on my car is something I should do something about or not, what with your motor being that most obvious symbol of your psyche and all. I’m kind of hoping that people will see it as meaning I’m so confident in myself, that I don’t need to boost my self-esteem with a manhood-enhancing boy-toy. This might be self-defeating, of course, if they (rightly) guess that I’ve lost the will to be interested in what anybody thinks since we moved out here. Anyway, it needed two front tyres for its MOT, so I took it into town. The spotty-youth at KwikPhytt annoyed me so much with that all-encompassing "Urr?" that they all do in the motor trade when they’re asking you what you want, that I reversed into a post on the way out and smashed the bumper.

Well, apparently you aren’t allowed to have sharp edges showing, so it’s been covered over with gaffer-tape to be MO’d and looks like Pudsey Bear. Or a pair of broken specs held together by Sellotape. Sod it..... I could claim on the insurance but I’m still hoping somebody will run into me so that I can get the front bumper fixed as well to make it worthwhile. That’s also been bandaged since I stood on it to reach the windowsill one night when I’d locked myself out of the house. What I really need now is to be gently shunted from the rear into a tree by somebody not too worried about their No Claims Bonus.

Mme. is just back from the supermarket. She says the youth at the checkout got as far as a bag of chestnuts before ringing his bell and shouting, "what are these?" to the supervisor. Wonder he didn’t just hold them up and say, "Urr?". It’s lucky it was Mme. and not me – she would just have fixed him with the withering stare that freezes nitrogen. I’d have gone into a strop and reversed the trolley into a display of soup cans. I’m still spitting feathers since the girl at B&Q corrected me for putting an ‘r’ in the middle of February whilst writing a cheque. "Well that’s not how you say it", she said. I hadn’t realised how well I can roll my rrrrs until then, "Febrrrruary, Febrrrrrrrruary!" Never able to do it before or since.

But there we are. None of us knows everything. I’m buggered if I can understand, for example, how easyJet can charge me less than a tank of petrol for a return flight to Lisbon. They can, though, and I shall be reporting from there in a week or two, if relations between Britain and Portugal still permit it. Since Tony Parshole, in his Mirror column told their Ambassador to "shut his stupid sardine-munching mouth", they might have cooled a bit. You’d think somebody who sees himself as a bit of an intellectual could come up with a better one than that. But no. In the land of the Urrs, the half-baked thug is King.

(That last line isn’t too smartarsed, is it Tarkwith?)

(Very possibly, dear boy. TV)

New Latest Rage: The Anti-Celebs

Kate and Gerry McCann; where would we be without them? Oh, how they can be reviled – aren’t we all so much better than parents who leave their children alone to be abducted.... or worse? Much easier to hate them, rather than look up to the people they’ve pushed off the front pages. Instead of having to be envious of the great and good, whose lifestyles, looks, houses, cars and clothes can barely being imagined, they are there to be torn apart, mannerisms mocked, appearance criticised, their ambition and their relatives derided. No longer any need to aspire to riches the Beckhams have got.... we're better off than even the most famous anti-celebs without even trying. Oh what joy!

You can’t have missed it. As well as in the comments in online newspapers, it’s all over the internet in forums like the Mirror's here and the many blogs that specialise in bringing you the latest hot info about their guilt.

If you haven’t been keeping up, it goes like this.... The ‘Tapas 9’ a group of coke-snorting swingers (or possibly even friends) have a Pact of Silence over Madeleine’s disappearance after she was left alone while they were drinking 14 bottles of wine in a restaurant. The whole thing would have been hushed up in the UK press due to a Government-led conspiracy thanks to Gerry’s involvement in a secret nuclear committee, the Freemasons, and the Illuminati and holding damning evidence about Gordon Brown’s extra-curricular activities on a rocking-horse. Meanwhile, investigations by the Portuguese Police (the PJ) are being thwarted by leaks of their incompetence being fed to the tabloids by their pink-shirted (say no more!) spokesman Clarence but have a killer piece of standalone evidence they have not yet revealed. Actually, it’s far more complicated than that..... It’s all an EU backed hoax to make us wear microchips. The Find Madeleine Fund (all pre-planned), is being used to pay the McCanns’ mortgage when Kate could easily sell her Rolex on Ebay or stop having her hair done and buying new tops. And it’s a fit-up by the Portuguese Government to save their tourist trade.

