As my regulars know, I love an old-fashioned whodunnit. I’m still grieving over the loss of Vera. I’ll get over it eventually, as the pain fades with time. Besides, I can always rekindle my ardour by watching the repeats on a loop. My fondness for crime shows may stem from my brief but passionate dalliance with a cute detective sergeant from Greater Manchester Police many moons ago. Our eyes met across a smoky gay bar on Gran Canaria. But that’s another story.
However, one must-have aspect of a murder mystery has always baffled me. Those mugshots pinned to the incident board. Where the hell do the bobbies in blue get them from? It’s not like the prime suspect is likely to pop their best swipe right pic in the post with a note attached saying It’s a fair cop, guv’nor. It’s the biggest mystery of all.
Ours is a quiet little village where little happens except for occasional (but mercifully rare) low-level anti-social behaviour – like bored teens on the wacky baccy and cheap cider mucking about down by the river.
But there’s one misdemeanour guaranteed to get everyone’s blood boiling – dog poo.
Man’s (and woman’s) best friend is big business round these parts, as evidenced by the constant procession of dog walkers passing by our gate during daylight hours. It’s like a pooch beauty pageant at Crufts. That’s what we get for living on the Wherryman’s Way*, just crapping distance from the River Chet. I sometimes think some Norfolk people care more for their animals than the fruit of their loins. That’s country folk for you.
The Wherryman’s Way by the River Chet
Most owners pick up after their charges and dispose of the doggy doings in the various poo bins scattered about the place. Woe betide anyone leaving it steaming by the wayside. Getting caught short risks a verbal onslaught. Making a quick getaway risks being named and shamed online.
Bizarrely, some folk take the trouble to pick up the poo and place it in a plastic bag but then hang the bloody thing on a tree branch like a Christmas bauble. Why? Beats me. As they say up North, “There’s nowt as queer as folk”.
*The Wherryman’s Way is a 37-mile long walking trail that meanders from Norwich to the coast at Great Yarmouth.
Spring is springing, bulbs are sprouting, the sap is rising and mating season is in full swing. The dawn squawk is dominated by flirty birds in the mood for a little lovin’, and love nests are being adorned with clumps of moss ripped from our cottage roof. I guess our feathered friends are doing us a favour, but it’s hard to appreciate that while I’m sweeping up the downy green slime-bombs carelessly dropped all over our front yard.
And after a five-year gap, the moles are back once more to slaughter worms and decimate our lawn. There are reckoned to be as many as 40 million moles in the UK, and judging by the mini-mountains of mole hills poking up through every patch of open ground hereabouts, it seems like most of ’em live in Norfolk. We’ve been tracking their relentless march beneath the nearby playground and our neighbours’ gardens, and now the tell-tale signs of excavation have appeared along one of our garden fences.
Last time, I counter-attacked with organic repellent and coffee grains. This time, I’ve gone all hi-tech with a German-engineered sonic spike. Apparently, moles are virtually blind and extremely sensitive to sound and vibrations. The spike emits sonic pulses and a high-pitched buzz to piss off the pesky pests.
The jury’s out on whether these fancy devices actually work, but so far so good. We’re keeping everything crossed. Come a summer sizzler and sunny wine time, we don’t want the BBQ toppling into a mole hole and sending under-cooked bangers rolling off the grill.
We binge-watched the third and final series of Big Boys on Channel 4, having been hooked from the very first episode of series 1. A semi-autobiographical account of the university years of writer and comedian Jack Rooke, Big Boys follows his journey from freshers’ week to graduation. As if coping with teenage angst and social awkwardness isn’t enough, Jack is also dealing with the agony of his father’s tragic death from cancer and exploring his own sexuality. The real Jack is both writer and narrator.
BAFTA nominated and featuring a rich tapestry of vivid characters, the sad-happy comedy deftly weaves together challenging themes of grief, coming of age, mental health, suicide and sexuality with a beautifully light touch, making us belly laugh one minute and well up the next. It’s rude, lewd and pulls few punches.
