Betty's Utility Room

Stuff on the evil lantern in the corner again. I watch it so that you don't have to watch me watching it.

TORY! TORY! TORY! - The concluding part (I have missed out the middle bit, you'll be glad to know). Of course the 1984 miner's strike is detailed and once again the pause button is pressed on frequent occasions as we go off at tangents with half-drunken anti-Thatcher rants.

I get particularly annoyed with Government Special Advisor Tim Bell, who suggests the miners had it easy because they could appeal to the public's emotions ("these brave and noble men, salts of the earth, sending canaries down mines ahead of them to test the gas, cut from the same cloth as the men in the First World War trenches", or words to that effect).

Oh, that would be men like my granddad, who died because his lungs were corroded with coal dust, or my dad who gave up working in the mines because he broke a leg in a pit accident, narrowly avoiding an amputation and having to spend 6 months convalescing.

What a brave and noble man you are, Mr Bell.

THE CHATTERLEY AFFAIR - A drama about the Lady Chatterley's Lover trial. When I say that it is an Andrew Davies adaptation you will immediately know that there will be a lot of shagging taking place. Two jurors - a posh bint and an working class thickie - end up cavorting with each other to mirror the plot of D. H. Lawrence's novel. No stereotyping of people because of social class takes place, honestly. A work of fiction, wouldn't you know. Haven't seen the end yet.

Meanwhile ...

Everyone should love EVERYONE HATES CHRIS.

I would also recommend CHAPPELLE'S SHOW, even if it is on one of those obscure channels called something like XZW + 1 Hour, and is only about 18 minutes long. I particularly liked Eddie Murphy's brother's reminiscences about his entourage playing basketball with Prince and The Revolution, who played in full Purple Rain regalia and trounced them.

I have been watching the nightly repeats of GREEN WING, because it is compulsory to do this if you are a blogger. It may actually be the blogging equivalent of National Service. We had to hit the pause button after seeing the bloke who looks like Peter Shilton, so that we could have a discussion of why Peter Shilton appeared in the Sunday papers after being found doing something untoward in a car.

Me: "Was he having it away with someone he wasn't married to?"

Husband: "No, he was caught using a Bullworker".

Watching Green Wing has been very character building, and I intend to write a Green Wing dissertation at some point in the near future.

Finally ...

A television dream from last night. I volunteer to be interviewed by Channel 4 who want to do research into people who watch The Sopranos. The woman interviewing me begins by asking me to highlight the best bits of each series.

I am completely stumped. I've forgotten anything that happened and have literally lost the plot. I'm even trying to remember what happened in each series for about 15 minutes after I wake up. It has been bugging me all day, actually.

I wouldn't watch the telly if I was you.

VERY LATE AMENDMENT: Everyone should love EveryBODY Hates Chris actually. I had even checked the bloody Guardian to make sure and THEY had got it wrong.

*kicks telly*

Look, I have to do the occasional music post. Go away, do something more useful. The oven needs cleaning. The dressing on your wound needs changing. The mattress needs to be turned over.

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Thanks must go out to the luverlee RLC, even though it's unlikely that she's reading this as she tends to do much more interesting things with her time. Anyway, she has been giving stuff away and I recently received the CD A Darker Bloom by the Blue Orchids, which is a compilation of their early work.

I've got most of this stuff on vinyl and drag out their classic 1982 album The Greatest Hit (Money Mountain) every so often. It was a huge favourite when I was too poor to buy many records, so the records I DID buy meant a lot to me. Martin Bramah is a disgruntled ex-Fall member (disgruntled ex-Fall members could probably fill the stands of a small football stadium) and it seems that he has sporadically produced albums under the Blue Orchids banner over the years that I wasn't aware of. Even the more recent stuff I've listened to here sounds pretty good, but I'd recommend you hear the track A Year With No Head first.

I have difficulty explaining why their slightly off-kilter, mystical songs are so wonderful without sounding like a complete arsehole so I can only state that they are among a handful of great overlooked bands who should have had more recognition in the 1980's.

It was only this week that I worked out why I love The Very Best Of Herb Alpert so much. I'm pretty sure that a cassette of the man Herb's hits was played on the coach which took us on our annual holiday to Colwyn Bay in North Wales each year from the late 60's to early 70's.

