It is unfortunate that my spring blues coincided with Mothers Day. Champagne doesn’t like me – a couple of glasses and I am tearfully depressed. Fancy lingerie? Prefer cotton. Phobic about milk chocolate and not keen on mixed bouquets of frilly flowers. Having said all that, it’s easy to make my day.
My present arrived, 6 feet 5 inches tall (same as the lead in the Icelandic series Trapped on BBC4), carrying a bag of clean clothes as he had just been to the gym. After supper, he sat me down to show me John Oliver taking Donald Drumpf apart. Thank you heaven, my son has always made me laugh.
Though this time the laugh is tinged with fear (that the Drumpf might win the US presidency) and respect (that John Oliver a bespectacled Brit can hold the hot seat of Eastern liberal media and never fumble). Now, there’s a special relationship. Do look up the link – it will make you feel better if only for a few minutes. A future with Putin in the Kremlin, Drumpf in the White House and Boris or Osborne in Number Ten sounds like the moment (as a friend suggested this morning) to hire a charabanc for Dignitas. Or read up on Exit how to make a painless end. Have you noticed that Drumpf and Boris look like cousins, aided and abetted by the slain stoat hairdo?
Mother’s Day is an excuse for a wish list , so here we go:
Could somebody she respects persuade Joan Bakewell – allegedly bright as well as sexually appealing – that telling the world AGAIN about her affair with Harold Pinter – at the time and for the rest of his life married to somebody else – just confirms her as someone you don’t want to eat with?
Let’s put Frank Skinner in the obliterator in Room 101 (BBC1). He’s the kind of man who makes you want to wash your hands. Twice.
Let’s tell George Osborne that no head for figures is a bad recommendation for Chancellor and worse for party leader. Moreover, a family business that doesn’t pay enough tax and a brother struck off as a psychiatrist for sexual misbehaviour isn’t an enhancing backdrop.
Did Julian Fellowes actively decide that he didn’t want to provide us with an upmarket Coronation Street from the second series of Downton onward? Or did he just run out of steam? Either way, self knowledge would suggest that scripts are not his strongpoint. His new offering “Dr. Thorne”
– God bless Anthony Trollope who wrote the butchered books – is full of wonderful actors but I have seen most of them before and this is a clear case of “take the cheque and run.”
Put Tom Hiddleston up for James Bond by all means. That will kill off that brand. Because the one thing we can agree about in the personification of 007 is sex appeal and Mr. H hasn’t got it.
I know we can’t and I know why (Turkey is now a buffer state between the Daesh and the west) but I wish we could tell the Turkish premier that once you start slapping peaceful demonstrators around and shutting down newspapers – even if you don’t agree with what they have to say – you wave goodbye to membership of the European Union, forget “maybe later.”
I would like the general media to understand that the “solidarity” inferred by Women’s International Day is the very opposite of a namecheck for anybody better known. (I have never known anybody who remembered the date or knew what it stood for). And if the organisers can’t get the well known to step back so the press feature “ordinary women” on a day dedicated to them, well then you know something of why the progress of women is in part so slow.
And I would like record my gratitude to Ray Tomlinson who sent the first email. Emails made it possible to acknowledge every contact in a radio programme after years of trying to get companies to provide help. I still wake up sweating over the mail I didn’t manage to reply to. New manners mean you don’t have to reply to something you don’t want to deal with so I am very grateful that the majority of people I have contact with regard email as electronic letters, worthy of response. Thank you three Johns, Nikki, Vikki, Daisy, Dan, Gina, Ginette, Gary – and all the rest. Much better now.