Life On Mars came to an appropriately climactic close last week and the blogosphere was full of plaudits for John Simm's and Philip Glennister's portrayals of Sam Tyler and Gene Hunt. For me though, there was a plaudit missing: every week, Blind Beggar are credited with the role of musical advisers for the series. I cannot imagine the series without their carefully chosen, erudite, witty and pertinent musical selection; yet I can find out remarkably little about this team/business/individual. I have been waiting for a reply to an e-mail I sent to Kudos, the Life On Mars production company, their silence is ominous - if they reply I'll let you know; but my money is that they wont; because they are busy protecting what must be one of the best jobs in the world.
Picture the scene (screen fades to reveal what looks like a comfortable lounge with an Apple Mac in one corner, and a Bang and Olufsen music system filling one wall, with comfortable leather sofas strategically placed to gain the optimum musical experience from it; two casuallydressed guys in their mid forties lounge on the sofas with A4 pads and pens on their laps)
Man 1: So when is this series set? Man 2: Script says about 1985 Man 1: And they want iconic music...they gotta be kidding... Man 2: ...wait though, what about Kirsty McCall, New England? Man 1: Yeah but it's all a bit sparse isn't it? Man 2: Hmmm I think we need inspiration.... Man 1: You're right dude
(presses a remote control and a giant cupboard slides open to reveal a huge bar containing every conceivable bottled beer. The guys pop open bottles which they clink in the air as if 'high fiving')
Man 2: And now for the sounds man...
(presses another button and a Tom Bakeresque voice says: "your chosen year is 1985, enjoy..." the room erupts in sound and both men leap around as Prince's Let's Go Crazy pumps out of the precision speakers; the party hots up as Simple Minds, Don't You sets their minds racing on their new high earning project),
Man 1: Great move man! We're gonna pull off another Mars coup aren't we? Man 2: Kerching!
Scene shifts to 90 minutes later, both men now sitting leaning drunkenly together on one sofa surrounded by empty bottles and cans; they both look dejected as the sounds of Elaine Paige and Barbara Dickson's I know him so well fade into the background.
Man 1: Three chuffing tracks... Man 2: We're stuffed dude... Man 1: Chuffing eighties crap... Man 2: I'll get our coats...
Perhaps the job isn't that easy after all. Incidentally the BBC website for the series lists the songs used in each episode, but don't, like I did, click on the names expecting to hear the song, you just get more information on the artist - a page advertising Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, in the case of Alvin Stardust!
I loved the first series of the, award winning, medical drama House. I loved the irascible character played by Hugh Laurie and loved the medical accuracy of the complex diagnoses, arrived at by tortuous routes, just in the nick of time to the grateful - but unwelcome - thanks of relatives. On Thursday though, the scriptwriters let us down and treated us like idiots, here's why:
In a moment of inspiration House identified a case of scurvy on the basis that a young female patient had internal bleeding. He dashed into theatre where she was about to undergo unnecessary surgery. "Close her up." Shouts House, indicating that she was already 'open'. Why had the surgeons not noticed the fact that they could not stop her bleeding as the result of the scurvy, if she had had already had spontaneous internal bleeding?
In another miraculous moment, a patient who has been immobile and mute in a wheelchair for eight years is, again thanks to House's god-like intuition, given a large dose of Hydrocortisone which, with immediate effect, causes a resurfacing of consciousness. The grateful patient stands, admittedly with some difficulty, and hugs his family. Eight years! What muscles were left after eight years of muscle wasting? And, as if that wasn't bad enough, House mentioned to us, the gullible audience, that the patient had suffered significant muscle wasting.
Are we really that stupid? I for one will watch one more episode out of blind loyalty to the last series. If there are crass errors like this episode I'll abandon House.
Popular gardening expert and TV presenter Sarah Raven produced a lovely book called Grow Your Own Cut Flowers a while back;it's beautifully photographed and contains excellent advice - but don't be fooled by her suggestion that Briza Maxima or Greater Quaking Grass is a useful addition to your garden. It does, as she says, look lovely in a cut flower arrangement, and its tear drop shaped seed heads rattle as they waft in a gentle summer breeze; but the plant has all the charm of Uma Thurman in Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill: beautiful but deadly, the plant is a garden thug.
The reason Briza Maxima rattles so fetchingly in the breeze is that the darling little tear drop seed heads are full of seeds; the plant is a prolific self seeder and this year, due to our mild winter, it has done exactly that, all winter. The garden is covered all over in a lush green growth of Greater Quaking Grass and has taken two whole days of weeding to get rid of it.
A lesson for life: do not be fooled by superficial beauty; always look for the big sword.
I am the black sheep of our family. Born and bred in Manchester, a city divided into blue and red, by rights I should be a passionate football fan (that's soccer for US readers); my brother and father each have a season ticket to Oldham Athletic FC, our local team; I was brought up a Mancunian Blue and colleagues rave or spit bile (dependant on loyalty) about the fact that Manchester United's Old Trafford home ground dominates the view from our office.
But I don't like football. Why does that confession make me feel like a man standing up to confess his addiction for the first time at an narcotics anonymous meeting? Why do I imagine I can hear a sharp intake of breath and the incredulous exclamation "You don't like football?" as people read this. The fact is that football-fan-failure is a social handicap; Monday mornings can be hell without a modicum of knowledge; the simple task of getting a hair cut is complicated by the lack of the common social denominator of team loyalty to kick off the blokey chat; and what if your boss is a keen fan? It just won't wash to answer the question: "See the game last night?" with the response: "No, I watched a documentary that highlighted the plight of Guatemalan basket weavers faced with a depletion of reed supplies due to a rise in world water table levels."