Jack’s touching relationship with his mother is one of the show’s many incredible highlights. Here’s a small taste from series 1. His coming-out confession halfway through the clip gets me every time. Because, sometimes, big boys do cry.
It’s been nearly a quarter of a century since Renee Zellweger first climbed into her big knickers and staggered across our screens as the hapless, plonk-swigging, accident-prone Bridget Jones looking for love. And I’ve been with her every misstep along the way. By episode three, Bridget finally got her man – spontaneous standing ovation and massive round of applause – only to find him snatched away by this fourth and final instalment, Bridget Jones, Mad About the Boy.
Now a widow and single parent of two, Bridget hides her crippling grief behind a brave face for the sake of the kids and her own sanity. Staring at a future alone, she dips a reluctant toe into the dating pool all over again.
With more pathos and less slapstick this time round, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house – because we all want Bridget to get a second chance at a happy ever after.
As before, Rene, the Oscar-laden, mega-talented Texan, delivers the best home counties accent since Gwyneth Paltrow in Shakespeare in Love. And the excellent supporting cast, many of whom have been by Bridget’s side from the very beginning, is crowned by a fantastic turn by Hugh Grant as the scoundrel Daniel Cleaver. Like a good wine, Hugh Grant just gets better with age.
Here’s the trailer…
Some people are a bit sniffy about Bridget, but as Sarah Carson wrote in the I Paper,
I pity the Philistines who do not adore Bridget Jones. How joyless their lives must be, how poor and lonely, not to find in her diaries solace and wisdom and some of the most shrewd understanding of people and society since Jane Austen.
Ok, a tad harsh, but I see her point.
For me, the joyful reunion with Bridget was like catching up with an old pal over a drink or three.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Drama and performance can really help young minds build important life skills. But make no mistake, it takes guts and gumption to strut your stuff on stage in front of a bunch of strangers.
Hobart High School have a proud history of giving us the old razzle dazzle with a feast of young talent. This year’s offering – Shrek, the Musical, a fantastic tale of love conquering all from a kingdom far, far away – was up there with the best of ’em. How apt it was that we saw it on Valentine’s Day.
We knew some of the young cast. Jas and Benny were splendid. And a very special mention must go to Rory in the title role. He strutted his stuff with huge confidence, enthusiasm and the most convincing Scottish accent this side of Dundee. Well done, Rory.
Back in 2016, the people at Displaced Nation asked me and a few others about the election of Donald Trump. Now that MAGAmouth has his dainty little hands on the keys to the White House once again, I’ve been looking back at my reaction. This was my take at the time…
I first heard about Donald Trump’s victory on the morning news here in Britain. It was a wake-up call, but after Brexit, not entirely unexpected. I think we all know that both outcomes are a symptom of something deeper and more socially corrosive. There are a lot of people out there who feel marooned in poverty with little hope of rescue, including members of my own family. So it was okay to bail out the bankers but not the steelworkers? Really? If I was a praying man, I’d be on my knees hoping that Trump will be less incendiary in office than he has been on the podium, but I wouldn’t bet my shirt on it. Stoking up the darkest fears of those at the bottom of the heap is what got him elected. How a man born to enormous privilege can possibly understand the worries of the common man or woman is beyond me. But then I don’t understand the appeal of former merchant banker Nigel Farage, either.
So here we go again, another white knuckle ride on the magic roundabout of make-believe with Don the Con. But this time a posse of kiss-his-arse social media moguls and assorted tax-dodging billionaires are hanging on to his coat-tails. I wonder why?
Neither I nor him indoors are that keen on classic Hollywood-style musicals. We tend to go for something a bit more contemporary. But when we saw the all-round talent that is Alex Green taking centre-stage as the poster boy for Singin’ in the Rain, one of MGM’s most iconic musicals, we thought, why not?
