Author: PAJNewman

Farewell Jackie C…

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Revisiting…Jackie C

Jackie Collins' Chances

Jackie Collins’ Chances

Yesterday (Sunday 19th September) I had an unusual experience. I found out that a writer I had loved and read voraciously had died. Nothing especially odd in that, I hear Enid Blyton isn’t exactly going strong these days. Except that, it was a writer from so long in the mists of my own reading life, that I had forgotten I ever read her, enjoyed her, been influenced by her.

I can’t really pinpoint when I first discovered the Jackie Collins canon, but I know I was in primary school, probably about 10 years of age. I also can’t remember how I came across a doorstop-sized bonkbuster aimed at grown women, suffice to say that I have a dim memory of being into gangster films around this time and being attracted to what, I now know to be, the first of her books about Lucky Santangelo, Chances.

But I do remember reading and re-reading that book. I do remember the yellowed pages, the smell of cheap paperback glue disintegrating and the pencil written 25p jumble sale price tag.

Oh, and the sex. I remember the sex as only a little boy in a pre-internet age could. Jackie Collins taught me anatomical details hitherto unmentioned in south coast Church of England primary school education and hinted towards untold riches for the gainfully exploratory. A lesson stored for the (all too distant) future, I remember thinking even then…

I remember action, gangster stories told with brisk clarity and swift violence. This was The Godfather but with more sex. A heady brew for the time. So much so, that I went on to read Lucky, the sequel, and – memorably startling the wee Reading Assistant who came into hear the year 6s read – Lady Boss the third instalment.

It occurs to me now, I was probably quite an odd child. But, no one really seemed concerned in the late 80s that what I was reading was probably vastly inappropriate. They just liked that I was reading at all.

I drifted away from Jackie. I dipped back in during my mid-teens but I never really took up the habit again – like smoking in reverse. I remember seeing her face on the back of the novels and being a bit alarmed (I don’t know what her stance on plastic surgery was, but all I can say for decorum sake is I found her disturbing).

Anyway, as I said, I drifted away from Jackie. But in her genre she could write. Effectively, efficiently and – I know realise – she did things for women readers (and, clearly, some men too) that stuffier ‘artsy’ writers couldn’t.

So, I’m sorry she went out of my mind for all this time. She deserved better. Now, I wonder if I can get hold of her back numbers on my i-pad…

If you are interested, you can find her work here:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Jackie-Collins/e/B000APZA96/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1442865014&sr=8-2-ent

And there’s a lovely obituary here:
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/sep/20/jackie-collins

48 Hours in… Leicester

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48 Hours in… Leicester

‘Let’s go to Leicester on holiday’ said no one, ever. Certainly not me, anyway. I’d never previously been to this compact Midlands city but, a friend’s wedding and the chance to explore a place my partner, Miss Pretty Shoes knows well, meant that I was delighted to be introduced to the myriad attractions of this under-rated destination.

The main attraction is that it is a vibrant city. Small enough to walk around comfortably, there are really only two main shopping streets, criss-crossed at regular intervals by lanes which gives it the feeling of Brighton without sea.

You can find all of the things we associate with modern Britain – Nandos, a plethora of Subway franchises, tanning shops, betting emporia and soulless chain drinking dens – but don’t be put off. Just around the corner will be a cutesy independent store selling original t-shirts, bookshops or antiques priced at a sensible level. And, in fairness, even one of the ghastly chain boozers is named The Last Plantagenet which is a quality pub name anywhere.

A replica of the skeleton of King RIchard III

A replica of the skeleton of King RIchard III

The big attraction is definitely history and Richard III in particular. Since being rescued from the less than celebratory location of a city centre car park in 2012, the city has gone Dick mad. The King Richard III Visitor Centre (www.kriii.com) is spread over two floors and allows you to learn the basics of his reign before heading upstairs to cover the details of the discovery of his final resting place and the science behind it. It is a beautiful venue, all the more impressive that it opened only two years after the discovery. It caters to people of all ages, incorporating interactive exhibits, multimedia presentations and displays throughout. I was particularly taken with the archaeology dig pit filled with iron filings to allow you to uncover pieces found at the gravesite – but that’s because I’m a big child. You can also see the actual location of where the body was found and – if you must – walk on top of it, (I’m afraid I must. And I did.) The guides were friendly and knowledgeable and took the time to answer questions and debate historical events with Miss Pretty Shoes, which pleased us no end. The visitor centre isn’t cheap – around £25 for two adults and a gift book – but if you’re interested in this most maligned monarch then it is money well spent.

