Digital Economy act - the aftermath

So, the Digital Economy Bill is now the Digital Economy Act, and is part of the law of the land. What difference will it make? The main change is that more ordinary people will get wise to encryption and VPNs. Only the record industry and the technical dunderheads in favour of the bill - step forward Parliament's top Roy Cropper lookalike Stephen Timms (look at the picture, Hayley's on the front bench too) who doesn't understand IP addresses, but still feel happy to legislate on them - could have thought it would solve the problem of illegal downloading. Everything will just go further underground, and the futile attempts to pin blame on anyone will just end up costing a fortune. It's like trying to build a defence against a nuclear warhead from plywood. Have I changed my tune? Not really. Fighting the Bill and following the progress of the truncated travesty of a debate was necessary, worthwhile and, let's be frank, a big old shitload of fun. And it led thousands of technically-literate and music-loving youngsters to watch BBC Parliament for hours on end, which can only be a good thing for the future of democracy and political engagement. For every one who thought "What the fuck are those old fuckers playing at? Include me out", another will have thought "What the fuck are those old fuckers playing at? Let's get involved". Right, I'm off to download MP3s of Stephen Timms' Parliamentary speeches. Illegally. Go me.

Waveney campaign blog gets underway

Righty-ho, I've started that blog about my NOTA Protest Vote Party campaign here in sunny Waveney.

Book review: 65 - My Life So Far by Jonathan King

Having failed to get a review published in any of the periodicals to which I contribute, here's my honest appraisal of 65 - My Life So Far, the autobiography of music mogul and self-styled vile pervert Jonathan King.

*********

Show business autobiographies are usually more telling in what they omit rather than what they include. One major personality signed a friend's copy of his memoirs with “Try and believe at least some of it”. Very few who tell their life story in a book, ghosted or otherwise, present a balanced and fair picture of the subject, perhaps unsurprising in a business fuelled by ego. Bob Monkhouse's excellent Crying With Laughter is one of the very rare exceptions.

As, oddly, is 65: My Life So Far by Jonathan King, the pop world's equivalent of a disgraced bishop. King is a pariah. His records (and those of Gary Glitter) are noticeably absent from the airwaves, while those of convicted murderer Phil Spector are not. Meanwhile there's an unspoken ban on him appearing on television or radio.

So, he says, he has nothing to lose by telling the truth. However, truth is problematic, as any historian knows. An individual will remember an event one way, another individual will remember it another way. Neither version is contradictory, but there is conflict. So when King says we're getting the truth, what we're getting is King's truth. However, when read with this caveat in mind, there's a lot of value in 65 My Life So Far.

King is excellent when talking about other people and events that he witnessed as a pop personality, which account for 430-odd pages of the 583 on offer (It could be cut by about a third without losing much, and, at this length, the absence of an index is almost a criminal act in itself). Propelled into the charts while still a Cambridge undergraduate, he soon transferred to the business side of music and was on the inside track from the 1960s to the 1990s, ultimately running the Brit awards and the Eurovision Song Contest. It's tempting to assume at times that he's building up his part (he invented this, established that, saved the other from disaster, etc), but the cuttings support his claims. Moreover, he avoided drink and drugs, so his memory of it is unfogged.

He adds credence to the rumours about John Lennon's alleged bisexuality, but that's far less interesting than the stories of wheeling and dealing to get hits made and into the charts. It's also good to read more about Decca chairman Sir Edward Lewis, one of the most fascinating if underwritten figures of the music industry, who regarded King almost as an adopted son.

Perhaps the most telling story in this part of 65: My Life So Far is King's recollection of watching the Apollo 11 moonshot on TV. While others marvelled at the scientific achievement, King's main concern was, rather egotistically, with the copy of his song Everyone's Gone to the Moon that had, through various connections, been placed on the rocket. As Neil Armstrong said “A giant step for mankind”, King was to be found shouting “Enough of these platitudes for God's sake. Play my fucking record!” at the screen.

The last 150 pages deal with King's life since his arrest in 2000. The trial is covered in depth, with some details that contemporary press reports omitted to mention. One of his accusers claimed that he had been 15 when King made an advance on him, pinpointing it at the time of a particular record of King's. King denied ever meeting the lad, but also proved that the record in question had been made 4 years later, when the accuser was 19. Even if a reader isn't persuaded by King's protestations of innocence, as he hopes they might be, there's enough here to bring into question the ethics of those who brought King to book. The apparent pincer movement of police and media, with Max Clifford looming large; and the willingness to move minor details like dates around worked against him, he suggests. It may be that a trial free of these influences would have reached the same conclusions, but nobody will ever have the chance to know.

The relative values at work in the King case are interesting. King is an outcast, while Bill Wyman – who had a well-documented sexual relationship with an underage girl – is welcomed as a guest on The One Show. Is it because Wyman was a Rolling Stone, the epitome of supposed bad boy rock and roll hedonist cool, while King was a naff pop troubadour? Maybe his worst offences were merely those of making daft records and looking a bit too pleased with himself for a bit too long.

Disclosure

With the campaign fund getting to a point where my candidature will be a reality, there's something I feel I should confess, lest any of my opponents get wind of it and try to make political capital out of it. I have a criminal record. One evening in January this year, waiting on the platform at Liverpool Street station for the 9pm train back to the east coast after an all-day consultation with various friends and associates in various central London licensed premises, I was apprehended as drunk and disorderly.

Drunk I most certainly was. The first pint had been despatched by 11.45am, and I had left the last pub at 7.30pm to ensure I caught my last train home. For fear of being thought to boast about my capacity and to avoid any trouble from the anti-binge-drinking lobby, I won't reveal my conservative estimate of how much of my body mass was composed of the products of Messrs Greene King, Timothy Taylor and Fuller, Smith and Turner. However, "lapping against the back teeth" would not be far off the mark.

Disorderly? I was fully aware of how plastered I was, and so, on arrival at Liverpool Street around 8pm (my Oyster card usage shows me to have passed through Holborn tube at 7.51pm), I decided to head straight for the platform that I, as a railway bore, knew my train would leave from, and wait there, keeping well out of everybody's way. I sat on some ducting at the far end of the platform and rummaged in my bag for something to attempt to read.

At 8.05pm, I found myself surrounded by three British Transport Police officers in stab-proof vests, telling me to leave the station, as I was not fit to travel. In a sober frame of mind, I would have found this utterly illogical and baffling, but I would have had the wherewithal to challenge the assertion. Think about it. I'm not fit to travel, but I'm fit to wander around the streets of the city of London. Were they just trying to get rid of me so I'd be some other bugger's problem? In any case, leaving the station was my fervent wish, but only on the 9pm train, upon which I was planning to fall asleep and wake at my terminus station with a thumping headache and a vague worry that I'd made a tit of myself. Unfortunately, I was not in a sober frame of mind, so I told them to leave me alone. They didn't. So then, as I recall it, they tried to manhandle me out of position, a manoeuvre that involved twisting my right arm up my back. In the words of Gerard Hoffnung's bricklayer, it was at this point that I lost my presence of mind. Due to unfortunate occurrences last year, my right arm does not respond well to being forced anywhere. I turned the air blue, and found myself face first on the floor, handcuffed and being told I was being arrested. At this point, I burst out laughing. "What's so funny, sir?" asked the chief plod. "This," I replied, "It's hilarious. It's special". From then on, I became unbearable, taunting them from my prone position, asking if they'd joined the BTP because they couldn't get into the proper police. I was carried over the road to Bishopsgate police station. As we passed the front door, I asked if they were planning to take me up the tradesmen's entrance. Once inside, I asked if they could add numerous other heinous offences to the charge sheet just for fun.

From there, it was off with the tie, shoes, etc and into an overheated cell. All this was achieved by 9pm. Shamefully, it took them until after 1am and a shedload of me being tiresome through the grille before they rang my wife and assured her that I wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere. As I said on the last time I reminded them that they had to do this one thing, making me suffer was fair game, but making a blameless woman have a sleepless night was not. In the morning, I was released and told to report to Horseferry Road Magistrates Court the following week at 10am. I paid through the nose for a walk-up ticket to Lowestoft, my ticket for the previous night having been a pre-booked cheapo.

