A post that got a bit misunderstood some time later on…

UK TV Review alert. International readers might want to scroll down to the amusing story where I forgot my keys.

Celebrity name drop number 0001 in a series of 47325

It pains me to write this. When I last appeared on stage in a professional capacity with Frank Skinner, he went down very well. In fact the audience were quite taken with both of us.

He performed (from memory) ‘Girl you’ll be a Woman Now’, and I performed ‘Massachusetts’. I believe the support acts did ‘Country Roads’ and ‘I will Survive’ amongst others.

So I had such high hopes for ‘Shane’.

No. Scrub that. I had really, really low hopes. But – you know – Frank’s a funny guy. And ‘Blue Heaven’ was superb, even though it died a death. You remember ‘Blue Heaven’. Surely.

I am not a religious man. But for better or worse I base my life around a few moral certainties. And the foremost of those is: never watch any form of comedy programme that is broadcast on ITV between 10 and 10.30pm.

But I laughed all the way through it. All the way. But in an odd sort of way.

Occasionally, when I’m very drunk, I play the piano. One-finger job. This is the cue for the LTLP to cover her eyes in embarrassment, spit phrases such as ‘for God’s sake’ under her breath, apologise to the other diners, etc.

The thing is, I can’t play the piano. I play the guitar. But what I do is quite clever. I look at the pressy-downy things on the piano (mainly the white ones, apart from the B-flat) and work out which corresponds to each string. I am transcribing, dear reader. Quite a skill.

And so it was with ‘Shane’. I laughed all the way through it because I was able to transcribe the whole thing back to the original script, discarding the bollocks, crap, dog-turdish, hamfisted, fiasco that was the production.

And the script wasn’t that bad at all. The ‘bummer’ joke was lousy, granted, and it was really just an extended stand-up routine. What it needed was a bit of editing by someone that knows about these things, but I haven’t spoken to Frank much lately and I guess he knew I’d been busy with the blog.

The problem stemmed from the sheer EFFORT they’d gone to to make it shit!

Exhibit one: Frank Skinner isn’t an actor. We know this. His acting is his stand-up persona, but moving about, with other people in shot. And this wouldn’t be a problem, if it wasn’t for…

Exhibit two: The Laugh Track. Cringing, skin-crawling embarrassment of wanting to be dead at the sheer artificiality of it.

Exhibit three: The wisecracking kid. Admittedly probably a script fault. They don’t exist, and emphasise the artificiality of sitcom. Memo to self: delete wisecracking kid from forthcoming script based on handsome and witty blogger who holds the world in his thrall from small Norfolk village.

Frank, if you’re reading this, give me a bell. There was definitely a synergy between us. Let’s put that understanding to work.

Charrington’s Bi-Centenary Ale

I found a bottle of beer. Charrington’s ‘Bi-Centenary Ale’. It must have been granddad’s.

My grandmother has moved into sheltered accommodation, and we’ve been clearing out her place. There is a certain type of china that is only ever found in old ladies’ houses and, boy, I now have plenty to spare.

Finding the beer was a bit of a shock. Granddad passed away twenty-five years ago, for a start, and this had been sitting on a shelf undisturbed and unopened since then. When you also take into account that the bi-centenary of Charrington’s brewery was, in fact, in 1957, this gives you one hell of a historic pint.

It’s miraculous it survived. Not that it didn’t get chucked away or knocked over or whatever, but… well – to put it tactfully – I get the impression that bottles of beer didn’t stay unopened around my granddad for long.

He was an interesting character. A granddad less like the popular Clive Dunn model would be difficult to find. Although I do think the song and TV show would have been improved immensely, had it been performed by a hearty, robust, red-faced Australian. With two false legs.

People say I look a bit like granddad, and I’m not sure how to take that.

Anyway, I took the bottle of beer. I thought I’d bring it back here, and drink a toast to him. I’d then keep the bottle as an ornament. I didn’t particularly expect the beer to be drinkable, but I was interested to see.

It would have been very moving, had the bottle not emptied itself all over the boot on the journey home.

Forty-seven years that bottle lasted intact. Now my car stinks of yeast.

Fishmonger!

Fishmonger!! I am indebted to Peter for ‘fishmonger’, which would have saved a whole lot of trouble from the word go. It’s one of those words that doesn’t get used much these days, and I feel that it’s part of our collective duty to cherish such phrases and to keep them alive. Although I won’t get much chance to contribute personally, being that the fish shop has… oh well, never mind.

So I stomped in yesterday evening, wishing that I’d gone for my third transport option – quicker, cheaper and more reliable. That is, to position myself outside the house with my briefcase and newspaper and wait for continental drift to carry me gradually South, until Norfolk was situated just adjacent to Surrey and I could do the whole journey in a brief stroll.

The real problem with transport in this country is not slowness, or even cost. It’s the fact that it’s just so teeth-grittingly unreliable. Train X might well be scheduled to get you to your Terribly Important Meeting on time, but to be safe you have to catch the one an hour beforehand. Likewise, it might take you an hour to get across the QE Bridge and round the M25, or it might take you three.

See. I told you this would be boring.

So, with apologies to the enthusiastic man from NASA, I find myself completely unable to get worked up about their new Scram Jet. Frankly, I just can’t get excited about being able to reach New York in seven seconds if I’ve just endured a four hour crawl to Heathrow Airport and a further three at check in being strip-searched for hidden toenail clippers.

And – forgive my cynicism – but there is just a teeny-weeny suspicion that the technology might go to the military before it’s passed on to the likes of EasyJet.

I check the website of Norwich International Airport, and as far as I can see they have no immediate plans to introduce scram jets on their flights. For the time being, I will stick with long weekends in Britain.

Commuting to Surrey

I have a Terribly Important Meeting tomorrow.

It’s been arranged for 10.30am, in Surrey. Which might seem reasonable to some, but from my point of view it may as well be taking place on Mars.

I have two options as to how to get there.

Get in the car, drive down through the Fens praying not to encounter any beet lorry convoys or eighty year-old caravanners, skirt the Cambridge rush hour, down onto the M25 to hit the traffic, brave the bridge at Dartford then motor round the stockbroker belt with an AA street atlas balanced on my knees whilst simultaneously trying to scan for street names, talk on the hands-free and change CDs on the stereo.

Remortgage the house and send the LTLP out to work the streets. This would enable me to buy a train ticket. Then I could drive twenty miles to the nearest station, and trust that the long BR journey/two tubes/short BR journey will pass with no problems whatsoever. Get a cab. Then reverse the process, but in the evening rush hour.

There is nothing – nothing – more boring than listen to peoples’ detailed moans about their travel nightmares. Therefore, in anticipation, I suggest you skip Tuesday’s post, and we’ll return to amusing anecdotes and stuff on Wednesday.

A final word of clarification on the last post, following on from a couple of emails:

‘Chippy’ = place where they sell pre-prepared meals, for immediate consumption. Still open, thank goodness.

‘Fish Shop’ = place where you source raw ingredients to cook yourself. Like a greengrocer’s. But with fish.