The tomb of the newly interred King RIchard III within Leicester Cathedral

The tomb of the newly interred King RIchard III within Leicester Cathedral

Across the road – past the statue of the man himself wielding a crown and, as in popular mythology, presumably crying out for a horse – is the charming Leicester Cathedral (www.leicestercathedral.org). The day we visited was a Sunday so a distinct balancing act between people coming to engage in a normal service had to be offset by church officials against the large crowd of visitors looking to see the site of the newly interred monarch. The Cathedral is free, but donations are suggested and with the volunteers offering a guide to the building and the constant stream of visitors, the suggested £3 is not outrageous, if for no other reason than the upkeep of the fabric of the building. There has definitely been a bit of Dicky III fever in the city indeed, but almost all the cashing in seems to be in a vein of quiet, respectful bandwagon jumping, so good on them!

The outside of the compact, but cute, Leicester Cathedral.

The outside of the compact, but cute, Leicester Cathedral.

We walked. Leicester is one of those small cities which just beg you to explore on foot. We walked up New Walk past beautiful architecture from the Georgian era, the Victorian Age as well as past the loveliest Art Deco-style fire station I’ve ever seen. Then we walked to the University of Leicester which Miss Pretty Shoes had previously graced with her presence. (www.le.ac.uk) The main attraction for her – then and now I reckon – was that Richard and David Attenborough had been brought up on the campus as their father – Frederick Attenborough – was the Principal of University College and instrumental in the conversion to University status with the award of the Royal charter in 1957. Their house remains on the grounds and a tower was built in his honour.

The Attenborough Tower at the University of Leicester

The Attenborough Tower at the University of Leicester

Leicester has one of the most multi-cultural populations in the UK and this is most abundantly clear in the wide variety of food available. Leicester’s Market (www.leicestermarket.co.uk) is a wonderful place to stroll around, packed with high quality fruit and veg (as well as t-shirts, DVDs and second hand TVs) including one Lineker’s stall which hosts beautiful strawberries and also produced a former England captain many will have heard of.


Kayal is an Indian restaurant specialising in healthy seafood with a South Indian origin. The food is delicate – superbly filling and has been promoted by guests such TVs The Hairy Bikers and The Times. The fish platter starter alone is enough for a main course and comes heaving with delicately battered calamari. The service is gentle, knowledgeable and considerate and it is a place I can no recommend highly enough for an evening meal. (www.kayalrestaurant.com)

On our last day, we stopped for lunch at the adorable Kuru Kuru Sushi (www.kuru-kuru-sushi.com) which offers a wide variety of sushi and sashimi at really affordable prices. The food is delicate and the service is kindly and efficient. It is not large – four seats at a breakfast-style bar – but the mint-infused tea and the quality of the fish should persuade you to go early. Take-away – both in person and over the phone – is available for those who don’t want to sit next to strangers.

A rocket at the National Space Centre

A rocket at the National Space Centre

Our final destination was the National Space Centre (www.spacecentre.co.uk) which is situation two miles outside the town centre. Here you can visit the Patrick Moore Plantetarium and watch a documentary (aimed at children really) called We Are All Stars narrated by Andy Serkis. From here you can explore rockets, see real moon rock and lose yourself in a wide variety of activities covering pretty much everything to do with space. It’s an absolute knock out venue which, especially with children, I would heartily recommend.

So, that was my 48 hours in Leicester. A vibrant city of multi-cultural influences, gorgeous food and a surprisingly wide array of activities I never thought I’d find in the middle of England. ‘Let’s go to Leicester on holiday,’ said no one ever. Except me, next time, I reckon.

*Myself and Miss Pretty Shoes stayed at the Premier Inn Leicester City Centre. None of these venues knew I would be writing about them, nor paid for any endorsements.


The Corsican Caper

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Peter Mayle's latest south of France delight

Peter Mayle’s latest south of France delight

The Corsican Caper In the UK, Peter Mayle is still best known for his non-fiction account of life in France, A Year in Provence. Nearly 30 years old, the book recounted Mayle and his wife’s move to a broken down house in the countryside and his struggles to work with the builders and locals.

In terms of epoch-defining work, this was definitely an under-the-radar success but the result was an glut of Brits shelving the rat race and heading to the sun at the earliest opportunity. The book also created an entire new genre of works by a range of authors with similar stories to tell. Some are excellent – Chris Stewart and Driving Over Lemons – some are rot.

But, what people are perhaps less aware of, is Mayle’s latter career as a novelist. He has been turning out a range of work – both fiction and non-fiction – since his big successes of the early 90s and the novels are of an infinite lightness and charm.