I spent the next week fretting about fine tariffs and the like, and, at the advice of a friend who has recently qualified as a lawyer (who, amusingly enough, had been drinking with me for much of the day in question), working up a statement of mitigation and completing my means form. I'm eternally indebted to Queen Margot & Let's Look Sideways for putting me up the night before I was due in front of the beak. The BTP and the CPS cocked up and nearly failed to have my case papers at the court in time. Had I not asked to see the charge sheet before going in to plead (I was going to plead guilty all along, but I wanted to know exactly what I was being asked to own up to) there's every chance the papers wouldn't have arrived and I'd have walked. The relevant documents were faxed over hurriedly ("Fax it up?" "Well, it doesn't help, your worship") and I was called in after a few hours of waiting around. The magistrate thought I should have been offered a caution, and said that he'd refer it up if I was willing to wait. As I had research work to do that afternoon and I didn't have any desire to dally in the court any longer than I had to, I said that I'd rather just get on with it. He looked at my means form. It's been a lean year, and I'd brought the bank statements to prove it. Sentence was passed. £100 fine plus £15 'victim surcharge' (why don't they just call it a £115 fine?) plus £50 costs. The night in the cells wiped out the £115, leaving me to pay just the £50. I paid up and went to the pub next door for a pint of Shepherd Neame Masterbrew and some lunch. Never has a session bitter tasted sweeter. When I rang my mum to tell her the result, she asked "Where are you now?". When I replied "In the pub next door", it was as though I'd confessed to every unsolved murder in the book. "Go straight home now," she ordered in a quivering voice. As I was booked on another 9pm cheap ticket, and I had interviews to do between now and then, I said that I couldn't, and that I was merely having something to eat and a very weak beer to wash it down. I didn't think this was the moment to remind her that until an hour before I had been the only member of our family who hadn't so much as a parking ticket to their name.

This is the bit that interests me most. The magistrate thought that it was potentially an offence warranting nothing more than a caution. Failing that, an £80 on-the-spot penalty might have been appropriate. So why did the BTP take it to court? Could it be that I was well-dressed and that, with fines being pegged to earnings, they thought I'd be good for more than £80? They don't benefit directly, but a larger fine would surely count for something in the mass of meaningless performance statistics that measure the effectiveness of our law enforcers? How were they to know that I'm a cash-strapped freelance who nonetheless has at least one nice suit?

You've had my side. Here, for reference, is the official version. I've obscured the name of the arresting officer to save him the embarrassment of being exposed as someone who can't spell the word 'twat', so let's call him PC Charles Penrose.

"JUST GET THE FUCK" should obviously read "JUST GET TO FUCK". Other minor details omitted by PC Penrose include what I shouted as they carried me up the stairs from the station onto Bishopsgate, which was "PUT ME DOWN, I CAN WALK, YOU FUCKERS". There's also the small matter of me being identified as "a male...who has been on the platform for some considerable time drinking alcohol". Firstly, I'd been on the platform no more than 5 minutes when PC Penrose and chums rolled up (My Oyster card proves this beyond doubt). Secondly, I had not been drinking alcohol at any point since arriving at the station. Thirdly, nobody from National Express approached me at any point. And if we're really quibbling, the suit was black pinstripe not grey, and I am really, truly not of slim build. PC Penrose - You carried me. You know how heavy I am.

So, people of Waveney, your protest candidate on 6 May is a drunken criminal. Judge me on my record.

Tanned, fit, rested & ready: Barfe for Waveney 2010

Well, it's looking like a goer. In only a few short hours, friends on Facebook, Twitter and Cook'd and Bomb'd have pledged donations to my election deposit fund to the tune of £344.22. With another donor pledging the final £100 when we reach £400, my candidature as the Protest Vote Party's man in Waveney for the 2010 General Election seems assured. Policy fans will notice a change of party name. This is because a law was passed in 2005, banning the use of the phrase "None of the Above" anywhere on a ballot paper. So, we (party leader Russ Swan and I, plus any other candidates who join the happy coalition before 4pm on Tuesday 20 April) are now the PVP. We will be offering a sane, rational alternative for anyone disillusioned with the big two and the slightly smaller third one. We like foreigners, we like democracy, we like representatives who represent, we don't like corruption and we don't like the clueless legislating on the complex. I will, in due course, be setting up a separate campaign blog.

Digital Economy Bill = Tesco Value politics

So, one of the most controversial and problematic pieces of legislation of the last 20 years was shunted through Parliament in 2 hours last night, without proper scrutiny and leaving 47 good parliamentarians with the distinct feeling they'd been shafted. History will be kind to you. Even David Amess. The 189 who voted in favour of the Digital Economy Bill (see below for who voted and how) might find that their decision will bite them on the arse come 6 May. I'm going to give my own MP a copy of Where Have All The Good Times Gone? with an inscription explaining that it will tell him why the record industry can't be trusted or believed, and expressing a fervent wish that he will soon have plenty of reading time to take it all in.



The site-blocking clause is particularly dangerous. It gives the Government power to block any site that contains inconvenient opinions on the basis that it also contains infringing material. If no-one in the UK can see the site, how can they tell if the Government's telling the truth or not? Also, one man's infringement is another man's fair use. As a result, Digital Britain isn't much better than Digital China.

If there's any consolation from this it's that this misguided law will be subject to another law, that of unintended consequences. The Digital Economy Bill was pushed through by people with no technical knowledge or ability whatsoever. Putting the case for the gubmint, Stephen Timms responded to a question about IP addresses in a way that made quite clear that he did not know what they were. The technical know-how is overwhelmingly on the side of those who opposed this bill. They can and, I suspect, will work out ways to make this law unworkable and unenforceable. They will prove this law to be an ass. I have the feeling that, before too long, the record companies and the politicians involved will wish they'd never bothered with the Digital Economy Bill.

Meanwhile, there could well be an alternative to the paper spoiling I outlined the other day. Fellow hack Russ Swan is getting together a coalition of protest candidates under the None of the Above Party banner. If I can scrape together the £500 for the deposit, I'm happy to be his man in Waveney. Pledges of financial support gratefully received. No donations yet, just an indication of willingness and amount.

AYES

Afriyie, Adam
Alexander, rh Mr. Douglas
Allen, Mr. Graham
Anderson, Mr. David
Austin, Mr. Ian
Bailey, Mr. Adrian
Bain, Mr. William
Baird, Vera
Barron, rh Mr. Kevin
Battle, rh John
Bayley, Hugh
Beckett, rh Margaret
Benton, Mr. Joe
Berry, Roger
Betts, Mr. Clive
Blackman, Liz
Blizzard, Mr. Bob
Bradshaw, rh Mr. Ben
Brennan, Kevin
Brown, rh Mr. Nicholas
Browne, rh Des
Bryant, Chris
Buck, Ms Karen
Butler, Ms Dawn
Byrne, rh Mr. Liam
Caborn, rh Mr. Richard
Cairns, David
Campbell, Mr. Alan
Cawsey, Mr. Ian
Chapman, Ben
Clapham, Mr. Michael
Clark, Paul
Clarke, rh Mr. Charles
Clelland, Mr. David
Clwyd, rh Ann
Coaker, Mr. Vernon
Coffey, Ann
Cohen, Harry
Connarty, Michael
Cooper, Rosie
Cooper, rh Yvette
Creagh, Mary
Cryer, Mrs. Ann
Cunningham, Mr. Jim
Cunningham, Tony
Davidson, Mr. Ian
Davies, Mr. Quentin
Dean, Mrs. Janet
Dobbin, Jim
Dobson, rh Frank
Doran, Mr. Frank
Eagle, Angela
Eagle, Maria
Efford, Clive
Ellman, Mrs. Louise
Fitzpatrick, Jim
Flint, rh Caroline
Follett, Barbara
Foster, Mr. Michael (Worcester)
Foster, Michael Jabez (Hastings and Rye)
Francis, Dr. Hywel
Gapes, Mike
Gardiner, Barry
George, rh Mr. Bruce
Gilroy, Linda
Goggins, rh Paul
Goodman, Helen
Hall, Mr. Mike
Hamilton, Mr. David
Hanson, rh Mr. David
Harman, rh Ms Harriet
Havard, Mr. Dai
Hayes, Mr. John
Healey, rh John
Henderson, Mr. Doug
Hendrick, Mr. Mark
Hesford, Stephen
Hill, rh Keith
Hillier, Meg
Hodgson, Mrs. Sharon
Hoon, rh Mr. Geoffrey
Hope, Phil
Hopkins, Kelvin
Hosie, Stewart
Humble, Mrs. Joan
Hunt, Mr. Jeremy
Hutton, rh Mr. John
Iddon, Dr. Brian
Illsley, Mr. Eric
Ingram, rh Mr. Adam
Irranca-Davies, Huw
Jackson, Glenda
James, Mrs. Siân C.
Johnson, rh Alan
Johnson, Ms Diana R.
Jones, Helen
Jones, Mr. Kevan
Jones, Mr. Martyn
Jowell, rh Tessa
Keeley, Barbara
Keen, Alan
Keen, Ann
Kelly, rh Ruth
Kemp, Mr. Fraser
Khan, rh Mr. Sadiq
Kidney, Mr. David
Ladyman, Dr. Stephen
Lammy, rh Mr. David
Laxton, Mr. Bob
Lepper, David
Levitt, Tom
Lewis, Mr. Ivan
Linton, Martin
Lucas, Ian
Mackinlay, Andrew
MacShane, rh Mr. Denis
Mann, John
McAvoy, rh Mr. Thomas
McCabe, Steve
McCarthy-Fry, Sarah
McDonnell, John
McFadden, rh Mr. Pat
McFall, rh John
McKechin, Ann
McNulty, rh Mr. Tony
Merron, Gillian
Michael, rh Alun
Milburn, rh Mr. Alan
Miller, Andrew
Moffatt, Laura
Mole, Chris
Morden, Jessica
Mountford, Kali
Mudie, Mr. George
Mullin, Mr. Chris
Munn, Meg
Naysmith, Dr. Doug
Norris, Dan
O'Brien, rh Mr. Mike
O'Hara, Mr. Edward
Osborne, Sandra
Owen, Albert
Pearson, Ian
Pope, Mr. Greg
Prentice, Bridget
Primarolo, rh Dawn
Purchase, Mr. Ken
Purnell, rh James
Raynsford, rh Mr. Nick
Reed, Mr. Jamie
Reid, rh John
Robertson, John
Ruddock, Joan
Salter, Martin
Seabeck, Alison
Sharma, Mr. Virendra
Sheridan, Jim
Simon, Mr. Siôn
Skinner, Mr. Dennis
Smith, Ms Angela C. (Sheffield, Hillsborough)
Smith, rh Angela E. (Basildon)
Spellar, rh Mr. John
Stewart, Ian
Stoate, Dr. Howard
Strang, rh Dr. Gavin