Not surprisingly, then, people are in a lather over it all. "I’m ashamed to be British!", says one.
"That’s nothing. I’m even more ashamed!", says another.
"You’re nowhere near ashamed enough... I’m ashamed to be on the same planet as Britain!", foams the third.
"Yes but I’ve been a nurse for 30 years and, believe me, I know what went on!"
"Ha! I’m a social worker and I’ve seen all this before. It stinks."
"I’m a trained psychologist and they’re all paedophiles, I tell you!".
"I’m a mother of 5 and I would never have left my kids like that!"

So it goes. Their words are studied for unintentional slips, their dress sense is analysed, they are labeled narcissists, sociopaths, working class oiks thrust into an incongruent profession. Their boxy house just goes to show how tasteless they are and their cries of innocence are proof that they are guilty. Every crackpot theory builds on the last until the teetering pile of evidence from the armchair sleuths is overwhelming for the nutcases and curtain twitchers who can’t get enough of it. Anyone who diverges from this view is dismissed as a supporter of child neglect. Any criticism of the PJ is met with chants of "xenophobia!" and "racism!".

Well, of course, at the end of all this, they may of course be guilty of a horrible crime and the most outrageous attempted coverup of all time. We just can’t know.

Meanwhile, move over Heather Mills. No wonder she’s complaining all over the daytime TV and radio. She’s last-year’s anti-celeb. Kate and Gerry are the new biggies and, man, don’t they shift papers. I must google who it was that said you can 'never lose money underestimating the good taste of the British people'. He couldn’t have known how right he was going to be proved.

Music night.

Joining me on the blog today is our Arts Correspondent, the distinguished music critic, Tarkwith Vonackle. He is here to give us the benefit of his impression of last night's concert by the City of London Sinfonia and soloist Benjamin Schmid at Kings Lynn Corn Exchange.
ASU: Good evening Tarkwith, thank you for being with us.
TV: Good evening, I'm very glad to be here.
ASU: Well, perhaps you'd be kind enough to begin by commenting on the Orchestra itself, first of all, what did you make of the viola player who wasn't wearing any shoes? Is that unusual in a concert of this nature?
TV: What?
ASU: You know... did you think he'd left them at home, like, or would you think he'd just forgotten to put them on?
TV: I didn't even look at their feet. Anyway, I'm here to discuss the musical aspect.
ASU: Yes of course. Sorry, please go on. Can I ask you about the soloist, then? Not as good as that bird last time, was he?
TV: Actually I thought he was excellent bordering on genius. He brought, I thought, a fresh and vibrantly Eastern European interpretation to the Sibelius which I've never..
ASU: No, I mean, you know, not as good to look at, like.
TV: I hardly think looks come into it! His technique, as he displayed especially during the encore, was simply breathtaking and...
ASU: Yes, yes, fair enough. The thing is though, whereas she sort of looked as if she was concentrating when it wasn't her turn, he twitched about like Michael Jackson on speed, didn't he? What's that all about?
TV: Well it's because he's so deeply affected by the music that he loses physical control. Not that this detracts from his playing which, if you'll permit me to say so, was one of the most spellbinding performances I've ever witnessed.
ASU: Ah right. OK then, what are your thoughts about the second half?
TV: You mean the Brahms?
ASU: If you say so. Went on a bit, didn't it?
TV: Actually, I thought the time flew by. And I also thought the City of London Sinfonia was the ideal orchestra for this particular symphony which, if not played with the verve that is their hallmark, can sometimes sound moody and uncoordinated. But they got its lyrical aspects spot on, especially in the lushly melodic First Movement. The woodwind section in particular, most notably the principal flautist who is called upon to work quite hard throughout this piece, scored very highly in my opinion.
ASU: Oh you mean Karen?
TV: Eh?
ASU: Karen. On the flute. I'm sure it was her from that chamber ensemble that we saw at Stickney Church last winter when it was so cold we all nearly froze to death.
TV: Yes, well. Be that as it may..
ASU: And the good looker on the front row of the cellos is Judith, seen her somewhere before in a different outfit, as well...
TV: As I was saying. This orchestra never fails to put in a performance that has a modern-sounding freshness and rhythmic emphasis that, at the same time, respects the classical tradition. Conductor Douglas Boyd is to be commended for conveying his energy and vitality to the musicians who clearly welcome his presence on the rostrum and respond with enthusiasm.
ASU: I suppose they have to get jobs wherever they can...
TV: So all in all, it was a highly satisfactory evening and I think that West Norfolk Borough Council should be congratulated on bringing first class musicianship out into the Provinces.
ASU: I'll second that. Tarkwith Vonackle, thank you so much for your time. I'm very grateful. Goodnight and thank you again.
TV: You're most welcome, dear boy.

