Maybe Bob McDowall has voodoo powers. Or maybe I was pissed. We shall never know. Both are possible explanations for how I passed out on Sunday morning, sending my full 14 stone 13 pounds crashing down on my right ankle and resulting in the accompanying picture, taken at Stroud railway station. It happened while spending a weekend visiting relatives in Gloucestershire, and such a lovely time was being had that not even the injury and the fact that Mrs Cheeseford's beloved Nissan Sunny had been declared DOA (hence the need to return by rail) could put a crimp in the festivities. I'm currently finding PRICE easy to comply with, and doing OK at avoiding H, R and M of HARM, but I reserve the right to ignore the advice on the A.
Crossing London as a temporary cripple was an interesting experience, second-guessing rude bastards with their tinny little iPod headphones blocking out the outside world, allowing them to rush about like headless chickens, oblivious to the fact that they've just nearly knocked over someone whose stopping and turning abilities are considerably less than theirs. In one case, I found myself shouting something obscene at the person who'd almost sent me flying. Oddly enough, the name I called him got through his aural insulation, and he turned round and asked if I was talking to him, in a manner that he obviously thought menacing, bless him. I said that I was and that I was glad I'd got his attention, as it might in future make him more aware of his surroundings when walking around like he owned the pavement. His response: "You can talk about walking". Choosing not to debate the meaninglessness of the utterance, I replied: "Yes, I can. And if you'd like to carry on being able to walk, I'd advise that you go on your way right now". Which he did. I'm not a violent sort, and as can be seen from the picture, I was dressed like Alec Guinness at the end of The Lavender Hill Mob. I can only put it down to the fact that I had a walking stick, and the expression of a man who knew how to shove it up someone's arse.
Monday, August 03, 2009
Apologies to the fellow blogger who added a comment about BBC producer Bob McDowall from the vantage point of having worked with him. Very illuminating, and the poster in question knows I trust his judgment, but in this instance defending it would take more time and effort than I'm prepared to expend. Since the Laycock cancellation, he has developed a reputation for stalking himself on the Internet and requesting that critical comments about his abilities be removed. That he shouldn't do things that make people want to call him what the deleted comment called him seems not to have crossed his mind. Similarly, the idea of tackling his critics head on and winning the argument with sweet reason seems not to have crossed his mind either. Maybe that's because he knows he's ballsed this one up royally.