Straw, rh Mr. Jack
Sutcliffe, Mr. Gerry
Tami, Mark
Thomas, Mr. Gareth
Timms, rh Mr. Stephen
Touhig, rh Mr. Don
Trickett, Jon
Ussher, Kitty
Vaizey, Mr. Edward
Watts, Mr. Dave
Whitehead, Dr. Alan
Wicks, rh Malcolm
Williams, rh Mr. Alan
Williams, Mrs. Betty
Wills, rh Mr. Michael
Wilson, Phil
Winnick, Mr. David
Winterton, rh Ms Rosie
Woodward, rh Mr. Shaun
Woolas, Mr. Phil
Wright, David
Wright, Mr. Iain
Wright, Dr. Tony
Wyatt, Derek

Tellers for the Ayes:
Lyn Brown and
Kerry McCarthy

NOES

Abbott, Ms Diane
Amess, Mr. David
Barrett, John
Beith, rh Sir Alan
Breed, Mr. Colin
Burgon, Colin
Burstow, Mr. Paul
Carmichael, Mr. Alistair
Cash, Mr. William
Challen, Colin
Chope, Mr. Christopher
Corbyn, Jeremy
Davey, Mr. Edward
Davies, Mr. Dai
Davis, rh Mr. David
Dismore, Mr. Andrew
Drew, Mr. David
Fallon, Mr. Michael
Featherstone, Lynne
Foster, Mr. Don
Gerrard, Mr. Neil
Grogan, Mr. John
Hancock, Mr. Mike
Harris, Dr. Evan
Hoey, Kate
Howarth, David
Howarth, rh Mr. George
Hughes, Simon
Jones, Lynne
Joyce, Eric
Keetch, Mr. Paul
Kilfoyle, Mr. Peter
Lazarowicz, Mark
Love, Mr. Andrew
Marshall-Andrews, Mr. Robert
Mitchell, Mr. Austin
Öpik, Lembit
Paisley, rh Rev. Ian
Palmer, Dr. Nick
Price, Adam
Reed, Mr. Andy
Russell, Bob
Simpson, Alan
Thurso, John
Todd, Mr. Mark
Truswell, Mr. Paul
Watson, Mr. Tom

Tellers for the Noes:
John Hemming and
Mr. John Leech

Sammy at the BBC

After a bit of digging, I've found that the 'Maria' clip comes from Meet Sammy Davis Jr part 2, which was made the year after the show that BBC4's repeating tonight. So, here, from The A-Z of LE, transmitted as part of Lime Grove Day in 1991, is the clip in question. The bongo player is Juan Mendoza, and on first viewing, I thought that the shot had been achieved using overlay or inlay techniques, but the shadow cast on Sammy's arm at 0:50 clinches it. Mendoza is physically sitting in front of the camera, which is mounted on a camera crane being moved backwards and forwards. I'd love to know who the senior cameraman on this was. Someone like ELS904 will have a shrewd idea.

Dissolution

So, 6 May it is. Which way will you be voting? For the first time in my life, I am, very seriously, considering spoiling my paper. There's just nothing on offer for me. The party of which I was once a member has spent the last 13 years reducing freedom and privacy, as well as raping the economy. The Conservatives would shit on everybody who hasn't been shat on by Labour, and I can't abide the thought of the least worthy Tory leader of the last 15 years being in the right place at the right time to become PM. I think I'd rather countenance Iain Duncan-Smith running the country than David Cameron. Yes, that bad.

What about the Liberal Democrats? My constituency is a two-horse race and, with the best will in the world, they aren't going to make up the ground they'd need. If it were closer, they'd have my cross, just to revive that February 1974 vibe. As for the rest, they can all fuck right off. UKIP are headcases - we should be sunk to the nuts in Europe, not waiting around for the USA's sloppy seconds. BNP? No thanks. Despite being blond and white, I quite like people who aren't.

I can't allow myself not to show up at the ballot box. I might be powerfully disillusioned, but I still hold to the view that this shit is important. I couldn't enjoy the TV coverage (as I always do) if I hadn't made some effort to be a part of the democratic process. Back in the students' union election days, there was always a candidate called RON. This stood for 're-open nominations'. If I were to spoil my paper (almost certainly by writing "They're all shite" across it in purple fountain pen) on 6 May, it would be a de facto vote for RON. If you're thinking of not voting, go along and write "They're all shite" on your paper.

No one-eyed little black Jew jokes

Tomorrow night (Tuesday), BBC4, 11pm, Meet Sammy Davis Jr - original tx: 5 May 1963. A one-off special produced by Dennis Main Wilson. I'm not sure, but I think it's the source of the clip in The A-Z of LE from Lime Grove Day, with Sammy singing 'Maria' from West Side Story accompanied only by a bongo player. The bongo player remains close to the camera throughout, while Sammy gets nearer and further. For years I'd assumed it was inlay or overlay, but someone on Bernie Newnham's excellent Tech Ops site, possibly Bernie himself, mentioned that one of the types of camera crane used at the BBC had a bucket seat at the camera end, so it's possible that the bongo player was physically on the crane. Watch tomorrow and see what you think.

Some great background on the show from the producer here.

Merciful release?

Nobody emerges well from this story. Not even the mother who paid the killers £20 a week to look after the child while she decorated her home for a month. Did the windows not open? A few paint fumes are far less harmful than being kicked to kingdom come by a Tesco Value Ian and Myra. I'm afraid to say that if that's the level of care the child could have been expecting through his formative years, this child's life was going to be fairly wretched. The appalling suffering he had to endure now may well have saved him from lifelong torture.

Free to lance

Being a man, important dates float by me without ceremony. Family birthdays, etc. I'm not being thoughtless or selfish. I'd forget my own birthday if not for the reminders from family and friends. I now realise that one rather important occasion floated past without comment the other day. I was filling in a very boring form, and it asked me how long I've been in my present employment. As I left Publishing News on 22 March 2002, I've now been a full-time freelance writer for 8 years and 3 days. I use the phrase full-time advisedly, for the main joy of doing what I do is that I don't keep regular hours. Also, working at home means that I get to see a lot of my daughter as she grows up. So, 8 years without a regular guaranteed income, and I'm still keeping my head above water (just about). I think that's worthy of celebration. Nothing fancy. Lidl has ersatz Pomagne for £1 a bottle. That's about my level. Cheers.

Hackery alert

My glowing review of Lewis Chester's new biography of Lew Grade appeared in today's Independent on Sunday. It's a cracking book, and a must for anyone with an interest in the business they call the show.

All's well that ends well

Just in case anyone gives a toss, this finally turned up today during a spring-clean of my study. I just need to find my missing fountain pen now, and all will be safely gathered in.

Gerrymandering or Geffen-Mandy-ing?

Last night's Panorama on downloading and the Digital Economy Bill was predictably shrill and ill-informed. The sight of Jo Whiley practically dancing with the bloke from the BPI during a presentation on why downloading was bad, m'kay, was particularly sick-making. The most interesting bit for me, though, was the fact that screen shots of YouTube kept popping up as examples of naughty digital activity. This is not unjustified, but it didn't acknowledge the fact that BBC programmes routinely use clips gathered from YouTube, which were put there by people other than the original rights holders. Meanwhile, in programmes like Screenwipe, I've seen clips clearly sourced from Divx/XviD files of the sort used in BitTorrenting. So, is the BBC's Internet connection going to be cut off?

Maybe I'm old-fashioned. I don't download things that are commercially available. If I want something and it can be bought, I buy it. However, I do share and download an awful lot of commercially-unavailable archive TV, some of which will never be released due to rights tangles or the fact that I'm the only person who wants to watch it. What I'm doing is technically an infringement, but it's not taking any money away from the content producers, and it's creating an awareness of the material. If companies want to stop people like me downloading, they should make their archives available at reasonable prices. It's the same argument I've used since the record industry got humpty about Napster a decade ago. Indeed, some unofficially-shared material has gone on to be a great success when finally released on DVD or CD, largely because of the increased audience who became aware of it through file-sharing.