Ann Keen MP

I don't really do politics as a rule, now that there's as much ideological difference between the Parties as there is between Tesco and Asda. But I saw this simpering New Labour Clonette, Ann Keen, on our local TV tonight. She's Under-Secretary of State at the Dept. of Health and was answering criticism over the lack of NHS dentistry. Our area, apparently, has the worst provision of anywhere in England. Unfair, given the well-known fact that Lincolnshire people have at least the same number of teeth as anybody else, if not more.

Anyway.... it's not so much the failure of the Government to do its job properly that made me loathe her, for we're all too blase about stories of patients dying in filthy hospitals or pensioners pulling their own teeth out to bother looking up from our dinners. It was the way she denied responsibility - the pure contempt for the audience in the cynical way she brushed aside the questions without giving a toot whether anyone saw through her or not. It came across in that shameless, arrogant, loathsome, mealy-mouthed, smug, complacent, conceited, sanctimonious way that only politicians can pull off.

When it was put to her that 60% of dentists were now in the private sector, she responded that, "40% are doing a good job treating NHS patients and 28m people are receiving free treatment" - and she was proud of that. Replying to the point that only a few years ago, NHS treatment was available to everyone - she said it never was! So there we are... 32m people in this country have to get their teeth fixed privately and it's not a problem the Health Minister recognises. The bit this silly bint omits to say, is that the rest of us have paid for the service but can't get served. It'd be interesting to see how she'd react if she'd queued up at Luton Airport only for easyJet to tell her the first 40% of passengers had got on the plane but it was now full up and she could whistle for a refund.

However bad things get, politicians will chew their arms off before admitting even a chink of criticism through their armour, no wonder they're despised and distrusted. It used to be granite-jawed Soviets who would whitewash the truth on the other side of the Iron Curtain, now it's our very own home-grown chubby-cheeked New Labour aparatchiks, like her. Perception has replaced truth for this Government. So many lies have been told that another can be uttered without hesitation or embarrassment. No conscience, no admissions. Ann Keen no longer needs to know the facts, only what the people need to hear.

Actually, I shouldn't imagine Ann Keen MP does have much of a problem herself. She's got her £91,000 ministerial pay to fall back on. Plus, she's married to 70 year old Alan Keen MP who, despite not having spoken in a single debate last year and asking just one Question, still pulls in a £60,000 parliamentary salary. Or, they could dip into some of the £250,000 they claim between them in expenses. Yes indeed, one might ask whether the £400,000 a year these two cost the nation might be better spent on bringing a few Hungarian dentists over.

Ann Keen was a District Nurse before entering Parliament - an honest trade but hardly worthy of a promotion to Government office, although it could come in handy. I suspect that her rise has more to do with her brown-nosing talents and reliability in toeing the Party line than any organisational ability or relevant experience, though. I expect the Civil Servants do most of her job for her and the rest consists of saying what she's told to say. Fits in well, then.

Anyway... if you came to this page via Google and have any dirt on Ann Keen let me know, email me if you like.

