Russell Brand. Who is he? (All right, give me a break. I haven’t lived in the UK for four years). Know now though. Going by his looks love child of Jo (she of the same name and hair) and Alice Cooper. Was going to do a piece on him. Won’t now. Don’t want to.
Swearing. Who needs it? Who wants it? Not me. Is it necessary? No. Is it enjoyable? No, absolutely not. Why do it? Don’t know. In my own private Mary Whitehouse campaign, I refuse to watch modern films and programmes in which an unnecessary assault of foul language is to be found. I am on strike. They could at least have the decency to bleep it out.
I am now an avid and proud voyeur of films made between the thirties and seventies. Sticking to early seventies because as the decade progresses things can go a bit pear-shaped. Can be bit of a minefield in the start of the decade. Clockwork Orange? A whole new discovery has been made. My favourite has to be British-made films of the fifties. What have I been missing all these years? Think of it. You could save on your TV licence. You’d need only to buy one for black and white.
I can only end by saying... by Jove, the Brits made some b****y good films, didn’t they?
English lesson. Listen carefully. What do you mean, no? Tough! Did you know, b****y is not actually profanity it’s an adjective. However, still ****** it out in magnanimous attempt to appear erudite... or does that very action defeat the object?
You know what makes a good exercise? Singing. Apparently. Expands your lungs. I used to be a singer in a group, no, really. These days, to the relief of ears everywhere, the nearest I get to a band is that thing you find attached to your waist as in trousers preferably elasticised for that extra comfort and ease of movement. Have no idea why I put that in... talking of bands, I’ve seen the new Take That video. It was their testament to there’s a squeeze going on and we’re right in there with you.
Gary Barlow bashing away at a piano that looked to be made from plywood and orange boxes. His three-day growth was more down and out than designer so he got that right. Mark Owen jumping up and down like he was having a reaction to something possibly his leather jacket which looked two sizes too small. How could he breathe never mind sing? Jason Orange gallantly sporting his I’m-joost-a-working-class-lad-from-oop-North cloth cap and finally, Howard Donald who was laughing hysterically as he drummed along to their latest in a long line of hits. I think he was grinning. It was hard to tell underneath the furry animal straddled across his face.
I like them really in a distant sort of way. Always have.