I’m never really comfortable with work being described in the ‘guilty pleasure’ category. Either you like the work or you don’t and Mayle, I’m sure, pours all his efforts into producing the work. They have a formula – charming, handsome English male with enough money to do what he pleases gets sucked into solving crime in the south of France, whilst dalliancing with a beautiful local girl and stopping for lashings of Provencal cuisine and gallons of rose wine.

So far, so parfait. However, over the last few novels, there appears to have been an evolution in the formula. The lead characters are now American and there is definitely a move to try and tap into a wider international market.

The Corsican Caper is the third in a series – preceded by The Vintage Caper and The Marsaille Caper and the first time Mayle has tackled a series of fiction titles – and is centred around the character of Sam Levitt, a former criminal turned adventurer for hire, who has, over the course of the books, been involved in wine heists, kidnapping and art theft. The gorgeous Elena Morales and his billionaire chum Francis Reboul, owner of a sumptuous Gatsby-esque mansion overlooking the Mediterranean near Marsaille, join Sam in his quest for a profitable life.

This latest novel actually centres around the house itself, when an unscrupulous Russian business man – Oleg Vronsky – who, when not indulging in standard Russian oligarch behaviour as prescribed by Mayle, such as purchasing a football club, tries to acquire the luxurious property by a series of increasingly desperate methods. This, inevitably, involves kidnapping, assassination attempts, the Corsican mafia and Sam saving the day. And lunch. Lots of lunches.

The charm of the novels is in the descriptions of the food and the wine. I’m guessing that Peter Mayle has had to dredge out his old thesaurus across the span of his writing for new ways of describing rose wine – but that’s OK because I like the vicarious experience of eating and drinking in sunny climes, especially when I’m stuck in a wintry Highlands.

The Corsican Caper is not high art. It’s not going to lecture you on the human condition or tell you anything about human nature which had slipped your attention previously. But, the novel nips along, the plot twists and turns without apparent effort on Mayle’s part and the man can write about wealthy people, enjoying the good life, like few others.

I can only offer a wholehearted recommendation for this as a first class beach book.

The Corsican Caper in Five Words: Crime and Wine in paradise

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Corsican-Caper-Peter-Mayle/dp/0345804562/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1433683461&sr=8-1&keywords=the+corsican+caper

Reposting: The Politics of ‘Poldark’

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poldark

The smouldering cast of 2015’s BBC adaptation of ‘Poldark’

This post about the Politics of Poldark has proved consistently popular. Please note, this was originally written and posted in May 2015 after Season One and doesn’t deal with any later events in the show 

As with a great many of these sorts of things, I came to the 2015 adaptation of Winston Graham’s ‘Poldark’ novels late (i.e. after they had finished airing and we got them on DVD). I was not keen at first. “Oh good – another BBC costume drama about poncey aristos doing their best Colin Firth-impression” is not a phrase I’m likely to utter. However, I was delighted to be proved wrong. From early in the first episode, I was entranced. Not – in the way that apparently the middle aged cohort of Sunday night fantasists obsessed with Aidan Turner’s pecs are – but by the choice of subject at this particular juncture in political history. Brave does not begin to cover it. We’ve all heard the BBC criticised for bias – in Scotland for a pro-union stance, in England for its slavish adherence to Tory policy or for being the ‘Bolshevik Broadcasting Corporation’. I’ve always taken a neutral stance on this alleged bias – firstly, I’m sceptical that an organisation as Byzantine and disparate as the BBC is capable of maintaining a coherent party line (I struggle with believing in organisations to be that organised.) And, also, because I think if you’re being attacked for bias from all sides, then you’re probably on the right lines. But make no mistake – ‘Poldark’ is brave. In an age of austerity, with food bank usage topping 1 million people, (http://www.theguardian.com/society/2015/apr/22/food-bank-users-uk-low-paid-workers-poverty) for the nation’s broadcaster to produce an adaptation centred on a man of noble birth concerned with the survival of his workers to the extent that he will take on starving miners as farm hands and use his societal position to raise capital to put his people back to work is pretty ballsy.