I gave up on the programme before the end, but the upshot of it seemed to be that if you download illegal stuff, you will be visited by a fat IT man called Keith. Isn't that deterrent enough?

Dear Diary

Inspired by the Michael Palin 1980-1988 chronicles I received for Christmas, a desire to rescue my handwriting from ruin after years of typing and the fact that Asda had day-to-view diaries for £1, I've been keeping a journal this year. I wondered whether I'd be able to keep it up, but 11 days into the 3rd month of the year, I can report with some pride that I haven't missed a day yet. Sometimes I forget to jot down my thoughts (such as they are) at the end of the day, and have to play catch up, but I've managed to fill every page so far. Most of the contents seem mundane and humdrum now, but in time, I suspect they'll acquire a greater level of interest, particularly the bits about sharing my living and work space with a small, inquisitive, very funny child. Even if they don't acquire any interest, the regular practice has improved my scribble immeasurably, and gives my small fleet of fountain pens an outing other than writing shopping lists on the backs of envelopes or drawing splotchy moustaches and antennae on Z-list celebrities in the paper. I know that a blog's a form of diary, but are there any other analogue diarists out there?

Sense amid the senseless

Anyone who wishes to venture an opinion either way on the Jon Venables situation should read and digest this superb blog post by a social worker. This Guardian comment piece by Simon Jenkins is worth a look too, as is Brian Masters' contribution to the debate in the Telegraph. Everything else I have seen in the mainstream media has been fit only for cutting into squares and hanging from a nail in the outside privy. If I've missed any other intelligent contributions to the debate, please let me know.

Mike Giggler writes

I've just had a text message from Terry Venables saying that he's Eddie Calvert, the man with the golden trumpet. At least I think that's what it said. The spelling was atrocious. Anyway, let's go round and attack his house. Throw paint at it, I say. Cherry pink and apple blossom white. That's the way.

Special Kay (slight return)

The contemporary reporting of the John Kay case is oddly muted. The Times carried a news in brief paragraph on 12 September 1977, stating that Sun chief reporter Kay was to stand trial for the murder of his wife, but that's it as far as the nation's journal of record goes. For a bit more background, we must turn to page 4 of the Guardian of 13 December 1977, and a report headlined "'Torment' of reporter who killed wife".

The Grauniad reports Kay's QC Daniel Hollis as saying that "Mr Kay was cracking up at the prospect of taking over as the Sun's industrial editor - a job he did not feel able to hold down". Kay himself claimed to be "taken over by voices. I seemed possessed. It was an utter nightmare".

Then the report comes to the details of what happened on the night in question. Having despatched his Japanese wife Harue in a swift and efficient manner "by strangling and drowning her", Kay then "tried repeatedly to kill himself". The paragraph listing Kay's attempts bears repeating in full:

"He slashed his wrists with razor blades but did not inflict serious injury; he flung himself head first out of a window, but a plastic dustbin broke his fall; he tried to gas himself but an automatic lighting device on the cooker prevented him; he tried to hang himself with flex but could not get into the right position; and then he drove to a bridge over the Stevenage bypass but found it was too low to fling himself over. In his final attempt he drove his car into the back of a parked car at 80 mph, but 'miraculously' survived with relatively minor injuries."

Sober, sensitive reporting, as you'd expect from the 1977-vintage Guardian. Can you imagine how The Sun would have reported this case, had it not involved a valued member of the paper's own staff? Do I hear the word 'loony'? Meanwhile, I'm wondering if the creators of Viz read this report and remembered it when creating the hapless Suicidal Syd?

Special Kay

The Sun's coverage of the Jon Venables situation is the embodiment of all that's worst about modern journalism. In the right situation, bumping into the boundaries of acceptability and legality can be a valuable safeguard of free speech and freedom of information, as it can bring out into the open details that the public not only have a right to know, but, as citizens, should know. This isn't that situation. We're looking at simple bloodlust - an eye for an eye. Already, idiots on Facebook are claiming to know Venables' new identity and getting other idiots to pass it on. With any luck, they'll soon have experience of incarceration themselves, as it's impossible to see such an act as anything other than incitement to violence.

Meanwhile, The Sun's coverage is being overseen by the paper's chief reporter John Kay. The same John Kay who, in 1977, drowned his Japanese wife Harue in the bath of their Barnet home before attempting to gas himself. Driven mad by the pressure of work as the paper's industrial correspondent, he could see no other way out for himself or his wife, who had been cut off by her family for marrying a westerner. He was convicted of manslaughter with diminished responsibility, and, on his release from Friern Barnet mental hospital, was welcomed back by his employer. The problem for me isn't that Kay killed his wife. I'm happy to accept that he was temporarily deranged. I've been temporarily deranged too, and it's a dark place to inhabit. The problem is that The Sun showed a greater degree of enlightenment and understanding when one of its own transgressed than it would ever have done in any other circumstances. Imagine the reporting of a similar case where the killer was AN Other.

There's also the question of whether Denise Fergus realises that the man to whom she is pouring out her feelings about the killers of her son is a convicted killer himself?

You can tell by the hands and the Foot

Woo's right. I can't mention the Michael Foot in Madame JoJo's story without elaborating. The occasion was the launch of Francis Wheen's Who Was Dr Charlotte Bach? As the book concerned a male posing as a female, it was thought apt to hold the beano in a venue best known for its glamorous cross-dressing hostesses. I can quite honestly say that the sight of Michael Foot sat on a velvet banquette, immersed in deep political discussion with another guest, while flanked by a group of very tall transvestites, all ostrich feathers and concealed bulges, will remain etched on my retinas for a long time.

Michael Foot RIP

Sad news about Michael Foot. Others can concentrate on the long life and good works. I'll just say that I was present at what I suspect was his only ever visit to Madame JoJo's.

Don't have your say, you're an idiot

A pearler from the BBC's Have Your Say site, re: the proposed cuts

"1846. At 3:29pm on 02 Mar 2010, iknowsbest wrote:

And those stupid dancing spectacles are utter rubbish and are only transmitted for to inflate the egos of the judges & celebs. Thank be to God I know none of them personally or TV wise, they're all "Goosesteppers".

& as regard serving the British public with quality..."That'll be the Day". The last time that happened was when Bill Cotton ruled the roost both as television producer & then Managing Director. A time when the BBC excelled!"

This seems to be saying "I hate big, expensive Saturday night entertainment shows. Bring back the big, expensive Saturday night entertainment shows." Imagine being trapped in a lift with numbskulls like iknowsbest. Hideous.

6Music (slight return)

I'm going to have a proper read of the BBC's Strategic Review later, but it confirms the worst fears for 6Music and the Asian Network. If the BBC shouldn't be doing what the commercial sector does, shouldn't they be cutting things like EastEnders, Casualty and Holby City? Also, if the objection to 6Music and the Asian Network is that they don't do the numbers, what about if they did them too well? If either station pulled in large audiences, wouldn't it be equally in danger? So, the question is whether there's a mythical point at which the audiences of niche stations are deemed to be "just right", like Baby Bear's porridge? Another question is whether the BBC's doomed whatever it does because its enemies simply have too much money and influence (see how Lord Mandelson's deeply unpleasant Digital Economy Bill - more of which later - is stacked in favour of large private media organisations). I fear that might be the case, so why not go down proud and defiant rather than disembowelling yourself?

6Music and the Asian Network must be saved

I'm wondering about the source for the Times' story on BBC cutbacks. Is it as 24 carat as Rawnsley's source for Bruiser Brown, or are Murdoch's henchpersons merely flying a kite? It would be a dark day for broadcasting and choice (Remember that? The thing that free markets were supposed to bring us?) if either 6Music or the Asian Network closed.

Even if you listen to neither, the fact that they exist is important. If we let either go, it's the thin end of the wedge. Pastor Niemoller's advice applies. When the barbarians come for BBC4, its viewers will be on our own. People who regard the licence fee as an acceptable tithe for civilisation, not an unfair tax, really need to stand out for this issue from the outset. Both stations are run on tiny budgets. 6Music is run on £6m a year. I'd love to know how much Big Top cost the Corporation. Is anyone saying "Don't make sitcoms starring Amanda Holden, as it's a misuse of public money if they tank"? Perhaps they should.

Quite apart from the Times' obvious bias, we also see the Grauniad barely able to contain its glee. That'll be the same Guardian that owns the Real Radio, Smooth Radio and Rock Radio brands, as well as the Guardian Unlimited online news service. Funny, that.

The BBC's critics seem very muddled. The Corporation can't compete with the commercial sector, nor can it provide distinctive niche services. What exactly can it do? Maybe it should start by growing a pair and saying "We're the BBC. This is what we do. Got a problem with that, Rupert?".

Davies (Alan) at Large

Of all the celebrities on Twitter, Alan Davies (@alandavies1, should anyone be wondering) is by far the most interesting. Not because of what he himself says, which is usually something about Arsenal, but because of his modus operandi, particularly with regard to re-tweeting. For the uninitiated, this is when you take a tweet written by someone else and forward it to everybody following you.