Stop taking the piss. Ours was a poor family and visiting Colwyn Bay was the nearest I got to achieving happiness before I reached the age of 8 and my IQ hit the double figures mark. I bung on this CD and I can already sense the anticipation of the sun, the sand, the jelly shoes, the horrible phlegm coloured jellyfish and the flavourless ice cream with unpleasant chips of ice in it. By the time I get to the track Zorba The Greek I've virtually dizzy with excitement, even if I'm doing the washing up.

Herb had a bigbig hit with the song This Guy's In Love With You. His flat singing would give Martin Bramah of the Blue Orchids a run for his money. The "video" to promote it is a classic of the genre, as Herb walks down a moody beach with the moody waves crashing behind him in a symbolic manner. He also takes a stroll with his woman through some sort of orchard on a hot sunny day. The air looks so heavy with pollen that it brings my hayfever on. I shall see if it's up on youtube.com at some point.

The coach driver was a gaunt man with blond corkscrew hair who used to wear gold winklepicker shoes every year. I wonder if he has his own blog?

It's officially the beginning of British Summer Time this weekend, so I feel dutybound to commemorate the fact by putting up a picture of some hares boxing in the seasonal style.

I once saw a mounted pair in the natural history section of a museum. They appeared to be doing the jitterbug or the lindy hop, or some other such 1940's craze which made the nation's dancefloors quake, or, in extreme cases, cave in.

Perhaps there should've been a soundtrack playing in the background.

Glen Miller's seminal String Of Pearls might have been an ideal choice, or the track which in this house is known as Transylvania 65-000.

Time to kick out the winter jams, as I believe the MC5 once advised us to do.

I'm feeling a bit left out of things because every other blogger in the world is either moving house, putting up their 9000th post or celebrating their birthday.

I have got nothing to celebrate. Not that I really mark occasions in any sort of way. I have to keep reminding myself if it's my birthday and I'm not organised enough to remember if there is a significant landmark date in my life.

Besides which, as everyone knows, this is a cold, austere blog and I don't give much away about myself. There is no warmth here, no group hugging. No birds do sing.

Mind you, two, like, really significant things happened yesterday in connection with this blog ...

I got my first abusive comment. I sent an overlong, sarky abusive comment back because I was in a grumpy mood. Waste of time really, isn't it? Like the proverbial two bald men fighting over a comb.

Also, I got the highest number of visitors to my site. Let's be honest here, this wasn't because of loads of enthusiastic new readers who have seen the light. I know this blog is of minor passing interest to most people in the (ahem) "middle class blogging demographic" and I have found my steady audience of 3 ranting drunk men and an elderly dog whose back legs are going. This blog is like one of those awful, interminable support bands who someone is throwing bottles at before the main act comes on, and they haven't been allowed to soundcheck and the big band has put all their gear up leaving the support band about 6 inches at the front of the stage for their stuff.

The reason for the personal best record is that I got huge numbers of search entries along the lines of "Adam Rickett anorexia", or, in the case of one very concerned person, "Adam Rickett is sick he looks ill".

If anyone knows if the rumours about Adam (real spelling - Rickitt) are true, please tell me. I did a search and it sent me back here.

I hope he's okay. The incredible acting skills he demonstrated on Coronation Street used to have me rolling around on the floor with mirth and he intends to become a Tory MP, which is even funnier. Get well soon, Adam. We all need more laughter in our life.

Last week, the husband kept whistling a familiar tune. I'm sure I recognised it as being Something From The 1960's which possibly featured someone singing in Japanese. The husband recognised it as being Something Off A Reggae Compilation. Presumably it was a cover of the 1960's track with the Japanese vocal. As it must have been on one of his vast number of Fifty Quid Bloke reggae compilations, a trawl through each track with an Eastern-sounding name began.

Against all the odds, he managed to find out that the track was by the not-that-obscure Augustus Pablo, and was called Suki Yaki. Thing is, the track credits the writer as Mr Pablo, which threw a spanner in the works, I can tell you.

