Toy call-out


Not that this blog is intended to be some kind of community notice board or anything, but a nice man called Steve Berry has been signed up to write a book based on the old TV Cream Toy Catalogue - a list of toys that started life as a TV-inspired top 100 and has expanded from there. To illustrate the entries in the book, he needs pictures of toy products. This is proving tricky. So he's looking for an avid collector of '70s and '80s board games and toys with an attic full of them who'd be prepared to let the author go round and photograph them for the book. ("Buying it all up on eBay would bankrupt me," says Steve.) In return, a credit in the book is offered.

If anyone can help, go to TV Cream and click on the Toy Catalogue link.

As you were.

[Incidentally, I do own the Tufty Road Safety Game pictured, although the pic is taken from a site that sells handmade doll's house furniture. I like the idea of someone going to the trouble of making a tiny Tufty Road Safety Game. There is hope for us all.]

Arctic Monkeys, Brixton Academy, April 27, 2006
The sixth time we've seen them since November, the second at Brixton, and what an improvement on Bournemouth International Centre, for self-evident architectural reasons. It was our tickets to this, the last night of their woefully brief first UK headline tour, that saw us through the vacuum of Bournemouth. You can rely on Brixton. As predicted, it was a riot. If you lurk around the Arctic Monkeys Forum, you'll see an awful lot of conflicting attitudes to gigs, especially as they get bigger, depending on who's posting - "old" fans (ie. those who liked the band before they got to number one), who consider themselves a cut above; and newbies, who tend to be 14, write in txt language and fancy Alex (example: "How F*CKIN' AWESOME was that gig!! Love the arctic monkeys sooooo much!! Can't believe how amazin it was. I'm still buzzin now!! If you've never seen them live then u dnt even understand how great they are!! Met Alex after aswell awww he's so shy but soooo amazin!! Awwww well wanna see them live again!!" - to which the withering response from an older fan was, simply, "Bedtime!") There is also a lot of lazy talk about "chavs" taking over at gigs and "white stilettos" - such sweeping social generalisation from people so young!

The truth is, these gigs are full of all sorts: Oasis-type beer monsters, who created a seething moshpit at Brixton tonight (and must have been thrilled to see Noel Gallagher in the crowd, whose presence precipitated community singing); small boys with hairless chins enjoying the first flush of gig-going and probably losing their shoes in the maelstrom, about which their mums will take a dim view (nothing wrong with that - it's me, aged 15, seeing U2 on the Boy tour, or Bauhaus, or Theatre Of Hate); and older, wiser music fans, usually in couples, reenergised by the joy and complexity of the Monkeys' songs and musicianship, and feeling the years just evaporate on the spot (nothing wrong with that - it's me, aged 41, er, now).

There's a lot of pushing, and punching the air, and pogoing, and certain factions throw beer in an act of pure joie de vivre - albeit one that could only occur in the pampered West, where kids have so much money they can afford to chuck it in the air. It's marvellous to be a part of all this. There's also singing. Accurate singing. It's a Monkeys tradition, but when it's as widespread as for, say, Sun Goes Down or Mardy Bum, it's truly inspiring. The build-up to the band's entrance, from a position halfway between the mixing desk and the front, was electric, despite another flat set by the Little Flames. (The mix tape was terrific, throwing Rock'n'Roll Star up against The Source featuring Candi Staton and Pretty Vacant and No Diggity.) Their arrival, though heralded by none other than John Cooper Clarke ("my new best mates"), was as unassuming as ever, but ignited a squall of airborne lager and arms were raised across the auditorium.

After that, it was the same old set, in the same old order (Riot Van to A Certain Romance, with no surprises inbetween except for the rhythmic intro to Ritz To The Rubble, and an appearance during Sun Goes Down by the Scummy Man himself, ie. the actor from the video), with no encore. This doesn't matter in the end. It's what we came for. Andy (bassist) stood on a speaker and leapt off. Alex muttered, but sounded sincerely grateful in his old man's way. New songs Who The Fuck's Arctic Monkeys and Leave Before The Lights Come Onwere superb, and largely unaccompanied, as the crowd don't know them yet. We threw ourselves into the throng. Not exactly down the front, but further than good sense would normally allow, buffeted and bashed by the pure, unfettered primal energy of the crowd.