Davies has built a career from his regular guy/affable eejit persona (good luck to him - I wish I could find a niche that didn't pay atrociously), but many who've worked with him or otherwise encountered him have found him less than affable. Me included. I met him once at a Jane Goldman book launch, and received a withering tirade about the evils of journalism and journalists, even trade press hacks who were just there to neck a few canapes and write an innocuous 'guests included' paragraph for the dreary, sorry, diary column. Seemingly, he didn't realise that, had I been the vindictive sort of journalist, he'd have been giving me plenty of ammunition to give him another unfavourable bit of coverage. I wasn't, so I just thought "what an appallingly rude man". Or words to that effect.

Last week, a friend of mine asked on Twitter "Anyone got a story about Alan Davies where he doesn't come across as a complete prick? ...Anyone?". This was then re-tweeted by Davies. The aforementioned friend then received a number of messages from some of Davies' followers.

• just shut up.
• I interviewed him at a charity event at Emirates Stadium a couple of years ago and he was a thoroughly nice chap
• no, but that's the genius of it, making a living out of being a complete prick. That only happens with politicians, celebs and Alan
• No i haven't, has anyone got a story about you being a complete prick? is there any need to be offensive?
• i don't have any storys about him but he comes across as charismatic, funny and positive.....unlike you !
• well I interviewed him on my show and he was perfectly charming.
• Aw what?! Alan Davies is a legend!!!
• nope
• I could write one, aside from being a Gooner he seems OK to me.
• I once bumped into him (quite literally) as I was walking out of a Bill Bailey show. He said hello! he did ignore a direct msg i sent yesterday for some big big help i need. that does not actually make him a prick
• That time he retweeted you so his large fanbase can have a laugh at your expense ;)
• Ouch!
• Hv u tried @alandavies1 He might have 1?
  
• that isnt nice at all, would you actually say that to his face? if you cant say something nice, then say nothing! (@alandavies1)
• Yes thanks. @alandavies1 is a top fella.
• but really, he's a lovely man. Said hi to him at the DB10 testimonial and he replied nicely.
• Now that's a tricky one...
• yes, i was begging for change once and he bit me on the nose. it was for my own good like, he popped a spot for me with his teeth.

As you can see, the responses ranged from the reasonable to the idiotic, with a disturbing number suggesting that because Davies is famous, he must also be a smashing bloke. One indicated that a reply or a retweet from Davies would make her day. Why, exactly? The downside of Twitter is the number of people trying to get noticed, however briefly, by celebrities. I use it mostly to kvetch with my mates. To the famous, it's mostly a marketing tool. Nothing wrong with that. Just know the rules of engagement. Following a celebrity does not make you closer to them.

Some of my chum's replies came from people who appear not to read Davies' tweets properly. The "If you can't say something nice, say nothing" tweeter seems not to have noticed Davies posting messages like "@alandavies1 Can you get a JLS punchbag? Why not? Just photos of all those great boys, but on a bag you can punch?".

When I picked up on my friend's situation, I sent him a message: "So, how does this work? You say something critical about @alandavies1 and a bunch of fuckwits start following you? Coincidence?". The word 'critical' was a carefully-placed red herring (or even a QI-style elephant trap), as neither my friend nor I had actually said anything critical about Davies. We had merely asked questions. My message was re-tweeted by Davies within minutes.

Another friend of mine picked up on the situation and offered moral support. I explained what was going on, copying Davies in.

• @alandavies1 has retweeted it and 1 of his followers is now following me. Here's hoping he's not a fuckwit.
  I'm hoping to disprove someone else's suggestion that @alandavies1 uses his fans as a sort of Praetorian (Twittorian?) Guard.
  If @alandavies1 did, it would be quite cowardly, very twatty and not a little needy, don't you think? Let's hope he doesn't.

Curiously, Davies retweeted none of the above. I didn't receive any direct responses, but plenty of Davies' followers replied to him with messages along the lines of "Why are all these beastly people so mean to our favourite curly-mopped funster?", the followers not actually noticing that I hadn't actually been mean to him. I was particularly amused by "Thanks for the @cheeseford RT. Good to know who the prats are, out there on the Twitter fringes. All the best." Out here on the Twitter fringes would have been more accurate, as the Twitterer in question is no closer to the epicentre than I am. Maybe he thinks he's at the throbbing heart of power because he follows some bloke from a panel game. He isn't.

One exchange was interesting:

• - @alandavies1 Thanks for the C-word RT. :-}
  - don't shoot the messenger...just the sort of stuff that comes in daily. And I'm supposed to be the rabble rouser on here...
  - @alandavies1 There are so many dorks out there. Water off a duck's back I hope?
  - Yes. It's been a relentless campaign of libellous blogging & anonymous tweeting with the odd ludicrous article in the Telegraph
  

Anonymous? Well, that's me and my mate in the clear, as our real names are at the tops of our Twitter pages. Oddly, he doesn't seem anywhere near as dismissive of praise from people who tweet under names other than the ones on their birth certificate. The "ludicrous" Telegraph article? Decide for yourself. Personally, I think it's perfectly fair. I might feel different if it had been written about me, but I try not to do things that get me written about (apart from book reviews). It's the "don't shoot the messenger" that intrigues me most, though. He's saying "Hey, I just pass it on", but as we've seen, he re-tweets selectively, and it always seems to be the stuff that could look, if you were in a hurry or not very good at reading comprehension, like someone was having a go at him. This raises the question "Why does he re-tweet these messages?". Or rather why he re-tweets some messages, but not others. Could it be that he realises he has an army of adoring fans who think he can do no wrong, quite likes it, and knows how to play on their loyalty? Nah, he's TV's top tousle-haired affable eejit regular guy. He wouldn't do that. Would he?

Chance would be a fine thing (slight return)

Having mentioned that the untransmitted pilot of Chance in a Million was on the new DVD, I was asked elsewhere how the two versions differed. So, here goes. The first half of the pilot Plumstones and the tx version are identical. However, the second half was completely re-shot, indeed recast, and the plot differs considerably. The transmitted version is a much more interesting and satisfying experience, with the absence of the laboured food fight and the neat tying up of the various coincidences with the revelation of the waiter's identity. So we have:

Different recording of the theme tune, presumably pre-existing commercial recording on pilot, with glaring edit to fit the on-screen movement. Pilot has noticeable head-switching, so assume it's from VHS. Pilot has Thames ident, transmitted version doesn't.

Scene 1: Hotel - identical on both versions.
Scene 2: Street - woman locked out of car - identical on both versions.
Scene 3: Street - policemen apologising - identical on both versions
Scene 4: Street - identical on both versions, until "Make a run for it?/Yes"
- Cuts straight to part 2 on transmitted version.
- Pilot runs 20 seconds longer, with 'End of Part One' caption, over locked-out woman and husband chasing Tom's car, with sting from Ted Heath's Decca recording of Taking a Chance on Love, then VT clock for part 2.
Scene 5: Restaurant - different takes, indeed sets completely different.
- Longer chat with maitre d' on the pilot - "Special table? Ah, you are special people".
- Maitre d' brusque on the transmitted version - no special people, just "This way".
- Waiter takes drink order on pilot, transmitted version cuts straight to table after several pints of lager had been drunk.
- Waiter - Brian Croucher on pilot, Paul Chapman on transmitted version - brings more drinks on both versions. Keeps pint of lager for self on transmitted version.
- On pilot, Alison drinks wine - confusion over glasses, she gets Tom's lager. On transmitted version, she drinks lager too.
- Dialogue substantially identical.
- Conversation at table largely two-shot in pilot, but individual close-ups on transmitted version.
- A couple of lines cut on transmitted version when summoning waiter.
- Pilot "You want soup in soixante seconds?" - transmitted version "You want soup in sixty seconds?".
- On pilot, waiter spills soup on Tom's lap, very deliberately. On transmitted version, waiter spills soup on Alison's lap, obviously an accident. “If it was deliberate, I would have done it like this”. On pilot, maitre d' breaks Tom and waiter apart. Tom responds by smearing food on waiter's head, then pouring gravy in maitre d's pockets. Maitre d' responds by asking for the sweet trolley and starting a long food fight with Tom. Cutaways to laughing diners. When waiter puts ice down Alison's blouse, Tom announces they're leaving. They do to applause from diners. In waiters' changing room, it emerges that “special people...special table” is code for slapstick - “You are from the Sarah Bernhard School of Drama?” “No” “Oh...”.
- On transmitted version, maitre d' passes and asks if Tom and Alison are enjoying their meal. Tom says waiter can say what he has to say to his face. Waiter plants custard pie on Tom's face. Cuts to changing room, with maitre d' apologising, but admitting it was a mistake to taunt the waiter so close to the sweet trolley. Waiter – now sacked - comes in. It emerges that he's the lover of the woman locked out of the car earlier.
Scene 6: Outside Tom's house
– pilot has short bit of dialogue from Alison about not wanting to miss tonight for anything. “I've really enjoyed myself, in a way”.
- Obviously studio set.
- Transmitted version on location
- Both end with Alison climbing in through open window. In pilot, it's the lavatory (“Mind the cistern”). In transmitted version, just the window next to the front door. Both versions end with policeman shining torch on Tom and Alison, and Tom's line “Alison, I think you'd better come out now. (I think) We've just hit (found) another plumstone”.
Some people credited on pilot not credited on transmitted version. Most notable is the designer credit – Alison Waugh on pilot, Peter Elliott on transmitted version, despite pilot hotel scenes being re-used.