Now, I've not got anything against Mr Pablo, whose sprightly music is an ideal accompaniment to cleaning the bath or doing a spot of ironing (passing the bong isn't really a frequent activity around ours unless the in-laws pop in). I also don't like to speak ill of the dead, but I'm sure he nicked the melody wholesale from somewhere else.

I'm almost certain the song was one of those that accrued Jimmy Saville about 30 million points on the Old Record Club, for the title AND the artist. Blimey. It did even better for Sir Jim than A Walk In The Black Forest by Horst Jankowski.

For some reason, I think it may have coincided with the 1964 Tokyo Olympics, but I can't be absolutely sure. Anyone who could help with further information would really put my mind at rest.

Come to think of it, the only person reading who is likely to have even the vaguest shred of an idea is a lurker on this blog, goth/eco-warrior Grunhaus. That is, unless awful former disc jockey Mike "275 and 285" Read or Sir Lord Tim Rice read the blog, in which case I really would feel depressed.

With reference to Capote (see previous post), I won't bore you with the details but would recommend seeing it. Look, it only takes about three quarters of an hour to get used to Philip Seymour Hoffman's voice. Well, actually, it annoys you for all of the film but you learn to put up with it. I've read In Cold Blood but haven't studied the life of Truman Capote and have never heard him speak. If Hoffman's voice was spot on in the film, I'm surprised that he wasn't murdered by someone at one of those parties when he was holding court.

Anyway, we saw the film at the multiscreen at Bluewater shopping complex. Unfortunately, art house cinemas are in short supply around South London, and I'm sure there are a lot of middle aged blokes in black polo neck jumpers who mourn the decline of that sort of establishment, because they always lived in the hope of getting off with a lovely young film student who looked like Anna Karen and would stare meaningfully at them in the organic-produce-only cafe afterwards (in their dreams).

This is the first time I've visited Bluewater in the evening and there's something disturbing about the place. As a shopping complex during the day it's normally chocker with people buying the kind of shoes I can't afford but as the sun goes down you realise how remote and unreal it is. It's built on a former quarry and there are cliffs overlooking it which become dark, satanic and vaguely threatening at night.

Do bats live there? Or weird old hermits who come out at night to pounce on the final stray shoppers, dragging them away and hacking them to death in their caves? Now I know what happens to all those missing people who they print pictures of in local papers . . .

Or perhaps there are ghostly highwaymen . . . or packs of ferocious wild dogs . . . or wailing maidens calling you over from the other side like Kate Bush doing Wuthering Heights in a long white nightie . . .

It is definitely the sort of place where no one can hear you scream.

Not what you usually expect from the modern consumer experience, then. Instead, a reminder that we are still not unshackled from our brutal heathen past, perhaps . . .

R.I.P. Psychbloke (well, the blog rather than the bearded blogger). If any more of my "favorite" blogs disappear (this is the third in as many months, so I'm exaggerating a bit) I will have to do some useful works in the community to fill the time, and that would never do.

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Off to see the Truman Capote film later, featuring Hoffman, Philip, Seymour (a nod to Eric Morecambe and his "...and the winners are ... Porter! Dawn! Nyree!").

Don't expect an incisive Wyndham The T. style review later, though, as I will probably sleep all the way through it to make up for last night's wakefulness. I was woken from a nightmare in which a grinning Gyles Brandreth lookalike locked me in the room of a large Victorian house and started tickling me under my arms. I started screaming out in my sleep "MUMMY! HELP ME! MUMMY!"

I am 42 years old.

I've seen Michael Aspel on television recently and I don't understand it. He is 73 years old and has fought the Big C but seems to have barely changed since he was a newscaster in the 1960's. He is still what my mother would have called Rather Dishy. How much work has he had done on his face? Are gruesome face peels a part of his pre-breakfast routine, along with a 20 mile swim and some weight training? Apparently he is to appear in the Rocky Horror Show, which means that he will probably have had to have his varicose veins done if he is to carry off the black stockings and suspenders convincingly.

The age of the Rather Dishy man seems to be over. Everybody seems to be obsessed with young, cute looking people, including women (at least this is an overdue role reversal. Middle aged men have been inappropriately lusting over 17 year old girls for centuries, and indeed attempting to form relationships with them once their first marriage is on the rocks).