Emerging, soaked through with sweat, into the cool Brixton night, looking out for those in our party we had lost in the multitude, I was reminded of so many other occasions on those same steps down the years (the first being Siouxsie And The Banshees in 1984, after which it was back on the Goth coach to Northampton; the most memorable being The Smiths in 1985), but this really was one of the best. A curry and some Arctic Monkeys in the car home (thanks for driving, Paul) rounded off a fine evening of musical entertainment and contact sport.

How F*CKIN' AWESOME was that gig!! Love the arctic monkeys sooooo much!!

Bedtime!

The Apprentice: Week Ten

[SPOILER ALERT! . . .]

The least interesting episode yet, I'm afraid, although the outcome was a nailbiter. With a 3.45 call ("What? In the afternoon?" said Paul, wishfully), the five alpha contenders were whisked off to Istanbul and cast away on a huge floating nightmare called the Grand Princess. (Some members of my own family love cruises, but the idea has never appealed to me, I'll be honest.) Sir Alan was on holiday, linked via satellite phone and laptop like a modern-day Charlie, so Nick and Margaret, suitably attired for the Mediterranean like two diplomats, took charge, while Syed and Ruth set out to prove that two heads are no better than three - at least not when one of them belongs to Syed, who, to his credit, unspiked his hair for the occasion of playing a jumped-up floating redcoat. Velocity - Michelle, Paul and Ansell - always looked like the stronger crew, and - with Ansell once again edited into the background - they took the lead early on, with what can only be described as A Good Idea: organising a Strictly Come Dancing competition. Simple, contemporary, effective.

Meanwhile, Invicta squabbled and brainstormed and spoke over each other (not bad for just two people, and a portent of what was to come) and eventually cobbled together a "Fun Day" that was to have involved driving golf balls into the sea (vetoed by a no-bullshit entertainments officer and Sir-Alan telltale), later amended to driving golf balls into a net (or through it, as it turned out), then driving golf balls at a sheet (also vetoed by our man in the epaulettes, seemingly on aesthetic grounds). They ditched golf altogether, and went for "pool aerobics", an event that attracted a sum total of zero punters. The quiz was a success, in that some people turned up ("What do the letters HRT stand for?" - a line I wish I'd written for a sitcom about a cruise), but Ruth had bought too much prize champagne and they had to give it to the ship's staff - thus reducing their final profit, potentially sinking Ruth later on. The backwards egg-and-spoon race seemed to go off alright for the three old gentlemen who took part. And the tennis was so exciting, even Syed and Ruth didn't bother turning up for it, their instincts exercised instead by - guess what? - some selling. The raffle tickets! The fact that Syed didn't know how to sell raffle tickets, or read from a sheet of paper into a microphone, or whoop with any feeling for the wrinkled passengers, surely marked him out for the long walk home. Surely!

You had to admire Paul, once again. He threw himself into it, and got himself on telly - the onboard satellite channel, which probably had a bigger audience than Davina (satire), and was anchored by two "wired" Americans who laughed at everything anyone said. Even getting up and sitting down was a riot for these two. The guy fancied Paul, bigging him up with the curiously American description, "The jacket's going, the hair's gelled!" Paul weatherd this particular storm of humiliation, and the punters with numbers on their backs and little interest in daylight turned up for the event, despite Invicta's advert in the ship's newsletter being in a box.

The profit said it all - over a grand for Velocity, three hundred quid for Invicta (or was it dollars?) - and despite other considerations, like customer satisfaction, being "factored in", there was no getting round it: Syed and Ruth had arsed it up royally. The other three went off for yet another victory holiday, to "fucking Rome" (our tour guide, Paul: "There's the Colisseum where Gladiator was filmed . . . there's . . . pause . . . There's just shit there!"). Syed and Ruth battled it out in the boardroom, where Sir Alan, jetlagged, gave the English language the biggest mangling of the week, speaking of a "row of beans" at one point. My heart sank, after some unedifying bickering and the red cheeks of Ruth, when it looked like Sir Alan was going to fire the woman over the bloke. (She hadn't performed well, but at least she knew how to sell raffle tickets.) But he dummied us. Syed got the finger. A nation stood up and did some shadenfreude aerobics. He turned the collar up on his overcoat, purchsed, one assumes, in the East End where he was raised by stray dogs, and got the hell out of our lives, still giving it 110 per cent in the taxi. Ruth entered the final four.