The transmitted version runs 25m 6s, the pilot runs 29m 20s, although a minute is taken up by the ident, black level and the VT clock into part 2.

The Wogun Inheritance

While it's splendid to have Sir Terry Wogan back on Radio 2, it's a pity that Michael Ball's Sunday Supplement had to go to make way for the Togmeister's return. Couldn't Steve Wright's Sunday Love (the Show) Songs have been sacrificed painlessly, allowing Ball to move to the earlier slot?

Chance would be a fine thing

I've just finished a review for the Oldie of the soon-come DVD of Chance in a Million series 1. For the uninitiated, it was a sublime yet subtle send-up of sitcom conventions, starring the splendid Simon Callow as a man plagued by coincidences and Brenda Blethyn as his loyal librarian girlfriend. Subtle? Yes, for all of its satirical intent, it could also just about be taken on face value as a pure sitcom, and probably was by many viewers when ITV repeated it a few months after it had premiered on Channel 4. At one point in the first series, it was 4's 4th most popular programme, its 3.1 million viewers putting it just behind International Snooker and the two mid-week editions of Brookside. My 11-year-old self adored it from the first bar of the theme tune, a Ronnie 'Two Pianos' Aldrich arrangement of 'Taking a Chance On Love', and my 36-year-old self adores it no less. I'm still trying to work out which I love more out of Ms Blethyn or the character she plays, an outwardly timorous yet seethingly passionate specimen of womanhood. When I first met young Masterton in a radio dungeon beneath the Psychology department at Lancaster nearly 20 years ago, a shared love of the series was one of the things that sealed our friendship. Anyway, it's great to have it on a shiny disc (to say nothing of the untransmitted pilot version of episode 1 'Plumstones'), even if the ad break captions are missing. It's a small point, but the jump cuts from part 1 to part 2 really jar with me. Even though I've watched it all many times, one line still made me guffaw earlier. Playing a paratrooper on a treasure hunt, the late Jeremy Sinden remarks on the extreme unlikelihood of finding the requested nude picture of Shirley Williams that "I know one of the lads is prepared to give it a go with chloroform and a Polaroid". Maybe it's the rhythm, maybe it's the choice of words (hats off to Andrew Norriss and Richard Fegen for the gleeful scripts), maybe it's the image. Maybe it's all of the above. Certainly it's funny.

Cycle path on the loose

Walking back from the shops along our local cycle path yesterday, I had a strange encounter. At a junction, I'd walked across and as soon as I had, I heard a bicycle moving slowly behind me. I made sure that both I and the dog were on the side of the path marked out for walkers and carried on. The cyclist moved to the half of the path marked out for bikes (the one with the big bike painted on it), and as he passed, I saw he was a child (of no more than 12) in a hooded top on a BMX. No sooner had he passed me than he turned around and shot me a look of purest contempt. I met his gaze. He turned to the front briefly, before looking back over his shoulder again, maintaining that look. I kept looking ahead, that being the direction in which I was going. When he was about 20 feet away from me, still cycling, he broke the silence. "Fucking cunt". To which I replied "Turn around and face the way you're going. You might fall off". The reply came: "Fat fucking twat". To which I responded: "Face the front and keep cycling". He got a little further away and stopped, before delivering another volley of insults. Unfortunately, he was too far away for me to hear them properly. I merely reiterated my suggestion that he should go about his business and leave me to get on with mine. As I drew closer, he resumed his journey, taking a short cut through the cemetery, which was slightly annoying as that was what I was planning to do, and now I couldn't without appearing slightly creepy. That was the last I saw of the wee chap. So, I'd been on the right side of the path and been facing the direction of travel, but I was the cunt of the piece? Strange. Or was he simply hoping that I'd bite and get angry with him? Even more strange.

Metropolis regained

Full marks to the German/French arts channel Arte for going to town with the restored version of Fritz Lang's Metropolis. The screening of the reconstructed film was preceded by half an hour of speeches and interviews, then followed by a documentary on the restoration. I had planned to record the evening's proceedings for later viewing, but I found myself caught up in the excitement of the occasion, unable to tear myself away, just about following the captions and commentaries with my rusty schoolboy German. The idea that I was sitting in my Lowestoft living room experiencing this film in something resembling its entirety for the first time in 83 years, at the same time as the audience in the Friedrichstadt Palast in Berlin, was ever-so-slightly mind-blowing. The idea that I was experiencing it in a relatively warm environment while thousands froze their extremities off at the Brandenburg Gate to achieve the same end made me profoundly grateful for my £30 Lidl satellite box and the hours I spent up a ladder aiming the dish.

What of the film? Well, I'll be honest. I'd never seen it before, not even in the 1980s pop version by Giorgio Moroder. However, having seen it now with the restored material, I can't believe that it made any sense at all in its edited form. Every single reinstated frame seemed vital to me, no matter how dire the picture quality. I say dire, but the restorers have worked miracles with the 16mm reduction print found in Buenos Aires. This clip gives a rough idea of how much work they've done.



It's like patching a 30ips audio master tape with sections from a wax cylinder, but the most important thing is the story, and the elements told in those flickery fragments were meant to be there. And now they are, again.

I'll expect the same gala treatment from BBC4 when the telerecording of Fred Emney Picks a Pop finally surfaces.

Barrymore spiked

When the Irish chap in the previous Barrymore clip mentioned a troublesome encounter with Spike Milligan, I suspected very strongly that the Cheeseford archives held a copy of it. So it proves. Interesting to see how Barrymore deals with a turbulent guest. Interesting also to see how much Spike was relying on verbatim recitations from his war memoirs by this point. Apologies for the long-play VHS recording on threadbare tape via indoor aerial-type quality of the clip.

Barrymore is less

Cards on the table: I like Michael Barrymore. I saw him live at his mid-1980s peak, and I've never seen anybody control an audience like him. The self-destructive urge within him prevented him from becoming one of the greats, but, on his day, he was a stunning performer. As for the Stuart Lubbock thing, the basic, horrific fact is that a man drowned in his swimming pool. However, the same happened to Art Malik, and nobody blames him for what happened. Relative values at work again.

Fast forward to Barrymore's recent appearance on an Irish chat show with right-wing crusader and host Brendan O'Connor. If ever something deserved the description "car-crash telly" this is it. With a strong, intelligent interviewer, Barrymore would be a worthwhile guest. He needs someone to say "Sit down and stop showing off. You're here to have a conversation with me". Brendan O'Connor isn't that man. Barrymore evades every question in the most unsubtle manner. O'Connor should have opened with a couple of softball questions, just to see if Barrymore was in chatty mood. Then, he could have asked about the comedian's fall from grace. Instead, he opened with it, and was met with a rambling and unfunny flight of fancy about being the patron of the Sheep Society, followed by an audience participation version of Charles Aznavour's 'She(ep)'.

From there, getting any sense out of Barrymore was impossible. The male guest (who he?) almost managed it by remembering Barrymore trying to keep a similarly wayward Spike Milligan under control. For a second, it looked like Barrymore was going to respond with a proper anecdote about working with Spike, but he was distracted by a gap in the sofa and the thread was lost again, with Barrymore standing up and asking the audience if they liked his shoes. That this interview should be such a jaw-dropper for all the wrong reasons is a shame, because Barrymore's looking better and sounding more lucid than he has in years. If he sat down, behaved himself and talked like an adult about his life and bad choices, maybe people wouldn't think so ill of him. The odd thing is that his success was based largely on refusing to sit down or behave himself. Barrymore remains constant (the Jedward gag near the end is a genuine flash of the old mad brilliance of the man, and also a fine example of his utter fearlessness on stage), but the context has changed. Pre-Lubbock, the public were happy to indulge him, but the goodwill is no more.

Sir John Dankworth (1927-2010)

When I heard the news of Sir John Dankworth's death on the radio this morning, I thought I was hallucinating. I hoped I was hallucinating. After attending the 3 Bonzos and a Piano concert at the Bloomsbury Theatre last night, I and a few friends had stayed up all night talking (mostly moaning about the non-existence of this 24-hour drinking culture that's supposedly breaking Britain even further - try getting a glass of milk in Soho after 3am and the options are limited to Balan's Cafe and Bar Italia, each not much bigger than my front room and thus rammed to bursting), so my brain wasn't exactly in peak condition at 7.30am. Unfortunately, what I'd heard was real, and so my sleep-deprived brain had to process the fact that one of my lifelong heroes was no more. Fortunately, he leaves an amazing legacy of music, including a TV theme tune that did a lot to get the infant me into this thing called jazz. Condolences to Dame Cleo, and to Alec and Jacqui. A few years ago, I was covering a jazz festival in Guernsey for Crescendo, at which the JD5 - Sir John, Mark Nightingale, John Horler, Dave Olney (depping for son Alec) and Allan Ganley - were performing. They opened the second set with the Tomorrow's World theme, and very little can match the feeling of glee that overtook me. That was the only time I met Sir John, but I'm happy to report that as well as being a first-class musician and composer, he was also a genuinely nice chap. RIP, Sir John.