It has come to something when most women would suggest that George Clooney is a tasty older man. Can't see it myself - he looks like a painting of a handsome man.

Still, we all have our foibles.

Anyway, the website Are Yer Courtin'? (which is aimed at single women in the 75 plus age range) has recently polled its visitors, asking them to choose their ideal dream date who had to be "of more mature age". They are:

1. Football manager Mark Hughes (would look "very rugged in an Arran jumper" apparently),
2. Miseryguts King Mod Paul Weller
3. Former Lovejoy Ian McShane
4. Michael Aspel off Crackerjack, This Is Your Life and the Rocky Horror Show
5. Hollywood's Stewart Grainger (deceased)
6. Actor and Emmerdale star Patrick Mower
7. One time star of Hair and dirty old man Oliver Tobias
8. Ooh la la, Sacha Distel (deceased)
9. "Whisperin'" Bob Harris (he has got "a lovely voice and way about him", apparently)
10. Michael Ball of the big booming voice

Well, most of them wouldn't be among my choices, but who knows in 30 years' time . . .

We all have our foibles.

Have been told that yesterday's post was really arselicky. Phew! Better press ahead with another one so that no one else bothers to read the last one.

TORY! TORY! TORY! - BBC4


Series exploring the rise of free market enterprise and Thatcherism. The first part looked at the instigators of free market theory and credited it to some bloke who also introduced battery farming to Britain. Having served during WW2 he was terrified of Britain being under Russia's boot. After all, the introduction of the NHS was surely a sign that there was too much SOCIALISM in Britain, and before you know it there would be gulags and torture and mind control. The bloke "believed" in freedom for human beings but liked the idea of chickens being stuck in confined spaces in the dark, unable to move in anything but their own crap for the rest of their natural born. Sounds like a balanced sort of chap.

Recognition was given to a few of the politicians who believed in free market ideas, who were generally obnoxious nutters like Keith Joseph and Enoch Powell. As the programme drew to a close, Margaret Thatcher had been chosen as the Conservative leader.

We'd recorded the programme and obviously there was plenty of scope for clicking the pause button and having a good old rant. Unfortunately, we are still 70's style lefties, however much we try to cope with the modern world which has been shaped by the idea that the individual is "responsible" for themselves, must amass more and more money and shouldn't pay taxes or give a fuck about anyone else.

In a strange way, I felt a curious nostalgia for old fashioned politicians. Okay, the 1980's government was full of bullies and self made men who hated anyone who wasn't a workaholic, money obsessed lunatic, but at least you could hate them in a straightforward way. Modern policitians seem to have been assembled at a factory and programmed with huge dictionaries full of business speak soundbites. If you ever see Hazel Blears or Ruth Kelly interviewed on tv you wonder if someone is pulling the cord in their back and expect that at some point it will all go horribly wrong and one of them will say "mummy, I need feeding" or "my nappy needs changing".

CRUFTS 2006


I only turned over to this because I had the sound off and Casualty was on in the background. However, on Casualty there was a woman with a horrifically mauled leg which was vile to see. Wholesome families who see prime time programmes like this obviously must hanker after seeing loads of BLOOD, provided there is no swearing. Anyway, I turned over to BBC2 and the finalists in the toy section were strutting their stuff. Is there any point in the existence of really small dogs? Fair enough, they are easier to look after than a St. Bernard, but they're not really dogs at all, are they? Never trust any dog that gets to wear hair clips or scrunchies as if they are a toddler, or, more to the point, don't trust their owners.

The programme was presented by Ben Fogle (the posh bloke who looks like an older Prince William) and a black labrador. The choice of the labrador as co-presenter was not a good idea as it fell asleep after a bit, but was probably better than, say, Tess Daly or Natasha Kaplinsky.

Anyway, the winner was, as the husband pointed out, a dog that looked like a furball that a cat had coughed up.

As a diplomatic exercise, I think Britain should negotiate with the Chinese government to stop the practice of killing their own dogs for meat. Instead, we should export Yorkshire terriers to China to be slaughtered in their place. Why has no one thought of this before?