Away Day

The 10.11 from Wainfleet to Grantham echoes a more leisurely era. It trundles gently through the flatlands and scattered villages; a carriage almost to yourself, calling here and there to pick up a handful of rustics - I dare say if you stood beside the track and waved a white hankie, the driver would stop the train and get out of his cab to help you aboard. I can't remember the last time I traveled like this, but it's actually quite pleasant, as long as you've got plenty of time. I gave myself 20 minutes from leaving home to catch it, spent another 10 on the windswept platform and 15 after that, we were passing the end of our lane and I could see my house. I should think if I'd set off in my car in the first place, I'd have been about half way to Grantham by then. Such is the inconvenience of public transport and why the enviro-fascists can't get anybody to use it when there's an alternative. But anyway, eventually we got there and waited for the connection to Kings Cross. This was even better - I've no idea why people complain about it - it thunders along at 100mph, they bring you a cup of complimentary coffee and a biscuit, give you a newspaper and it arrives bang on time. So in other words, what I'm saying is; when I got to London, I was still perfectly happy and normal and in relaxed Lincolnshire mode. Completely unfitted for what hits you there.

God it's horrible.

There's a distant and demented look etched into people's faces. It's as if they have to be somewhere else in their minds in order to cope with the unbearable stress of it all. Nobody can wait a split second longer than they're used to doing - on stairs, escalators, ticket barriers, platforms. They sit (if they're lucky) on the Tube, grimly gripping the precious strip of bench with their buttocks, as if it's the last lifebelt in a terrible shipwreck. They don't look at anything or make eye contact with anybody - everything has to be seen out of peripheral vision as they stare blankly forward with halibut eyes. When you arrive at Piccadilly or wherever, you can't get off before the new arrivals force their way on unless you're as ruthless and determined as they are. If you do manage it, don't pause to look for the exit because the irresistible human tide will pick you up and sweep you along. Back at street level, it's just as bewildering and frenzied, especially in coffee shops that sell stuff you've never heard of and you get shunted down the queue while you're struggling to understand the menu (how strange that it's possible to order a coffee in most European languages on the Continent but that same knowledge is useless in London).

It's a rum thing, this sense of alienation - to be expected abroad in places like the Rif Mountains or the Gobi Desert, but something more of a shock when it's in one's own country - and I was surprised at how strongly I resented it. Worse than differences based on age, say, or income or gender. Not even being lost and alone in a gay nightclub in Bolton could be more unsettling. No doubt Londoners would take time to adjust up here, too, where the nearest traffic light is 15 miles away and you can't go for a haircut or to the doctors or for an illicit assignation without bumping into a neighbour. It means you can't live in the protective shell that slowly encrusts people in the overcrowded cities. I lived down there for a while, yonks ago, and was oblivious to it. Was part of it, probably. Maybe it's changed. But more likely, it's me.

West End Wonder

Boeing Boeing at the Comedy is miraculous farce. It made me heave with laughter. The cast is sensational - Jennifer Ellison was a revelation, so was Elena Roger, well they all were - and the whole experience of seeing something done as well as it's possible to do can't fail to lift the spirits.

The mechanics of the plot - a Parisian architect simultaneously engaged to three air-hostesses - contains all the jokes that can (and are) wrung out of it in a production that, despite the age of the script, sounds as fresh as a daisy. Not, of course, that humour rooted in sixties attitudes towards the sexes and national stereotypes would disturb me, of all people, but it's interesting to see how well it works on audiences in the more PC times we live in now. Probably this is due to the strength given to the female roles, who are shown looking rather pityingly on the mens' plight as the plot unwinds to its predictably inevitable conclusion of all three fiances being in the apartment at the same time.

It's a satisfyingly familiar set - a panelled, white-painted semi-circle with plenty of doors for people to rush in and out of and hide behind. Even the Barcelona Chairs are in on the joke. Mood music comes from French cover-versions of contemporary pop favourites, so there's even the bonus of the Gallic inability to do rock and roll to have a smug chortle over, as well.

The West End theatre scene is a National Treasure. It should be on the NHS. Shame this is yet another revival, though. It seems that only shows with a hoary pedigree run long enough to make their angels a return on their money. With Sound of Music, Grease and Joseph pulling the punters in on the back of cringe-making telly; Fiddler, Cabaret and Buddy clocking up over 100 years between them; the movie spin-offs and the Juke Box musicals - all-new and original clearly isn't box-office any more. Never mind. Nothing wrong with nostalgia. This show is bound to tour... a must see.