Bellamy's People

If you're not watching Bellamy's People each Thursday on BBC2, you should repair the omission ASAP. Go to the iPlayer and start with last night's. The whole world needs to see Anglophile African catering student Julius Olufemwe (Felix Dexter on blistering form) questioning Brian May's patriotism, while Gary Bellamy (Rhys Thomas) struggles to avoid corpsing. It starts at about 13:10 if you're feeling impatient.

The Dude abides

Woo's got a bee in her bonnet about the sort of person who goes to Tesco in their pyjamas. She's got a point, but not everyone who goes to the shops in their boudoir gear ends up looking like Waynetta Slob. Some can make it seem like a statement of effortless cool. Like The Dude, pictured above. If you need an explanation of this picture, just get hold of The Big Lebowski on DVD. You'll thank me for the tip.

That's Torn it

It's been a strange week. Just when I thought I'd got a handle on it all, this happens. Now that's random, and, yes, it made me do a LOL.

Hi-yohhhh

An early start in the morning: I'm booked on the 07.55 Waveney Flyer from Lowestoft to Liverpool Street, in order to attend the Oldie of the Year beano for the (I think) 12th year in a row. It is, quite simply, the best show in town. Sir Terence Wogan will officiate, as ever. He'll do the same jokes, as ever. We'll love every last punchline, as ever. The great and the good have their gongs. The Oldie tends to recognise only the good. Long may it continue.

Having such an early start, I should have retired about 10pm with cucumbers over the eyes (not slices, whole cucumbers - I'm a heavy sleeper). Instead, I type at 02.13, having watched a shedload of Tonight Shows with Conan O'Brien and Johnny Carson. Any amount of lost sleep is justified by this 1969 Carson gag:

"On the way here, I stopped to watch a Hollywood funeral. That sounds callous, but in New York, you don't often get to see a topless kazoo player riding a yak."

Embarrassed by your mistakes in procrastination?

I'm just about keeping my mind on my work at the moment, but it's not at all easy. The BBC has, rather unhelpfully, put online a documentary that I've wanted to see for years. I reckon that after another hour of transcribing, I'll have earned the right to watch it. It's part of a tranche of programmes from the rather wonderful history series Chronicle. By Cribbins, I love the Internet.

Gag reflex

Even in the pre-Internet days, humorous responses to events showed a degree of uniformity. The "Who let the woman drive?" gag about the Challenger disaster was universal and instantaneous. How did these lines make it around the world? Answer: It was a coincidence. Different people thought the same way about the same events, independently of each other, and shared the result with their friends.

An example of this occurred today on Facebook. Two friends, one a professional comedy writer, one an old schoolfriend with no professional connection to the gag trade, each made the observation that, now that Kraft is taking over Cadbury's, they didn't fancy the idea of Cream Cheese Eggs. It's a great line. And it occurred to two un-connected (unless you count me as a common denominator, which would only work if they knew of each other's existence) people at roughly the same time. Which is why, unless the plagiarism is verbatim or the concept is so out there as to be instantly identifiable, it's problematic when comedians accuse each other of stealing material. A lot of comedy is simply a clever reaction to something, and, being human, we shouldn't be surprised if a lot of people react the same way, completely independently of each other.

He who pays the Piper should demand a new logo

With ITV reducing its commitments to regional broadcasting, the BBC has been taking up some of the slack. A manifestation of this is Late Kick Off, a football show that began last night on BBC1. The version we get in the east is produced by Kevin Piper, who presented Anglia Tonight and Anglia's various football shows for aeons before the retrenchment. Not giving a toss about football, I can't say whether the show's any good or not, but I'm glad that Piper, who always seemed likeable on-screen, is keeping busy.

However, with my doctorate in blue cardboard and Letraset studies from the Border TV Academy of Graphic Design, I am qualified to pass comment on his company logo, which, sad to say, is not of the same quality as the Anglia silver knight. While it's nice to see something on the BBC free of the tyranny of Gill Sans (which I once loved with a passion, but now regard with the contempt that familiarity breeds - meanwhile, the Richard Levin-designed 1958-1997 BBC logo will always be my favourite piece of corporate design, in all its variant forms), the design for Kevin Piper Media (I can't decide whether I like or loathe the Ronseal naming policy - He could have had something far cleverer with a name like his) looks like something a bored sixth-former might have knocked up on the school's new Mac in 1990 (that being the last time and place when I knowingly used the Avant Garde typeface for anything). If he'd had the company and logo lying dormant for years, it could be forgiven (just about) but a swift gander at the Companies House database shows that Kevin Piper Media Ltd was incorporated on 20 September 2009.

In fairness, the logo isn't all bad. The one saving grace is the colour bars, which are obviously a comment on MonkeyMFC's antics at Millwall Online.

How the Daily Mail works

There's an interesting story on the Daily Mail website about Millwall supporter Rod Liddle and some messages he posted on a football forum. The piece is headlined "Former Today editor Rod Liddle under fire over 'racist' posts on football supporters' website". Note those single quotes around racist. When used in a newspaper headline, they indicate that the paper's making it up. As it proves. The hack makes much of Liddle's forum handle, MonkeyMFC. Why? Maybe I'm being over-cynical, but it appears to have been done largely so that a stupid person reading the story could well come away and say "He called them monkeys. It's true. It was in the Mail". For what it's worth, the word 'monkey' figures in the email address Liddle used to return my Merry Cuntmas message. So, it would appear to be his nickname. A term of endearment to which the gibbon-visaged rabble-rouser answers quite merrily. So, its presence in his forum handle is irrelevant, and its use in this story adds nothing except a nasty taste in this reader's mouth.

Then there's this: "After abusive comments about [Kevin] Amankwaah by other users, Liddle writes he has heard [Millwall player Neil] Harris's alleged comment was: '**** off you spearchucking African ****'." Again, a stupid person could come away from reading the story thinking that Liddle had actually said that about yer man Amankwaah himself, rather than quoting what he'd heard. But then, 'Millwall player shouts abuse in heat of moment' is a bit dog bites man as stories go.

Helpfully, one of the commenters on the story has quoted the main body of what Liddle said: "There's thousands of organisations catering exclusively to black and asian minorities. **** 'em, close them down. Why do blacks need a forum of their own? As a power base and cash cow for ****s and in order to perpetuate the myth of widespread discrimination". Is that racist? Or is it just a broadside against lobbying groups? To be honest, I read it almost as if Liddle's paraphrasing 'Melting Pot' by Blue Mink. I suspect that it all depends very much on whether you're out to get him or not. While he might be a cunt (as am I), the Mail's miles cuntier.

Le-no comment

The revelation that a cunt might become a newspaper editor (and people acting like it's unprecedented) is a minor sideshow compared to the meejah story of the moment that really matters: Jay Leno vs Conan O'Brien over the future of NBC's Tonight Show. Five years ago, to keep the very bankable O'Brien sweet, NBC got a commitment from Leno that he'd step aside from the Tonight Show and let Coco take over in 2009, which he did. However, Coco's lost a few of the show's older viewers, in favour of a younger audience, while Leno's new show has lost most of its viewers, whatever their age, and has been cancelled. So, NBC proposed that the Tonight Show be moved back 30 minutes to 12.05am, to be preceded by a new Leno vehicle. O'Brien seems to be regarding this as constructive dismissal, and not without reason, as it's not the Tonight Show at 12.05, it's the Tomorrow Show. Over at ABC, Jimmy Kimmel has been playing a blinder, including ripping Leno a new one on his own show.



Meanwhile, over at CBS, Johnny Carson's rightful heir Dave Letterman has ordered in the popcorn and is watching with glee as the rival network tears itself apart, rather as it did when Leno pipped him to the Tonight Show in 1993.

Belated birthday greetings to Kenny Wheeler

Kenny Wheeler was 80 yesterday. Most remiss of me not to mark the occasion by listening to him tear up Seven Steps to Heaven with the Tubby Hayes Big Band, one of my favourite pieces of anything ever recorded on rust-covered Sellotape. I'll have to repair the omission right now. Happy birthday, Kenny. I interviewed him once - not easy, as he's a chap who prefers to speak through music. With a couple of quotes here and there, I cobbled together a piece that made clear my love and admiration for the man and his work. Anyway, here he is in the early 1990s with Gordon Beck on piano, Stan Sulzmann on tenor, Tony Oxley on drums and a bassist I can't quite identify at the moment, playing an unrecognisably ferocious version of Bill Evans' Waltz for Debbie in 4/4 time. Oxley's at his barking best on this one, omitting to bring anything resembling a snare drum to the gig, a decision that I gather drove a massive wedge between him and his long-time collaborator, Beck. I can't mention him without reminding this blog's reader of Stan Tracey's summary of his exceptional, if idiosyncratic talent. "Jazz drummers play ten-to-ten, ten-to-ten, ten-to-ten [the phonetic representation of the ride cymbal swing pattern]. Tony's more a-round-a-bout-a-quarter-past-eleven."