SMUG, GLOATING NEWS

Thank you to Russ L off of the Oh site, who mentioned me. I left a comment on his site to thank him for mentioning me, but it seems to have got lost in a traffic bottleneck somewhere along the M6. Actually, if I could add up all the time I have been stuck in traffic bottlenecks on the M6 it would amount to around 28 years. Thanks for the mention, Russ L.

Thank you to John off the Uncarved site, whose mention sent an unprecedented amount of people on to the blog on Thursday. Every one of them was a confused King Tubby fan who stayed on here for 3 seconds, but it was nice while it lasted. John probably has a curious animal magnetism and steely blue eyes like Patrick McGoohan. Thank you John.

Thank you to the other blogger who I am frankly terrified of but his post on Jimmy Pursey being better than Iggy Pop (now deleted) was one of the staggering works of art of the century. The rest of his stuff is pretty fucking amazing as well. Thank you.

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Look, I was just thanking people. I'm a very polite person, although otherwise truculent and unreliable.

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Look, if you want to punch me, can I put a gumshield in first?

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RAFAELLA CARA NEWS

Among my engine searches - RAFAELLA CARA MUSIC from someone in Egypt.

I tried to instigate a Rafaella Cara revival myself in September, but no one was interested.

I will keep on trying. Neither of you will take any notice.

Celebrity deaths often seem to occur in threes. Last week there were 3 unnaturally early deaths. Former Chelsea footballer Peter Osgood set a new precedent for attention-seeking by dying at a funeral. Comedienne Linda Smith died unexpectedly of cancer at the age of 48. Last and receiving the least coverage was Jack Wild, one time star of the musical Oliver. The reason that he received the least attention is that he followed the classic trajectory of the child star: a short-lived fame followed by obscurity and the bog standard drink problem all contributing to his eventual ill-health.

I've just been reading that Macaulay Culkin is considering quitting acting to take up sports management, spends a lot of time alone and can find no acting work whatsoever. He's also gone through a problem with drugs. Virtually all former child stars have lost their marbles, and many have never recovered them, from Judy Garland onwards.

The 1970's were littered with annoying child stars who went through their season in hell.
Lena Zavaroni went from casting a black cloud over early '70's light entertainment to a lifelong battle with anorexia.

Phil Collins appeared as a cherubic child model on knitting patterns, and ended up writing confessional songs about how he split from his last wife to replace her with a younger model, and how awful it was.

Steve Marriott of the Small Faces had started out as a child actor - the Jack Wild of mod, as it were. He ended up dying when his bed was set on fire by a "jazz cigarette" he'd forgotten to extinguish because he was so stoned.

Keith Chegwin seemed during my childhood to be ubiquitous on television, usually appearing in some aimed-at-kiddies' drama where he got to wear a purple corduroy jean jacket. He ended up getting divorced from Maggie Philbin off of Multi Coloured Swap Shop and lived in an alcoholic daze for several years. Unfortunately, after his recuperation he returned to television. As the eminently sensible Blanche off Coronation Street recently observed "you don't want to see Keith Chegwin shouting at you first thing in the morning". How can anyone who is a recovering alcoholic be so relentlessly and annoyingly upbeat?

Little Jimmy Osmond may have claimed to be a Long Haired Lover From Liverpool but who knew that the jowly Mormon was secretly shooting up smack until he was 27? Junior Showtime big cheese Glynn Poole has spent a number of years in jail for extortion, robbery, assault, drug dealing - where do you start? Even at the height of his fame there were signs that the squeaky clean image was just a front for darker forces: the song "Milly" "Molly" "Mandy", "Sweet" As "Sugar" "Candy"" contains more streetwise drug references in the title alone than, say, Happy Mondays' Squirrel And G-Man album.

Perhaps I should stress that, occasionally, child stars do go on to be relatively level headed people and may achieve a lasting fame. Even Michael Jackson managed to have a highly lucrative career for a number of years despite being on some other astral plane, possibly due to being unnaturally talented. His chickens seem to have come home to roost these days, mind. Oh, and Tucker Jenkins off Grange Hill went on to be Mark Fowler off Eastenders, then Mark Fowler in the Bill. I have seen him interviewed on the telly a few times and it has to be said he seems to be the world's least charismatic man, which may have helped him stay sane in the upside down world of celebrity.