The Norfolk and Norwich Operatic Society chose the musical for their centenary production, and the run at Norwich’s Theatre Royal was more or less sold out. As is our habit, we chose a matinee and joined our fellow grey tops on their day out. I’ve never seen the entire film, just the more famous dance highlights, so I wasn’t familiar with the story. What I did know is that famous Hollywood hoofer Gene Kelly was horribly mean to his co-star, the late, great Debbie Reynolds, who was only 19 at the time and new to the dancing lark. Kelly bullied her until her feet bled. It’s the stuff of Hollywood legend.
Getting the gist of the story wasn’t helped by the punter sitting in front of me, with the biggest head since King Kong fell for Fay Wray. I missed most of the action stage left. So much so that Liam and I swapped seats for Act Two – him being taller. A stiff drink got me through it.
What I did see was terrific. Alex Green was joined by an equally gifted cast who really gave us the old razzle dazzle in spectacular style. The famous Singin’ in the Rain sequence was particularly impressive, with Alex Green in the Gene Kelly role splashing across the front of the stage as water showered from above. He got soaked. The front few rows got a bit wet too – I’m guessing the punters were pre-warned.
We also loved the reprise featuring a funkier version – both in song and dance – of the Singin’ in the Rain number by the full ensemble. A great modern touch.
Image courtesy of the NNOS Facebook page
And I’m pleased to write that, in the end, King Kong didn’t spoil the show.
From time to time the odd genuine email drops into my spam folder by mistake, so I check it regularly. Spam-wise, I get targeted with a load of old crap. We all do – it’s the price we pay for being plugged in and switched on. They’re a mixed economy, often amusing and frequently daft. If I wanted Viagra, I’d buy it over the counter from Boots. And why would I need dodgy cut-price US car insurance or bargain-bucket bullets?
Sometimes, though, my scam spam turns more threatening. Recently, some pond life with terrible, often pompous, English calling himself ‘Fergus Bateman’ claimed to have hacked into my devices. Allegedly, he’d been monitoring my activity.
Fergus wrote…
“I found that you’ve been a frequent patron to erotic websites. It seems you have quite a bold side when it comes to finding satisfaction through these platforms.”
And that he’s…
“… come across some adult recordings featuring you, displaying intimate interactions I have that you might not want publicly shared.”
Erotic websites? My bold side? Intimate interactions? Oh no, has Fergus uncovered my saucy seventies Polaroids? And, he says he’s also stolen my address book and social media IDs so I’d better pay him the ‘trivial amount’ of $12,000 within 24 hours* or else.
Twelve grand? Trivial?
Well, Fergus, the bedroom blackmailer, social misfit and all round shit with your silly big words like ‘cognizant’ (US spelling) and ‘elucidate’, extortion may be the name of your game but the only money game I play is Monopoly.
So do your worst. Or better still, get a job.
All joking aside, there’s a serious point to all this. Scammers scam just like muggers mug because there’s money in it. Online or on the streets, theft is as old as the hills. And with social media becoming increasingly toxic, who knows who the good guys are anymore? Maybe it’s time to unplug and switch off?
*Of course, the 24 hour deadline came and went and still no one’s had the dubious pleasure of seeing my wee willy on screen. But I do sometimes wonder what happened to those old Polaroids.
Despite having had both the COVID and flu jabs, from the end of November I’ve endured a never-ending stream of colds which have all merged into one long snot-fest not seen since I was a nipper. And to add to my misery, the start of meteorological winter gave me a nasty rasping cough that kept us both awake with my constant hacking. Why are these things always worse at night?
My dreaded lurgy subsided a little over the festive period – I think over-indulgence of the Devil’s brew masked the pain – only to re-emerge as an ear infection earlier this month. ‘Winter pressures’ as they’re called in the trade, always put a huge strain on health services at this time of year but, according to those in the know, hospitals are fuller than normal at the moment, particularly with grey tops like us.
My sore ear needed more than just a couple of paracetamol so off I trudged to the quack. The practice nurse had her own theory about why coughs and sneezes are worse this winter. COVID’s back in town, she thinks, newly minted. Not so deadly but still dangerous.
Just when you thought it was safe to bin those bleedin’ face masks.
Perking the Pansies 