Who's next then? Two next week, and if impact was a factor, Ansell would be one of them. Mind you, he's had some nice freebies out of it, having been on the winning team almost every week. The quiet man. I'll stick with Ruth as my favourite, but Paul's still in with a strong chance.



Previous reviews:
Week One
Week Two
Week Three
Week Four
Week Five
Week Six
Week Seven
Week Eight
Week Nine

A lovely, life-affirming sight on the way into work today. (I am still commuting in to the sitcom office most days a week, leaving the house at 8.30 in the morning, walking to Redhill, enjoying the sunlight and the birdsong, sometimes eschewing the iPod altogether until I get off the train at the other end, to mask the noise of human beings and the Tube.) As my train came over Battersea railway bridge this morning, into Victoria, I glanced down at the old rusty barge that seems to be permanently moored on the north side of the river. It has THE WEASEL written on it in white paint, as if that's its name. It doesn't do much, THE WEASEL, except for hold water and look rusty. Except today, as a beautiful heron was standing in it, wading in the water. Clearly, as I was on a train, I only saw it briefly as we went past, but it was enough to lift my heart. I saw three cormorants flying over at this very spot the other week. These are the things that make the commute almost bearable. Find out more about the heron here

The West Wing goes live



ER, Will & Grace, The Bill, Coronation Street, that Quatermass experiment: all TV shows that have gone live as a gimmick. There's no need for it. It merely generates publicity and probably gives the cast and crew concerned a rare buzz, like working in rep again. Trust The West Wing to pull off the same stunt but for intellectual and contextual reasons: a live presidential debate between the fictional candidates, Vinick (Alda) and Santos (Smits). Now, I've read on various blogs and forums that it was unscripted. Don't be silly. Of course it was scripted. It was written by Laurence O'Donnell Jr and directed by Alex Graves. There's no way NBC are going to turn an hour of almost-primetime (well, Sunday night) to two actors doing improv, even actors of this stature. This was planned and blocked and rehearsed like a short play, and yet managed to retain a sense of live-ness that made it exciting even when watching it un-live, some weeks later, in the wrong country. It was a great episode. Gimmicky by defintion, but also sly, in that the candidates touched on issues that were not touched on by the real candidates, Bush and Kerry, in the last televised debate. As we have come to expect, this is political porn - an idealised version of real life.

I wish there was a transcript somewhere - I've searched all the political blogs and can't find one. (If you do, let me know.) The chairman was real-life journalist Forrest Sawyer, who did a calm and authoratitive job, telling off the live studio audience for clapping (which, of course, will have been scripted, just like the guy who shouted out, "You liar!" at Vinick and was removed, Walter Wolfgang-style, by the truth police). When Vinick called for the usual rules to be torn up, so that they could have a "real debate", it actually felt - I don't know - dangerous. Also convincing was when they moved out of range of their fixed podium mics, and were handed roving mics. This was clearly designed to allow the actors to roam.

"How many jobs will you create?" Sawyer asked Vinick.
"None," he replied. "Entrepreneurs create jobs. Business creates jobs. The president's job is to get out of the way."

"Republicans have tried to turn 'liberal' into a bad word," said Santos. "Well, liberals ended slavery in this country."
"A Republican president ended slavery," Vinick retorted.
"Yes, a liberal Republican, Senator. What happened to them?"

It was chilling to hear this fake-Republican say he'd rather drill for oil in Alaska and upset a few animals than, hypothetically, drill in the Grand Canyon and upset some tourists. (Alda, a committed liberal, must have relished doing this material.) Equally, you could hear a pin drop among the Democrat households of America when Santos vowed never to go to war over oil, and urged Vinick to join him in this solemn promise. He refused. George W Bush was probably watching Extreme Makeover on the other side. (Which, incidentally, whupped The West Wing in the ratings that Sunday night. It managed to squeeze its total up to about 9 million from the usual 8, but this is small beer in the world of network television, especially for a show that once commanded audiences of 18 million.)

A genuine poll after the debate went out revealed that Vinick's fake-approval ratings had gone up. Alda did do a marvellous job. But then, he is an actor and isn't going to be president. Those italics are to remind me, not you.