These days there don't seem to be child stars - their appeal has faded at the same time that society has dictated that paedophiles are the BOGEYMEN of the modern age. I mean, Lena Zavaroni in those little girl dresses and ankle socks and ringlets on prime time tv these days would be a bit SICK, wouldn't it? Instead, these days pushy parents just bung their sons into a football academy where they come out at the other end stupid, spoilt and sex mad, or their daughters into the Sylvia Young School for a few years where they come out at the other end neurotic, scraggy, blonde, cultivating an eating disorder, ready to be a television presenter and marry a footballer. It's great to live in 2006, isn't it?

COMMENT


Today's comment is provided by Charles Blunt (pictured), Seventeenth Duke Of Tidworth and father of singer/songwriter/war hero James.

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Good day.

Problem with the grounds maintenance, what? Never mind - other business at hand. Have just been informed that heir apparent is making heaps of moolah out of the "swing" music nonsense. What a turn up! Rather leaves one with egg on face actually - family reputation and what have you. One feels rather in the same predicament as Duke Of Edinburgh. Pip has often confided in me about his embarrassment at youngest son's choice of career, hanging around with bally music hall types or what have you. Perhaps it is just a stage they go through. After all, Pip and Betty took to the old hand jiving nonsense at the Locarno in their youth. Could never understand the appeal of it myself. What is wrong with Elgar or a bally good military band? Stirs the blood, what?

Will be corresponding with heir apparent over familial responsibilities, re. payment of Harrow fees and the like. Problem is, our sort of person is rather left in the lurch in the modern "socialist" world. We are rather adrift and, frankly, the below stairs type is taking over. Why, we are even thinking of selling the bolthole in Monmouthshire. Granted, it is a bit of a heap these days due to neglect, and has only 48 bedrooms, but it has been in the family for generations!

Going cap in hand is not my usual approach, but we have been rather frozen out by heir apparent due to his choice of career. Heir apparent started out rather promisingly viz. army career, playing big part in annexing of valuable bits of Austro-Hungarian empire, but it has all gone to ground. Why, I was encouraged be some downstairs staff to watch a recent "television programme" in which he received some "swing music" award or another. Bally fool was wittering on about how many pretty fillies there were in the audience, AND he rather seemed to be mocking his army career. Worst of all he "sang" some blasted song about his wife being brilliant - had no idea he was fixed up! I was rather hoping to arrange a union with one of the Marquis of Bath's numerous daughters. Our kind has to stick together. I use the word "sang" in the loosest sense of the word - bleating like one of our lambing ewes would be nearer the mark.

The Duchess and I are at our wit's end. It looks as if we will be reduced to giving bally guided tours of the Hall to the great unwashed due to financial hole we are in.

Can only hope that heir apparent rushes to aid, and perhaps considers saving face with future career in diplomatic service. All seeming rather bleak at moment though.

Perhaps you would consider donating to the Save Blunt Hall Roof fund?

As can be seen here, the husband seems to get all the best engine searches for his blog.

I can't seem to compete for all the filth. Apart from the several times a day searches for Claire Nasir, Clare Nazir and Clair Nassire there's the odd smattering of stuff along these lines:

Freddie Parrot Faced
Arctic Monkeys Girlfriends
Arctic Monkeys Love Jo Wiley (the two above were obviously from the same obsessive stalker who is worried that the fat bass player is carrying on with the posho Northampton dj. Oh to be young and in love).
Living with halitosis
Eamon Holmes left ITV because (... sorry I couldn't help you with this one pet)
Roland Orzabal terrible dancer
Betty old tits (my personal favourite: a look at the other searches listed proves that there are a number of men who fantasise about old women with thread veins and shrivelled bosoms wearing vests. Very heartening as I am facing the twilight years)
Andy McCluskey OMD terrible dancer
Why water from kettles has plastic taste
Sarah Beeny naked (all because MB left a comment here saying he got engine searches for Sarah Beeny naked).
Richard Jobson terrible dancer
Freddy Parrot Face Davis dead?

I obviously need to incorporate more filth into the blog without seeming to do so. Hang on, that seems too much like hard work ...