Public service announcement

If you get an email like the following, ignore it. It's a scam. Naturally, being just before the deadline for self-assessment submission, a few people might think "Oh dear, better click on the link and see what they want". At best, you'll end up with a virus. At worst, you might lose money:

Taxpayer ID: [part of an email address I've never used for tax correspondence]-00000472970993UK
Tax Type: INCOME TAX
Issue: Unreported/Underreported Income (Fraud Application)

Please review your tax statement on HM Revenue and Customs (HMRC) website (click on the link below):

[Link removed]

HM Revenue and Customs

A Liddle hypocrisy

The aforementioned comment on Woo's blog resulted in a strange and slightly creepy but highly illuminating stream of communications from Rod Liddle himself. To think that he had time between paid opinions to Google his own name obsessively and give little me a piece of his mind, gratis. Truly I am blessed. In it, I see that he called me a "Typical fucking gobshite public school coward, devoid of talent, wit or interest. Or courage. Hopeless little beardy cunt".

Gobshite? Almost certainly. Devoid of talent, wit or interest? I'm probably not the best judge of my own attributes. You decide. Courage? I wish they'd bring back Imperial Russian stout. However, like Liddle, I went to a comprehensive. Still, why research when you can assume, albeit wrongly? As for being "beardy", what's this I see before me? I reckon that he was just jealous because I can actually grow something other than bumfluff.

Gilding the Lily

A penny has just dropped. Looking for something in some old emails, I noticed a message from a Cambridge undergraduate called Lily Cole, asking for details of an old cinema she was researching historically. I replied with details of a book that would supply some of the basic information she needed, and got a very prompt thank you email in return. You're way ahead of me, I can tell. Must be, mustn't it? Probably best I didn't make the connection at the time, as she's rather lovely, and I might have entered 'Can I just say what a smashing blouse you have on?' mode.

I've just had a vada at the Daily Mail story on Ms Cole's first-year progress. Girl done good, apparently. What do the commenters say beneath the story?

"No big deal. History of Art is a soft option. The courses are normally full of little rich/ sloanes- girls who really have little interest in the subject but did not get the grades to study anything else. It actually denigrates this whole beautiful subject and the tutors get very despondent with the apathetic stupid students they have 99% of the time." Sam, Australia.

"History of Art? Ha ha! Hardly difficult to get a first when you're studying the Degree of Choice for toffs, celebs and anybody else who can't get a proper degree. Oh, let's look at paintings and sculpture for 3 years, how mentally challenging." James, London.

"Wow, history of art - that's a real degree isn't it!" PureScienceFTW

Define a proper/real degree, James and PureTwatteryFFS. The mental challenge is in putting what you've seen into a historical context and supplying a meaningful critical response to it, as with any other historically-based degree subject. And, Sam, even if degrees are becoming devalued, how does someone apathetic and stupid get a first exactly? The real question, though, is why I even bothered to look at the comments, knowing exactly how small-minded and twatty they'd be without reading a syllable. Mercifully, a couple of commenters recognise and laud Ms Cole's achievement, and, oddly enough, they get more positive ratings than the naysayers, but I still feel dirty.

Every Liddle hinders

I see that Rod Liddle's in the frame for the editor's chair at the Independent. Well, that should ensure that the paper finally joins Today, the News Chronicle and the Daily Sketch, and cast a few mates of mine out onto the dole queue in the process.

Never mind the all-encompassing history of the record industry what I wrote. You can keep the soup-to-nuts overview of light entertainment that followed it. When looking at my achievements, I am perhaps proudest of having ensured, inadvertently, that this blog post comes out top if anyone happens to search Google for the phrase "Rod Liddle is a cunt".

Caught on the Hopper

Sad news about Dennis Hopper's almost-certainly terminal illness. Almost as sad is the shocking state of sub-editing at the website of the urban freesheet Metro, which reports that...well, see for yourselves. Still, at least he's lying down.

Missing Believed Wiped

Just back from braving the snow-struck public transport system for a visit to London. The purpose of the jaunt was to attend Missing Believed Wiped at the NFT (Yes, I know it's BFI Southbank now, but I still call Hammersmith Apollo the Odeon, nearly 20 years after it changed, because I'm like that). I took a small detour on my way from Liverpool Street to the south bank, via the British Library, to renew my reader pass, guaranteeing 3 further years of civilisation, ready access to a complete run of the Radio Times and free wi-fi. A new picture was taken, and it's a vast improvement on the old one, taken when I was a stone or two heavier and sporting a luxuriant beard. In that one, I looked like an Old Testament rapist. Now I merely resemble a slightly lardy Tin-Tin wearing Ronnie Barker's glasses.

MBW was a splendid affair, as usual. Some of the functioning addicts of the archive TV community gathered beforehand to concoct evil fantasies about TV executives' mothers with a sideline in illegal abortions. Well, that wasn't the plan, but that's what happened. Sadly, the libel laws prevent me outlining the leaps of fractured logic that brought us to that point, but rest assured, if I were to spill the beans, you'd never look at the Young Generation in the same way again. All this before a single alcoholic drink had been taken, too.

Session 1 saw a welcome repeat of the Kaleidoscope documentary on Bob Monkhouse's private archive, as seen at BAFTA last October. This was followed by the near-saintly Ian Greaves introducing a selection of clips recovered from off-air recordings of the defunct satellite broadcaster BSB. Noel Gay Television made most of BSB's comedy, but junked the recordings at some point in the last 20 years, including very early TV appearances by Chris Morris and Armando Iannucci. Both featured in Ian's compilation, but the real delight was a smattering of material from I Love Keith Allen, including a lovely little piece about BSB continuity. Seated at a Yamaha DX7 in a bad wig, Allen proclaimed that the keyboard would be at the heart of BSB's identity, and that his fellow announcers included Bobby Crush, Russ Conway and Mrs Mills. If anyone ever questions the reason for Keith Allen's existence, this clip alone would justify it.

We also got the first episode of Ronnie Barker's 1972 series His Lordship Entertains, in which his Lord Rustless character turned the ancestral seat into a hotel. The plot revolved around the visit from a hotel inspector. I wonder if John Cleese ever saw this show? The final item in session 1 was a recovered Till Death Us Do Part, but I ducked out for a pint with young Masterton, who had just finished his working day at nearby TalkSPORT, which had been more talk than sport, weather having kiboshed most of the fixtures. Even had James not been around, I'd have probably given Garnett a miss, because love the series though I do, I couldn't face listening to the more reactionary members of the audience cackling with glee every time Warren Mitchell said 'coon' and muttering how it was political correctness gone mad that you couldn't shout 'darkie' on television anymore.

Session 2 was music all the way, beginning with the sole surviving edition of Southern TV's 1968 popfest Time for Blackburn (an early Mike Mansfield production, complete with in-shot turret lens changes and very very fast cutting used as a cheap but arresting visual effect), featuring a young Jonathan King holding forth on topics of the day.

Toe Knee Black Burn was followed by a compilation of clips from the late-1970s/early 1980s BBC Midlands regional music programme Look! Hear!, which were a real revelation. After a worrying start with heavy metal dullards Black Sabbath and Diamond Head, things picked up with a raft of fab Two-Tone acts, including The Selecter enduring a stage invasion from the entire audience, and less well-known but utterly adorable Swinging Cats skanking their way through Never On a Sunday. Actually, kids, show, don't tell.



In summary, it was effing marvellous, and I know that I would buy a DVD of the series without a second thought.

Then there was a 1976 TOTP, recovered from David Hamilton's off-air recording. This was another loo-and-bar break for me, as in the last year or so, I've seen more mid-1970s TOTP than my mind and body can truly stand. Finally, it was time to dust off the much-vaunted recently-retrieved clips from a 1967 TOTP, including unique footage of Pink Floyd performing 'See Emily Play'. Unfortunately, the tape seems to have been stored in a vat of cat's piss, and we ran the whole gamut of sound without picture, picture without sound, neither picture nor sound and, very occasionally, picture and sound. As Dick Fiddy said in his intro, the best way to approach it was to kid yourself that you had miraculously tuned into a signal that had been thrashing about in the ether for 43 years, with attendant reception problems. And Thence We Issued Out, not to see the stars, but to drink and be merry. Which we did.

I had the great good fortune to be put up by Roman Empress and Let's Look Sideways at their palatial east end residence, and, to soak up our Sunday morning hangovers, we met up with The Urban Woo for a fry-up at S&M in Spitalfields. Which was nice. Like the knitting needles and gin reverie of the previous day, most of our breakfast chatter is sadly unrepeatable here, so you'll just have to make up your own rumours about Heather Mills.