I have developed a survival strategy over the years that might help anyone struggling to deal with the social isolation caused by football failure. It is based on my experiences of preparing short briefing papers that condense facts about key issues into understandable chunks.
Firstly we football-failures need to get over our aversion to any newspaper page bearing a number higher than forty, to scan the back pages for key facts and figures. Key points should be noted for inclusion in future conversations; once in a conversation it is the work of a moment to steer the talk to safer waters. Take this example; the only live match on proper television (not cable or satellite) on Wednesday evening was Bolton vs Arsenal, so it's almost guaranteed to crop up in conversation:
Barber: See the match last night? Me: (skilfully avoiding a lie) Good result for Arsenal Barber: Yes, but Bolton gave them a run for their money didn't they Me: They did but were outclassed in the end, Arsenal could have put two or three more away - fancy missing two penalties (note the key facts) Barber: True enough... Me: And Ben Haim getting himself sent off so late in the match was stupid. (another deft use of a match fact) Barber: Yes, a silly foul that Me: (skilfully steering the conversation) Don't you think it's that sort of cynical foul that's setting a bad example to young people? Barber: Yes it's no wonder there's so much anti-social behaviour, take the kids near where I live...(and the conversation gently glides out into the safe open waters of social decline)
As you can see, the conversation was saved by the application of only a few key football facts. This time it was only a hair cut, but next time it might be a job interview; start compiling key sporting facts now.
Incidentally, we are not in a total sporting vacuum at chez Crofty. Along with millions of others on a Friday evening we watch the TV quiz A Question of Sport. We have, however, introduced a few custom rules to our viewing. In the picture round, where competitors are expected to identify well known sporting figures, we allow ourselves a point if we can identify the sport. Similarly in the video-clip round we allow ourselves points for any pertinent fact whatsoever, this might include pointing out an interesting looking person in the crowd or the fact that the referee has a scar on his knee; I'm sure you get the idea, great fun!
I've been thinking about getting older; I mean as a subject, not a life choice. What is it that makes us older, what makes us look at someone in the street and think of them as an 'old man or woman'?.
On Thursday evenings we enjoy the Channel 4 programme Ten Years Younger. Nicky Hambleton-Jones takes some poor wrinkled wreck whom time has not treated kindly and, using a combination of expensive surgery, expensive dentistry, posh hair, costly cosmetics and cutting-edge clothes, transforms them into a much younger version of themselves.
We debate the serious issues raised by the programme and make pertinent observations like: 'I'll bet a night in bed will put a few of those years back on' and 'How many hours do you think it will take to get ready to go out now?" Actually, thinking about it, both of those pertinent comments are from me.
I'm generally of the opinion that ageing is not about appearance, but rather a diminution of our abilities and confidence in them, that does the deed. Let me use an example:
As you know I am still on crutches, unable to put any weight on my left leg. A week or so ago I watched a fabulous production of Swan Lake on television. I had forgotten why I love ballet: the incomparable combination of grace, strength and beauty. So enamoured of the whole thing was I, that I allowed my inner-idiot to have a moment's free reign.
Picture the scene: in the lounge I test my strength carrying out balletic moves, deftly balancing my weight between crutches, gently swinging between them in a graceful arc. All well and good. Then, in need of a refreshing cup of tea, I progress to the kitchen, still moving with the poise of Billy Elliot, overwhelmed by my dance muse, I repeat some of my better gymnastic moves in the open space of the kitchen. The floor is tiled, it was also slightly wet in places. Do I need to explain what happened next? My poise disappeared as I landed with a clatter of crutches. Fortunately I was alone (this is how you know I'm a man: the thing that mattered most at that moment was that nobody saw me make an arse of myself), I regained my crutches, my pride and my vertical position without fuss or pain.
Here is my point: each step I took after my fall from grace was hesitant and awkward; I didn't dare place a crutch more than a few inches ahead of me; and only when really sure, did I put my weight on it: I was walking like an old man.
We become old not when we start shaving our ears, plucking three inch hairs from our eyebrows or marvelling at hairy patches in new places (you don't do that?), but when life's knocks take their toll. My theory for being ten years younger is to be personally resilient in life: take the knocks and get over them. We don't need the fashion fascist Nicky Hambleton-Jones to go through our drawers with sneering forensic fastidiousness to look ten years younger.
I've been enjoying Alan Bennett's book Untold Stories and, because I've gone all trendy and discovered YouTube, entered 'Alan Bennett' in the search field. I found this lovely Talking Head with Patricia Routledge, it's only about ten minutes long, so get a pot of tea and enjoy!
Do you remember the music from Trumpton? After a guitar practice I was browsing for a recording of it and look what I found, watch and enjoy: Trumpton Incidentally I have a celebrity moment to share. When we were kids the family went to watch an episode of the comedy series 'It Ain't Half Hot Mum' being filmed, I sat next to the Trumpton narrator, Brian Cant in the audience, good eh?
Life On Mars came to an appropriately climactic close last week and the blogosphere was full of plaudits for John Simm's and Philip Glennister's portrayals of Sam Tyler and Gene Hunt. For me though, there was a plaudit missing: every week, Blind Beggar are credited with the role of musical advisers for the series. I cannot imagine the series without their carefully chosen, erudite, witty and pertinent musical selection; yet I can find out remarkably little about this team/business/individual. I have been waiting for a reply to an e-mail I sent to Kudos, the Life On Mars production company, their silence is ominous - if they reply I'll let you know; but my money is that they wont; because they are busy protecting what must be one of the best jobs in the world.