Ross Poldark and serving wench Demelza

Ross Poldark and serving wench Demelza

The point of business is not just to make money is like a refrain for Ross Poldark and he outrages his contemporaries with this standpoint. He stands up for poachers and petitions not only the court for clemency, but also the owner of the pheasants, because of the context of the boy poacher’s circumstances. He is acutely aware of the hardships of subsistence living in his period for normal people. Poldark even tries to form what amounts to a Fairtrade workers’ collective to gain a fair price for the tin mined in the region. “I’m disgusted by my class,” he tells the lovely Demelza (another waif saved from a poor home life by Poldark at a time he can ill-afford to pay for another mouth to feed), “not all of them, but most.” In short, the character of Poldark is like a socialist hero of another age – one who actually believes that by working together we can all get richer. At a time when the top 1% are stretching away from the other 99% across the developed world, I can scarcely think of a more suitable hero than a man who is willing to see poverty and hardship as the result of circumstance rather than sloth and ingratitude and well done to the BBC (and Mammoth Screen who have undertaken the lavish production) for daring to offer the nation a compassionate hero – even if he does spends too long topless scything and staring out of the window in moody contemplation.

Aidan Turner as Ross Poldark - a socialist hero?

Aidan Turner as Ross Poldark – a socialist hero?

Revisiting… Mallrats (1995)

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With Kevin Smith have recently taken to Twitter to confirm a sequel to this slacker comedy of the mid-90s, currently titled MallBrats, now seemed like an excellent opportunity to revisit the original for the second in a series of posts Revisiting works worthy of reconsideration.

Mallrats - Returning to the Mall at a cinema near you.

Mallrats – Returning to the Mall at a cinema near you.


The story follows a day in the life of two listless buddies in an unnamed American suburb, Brodie (played by Jason Lee in his first starring role after a career as a skate boarder) and TS – Jeremy London (before the legal difficulties).

The movie opens with these two “heroes” being dumped by their respective partners – Renee (Shannon Doherty in spikey form throwing off the Beverly Hills 90210 shackles) ditching Brodie for his total lack of drive or ambition and addiction to Sega ice hockey games (retro!) and Brandi (the picturesque Claire Forlani) ditching TS because his sage wisdom has lead to a girl dying in a freak swimming pool accident. The loveable idiots retreat to the mall where they indulge in sulking, introspection, discussion of the practicalities of comic book character sex and retail therapy.

Full disclosure: I’m a Kevin Smith fan. There are not many people I can actually write that about and I’m not blind to his faults – as a filmmaker or in any other area of his public life, but truth be told, I’ve drunk the Kevin Smith Kool Aid.

I am embarrassed to admit how many hours I have spent listening to him and Scott Mosier on Smodcast, or Smith and Ralph Garman on Hollywood Babble On, or Smith with guests on the Fat Man on Batman podcast or… You get the idea. I sincerely believe, that there is an argument to be made that Smith is, in fact, one of the most creative and important directors working today, for, for example, having shifted the expectation of how much ‘inside baseball’ you share with the audience, but that’s another article for another time.

But, one of the reasons for my fan-dom is that I have a penchant for art that tells stories and creates universes out of multiple parts. Knowing that the Rick Darris who Rene cheated on TS with is the same Darris who tells the ‘Finger Cuffs’ story in Chasing Amy is an ‘Easter Egg’ for the viewer which pleases. This is true in the Parlabane-era work of Christopher Brookmyre too, in writing, and I think is a gift for the careful audience member.

Either way, what is undeniable is that the movie was panned on release – Smith has spoken about this too in other sources. However, he has also said that he has lost count of the amount of people who say that Mallrats was their introduction to his work – the gateway drug to his other work like Chasing Amy or the other View Askew titles and this was certainly true for me. Like a great many people, I was introduced to this flick by friends (friends who bore a striking resemblance to Jay and Silent Bob (or maybe Cheech and Chong) truth be told) on home video and fell in love.

Rewatching it now, Mallrats definitely has the feel of an updated teen comedy like Porky’s for the Gen X’ers. Smith has written about this at some length (you can read the thoughts of the man himself here: http://viewaskew.com/mallrats/kevmall.html and, on this level, the film really starts to make a lot of sense. In the credits, Smith thanks the two Johns – Landis and Hughes for inspiring and entertaining him as a teenager and it is clear that Mallrats was his attempt to make that kind of a film. But, you can see why it might not have connected with an audience that was – in that year alone – enjoying Get Shorty, and released in the year of Empire Records, Dangerous Minds and The Usual Suspects – the tone just didn’t fit for the times.

However, it has now found its niche and these days, is – I think – regarded with affection. I’m fairly certain that American Pie, the whole of Judd Apatow’s career and, even The Inbetweeners would not exist without Mallrats. Now, there’s a claim to juggle with.

It has some jokes that are still pretty solid within the genre – the carpet store in the mall called Rug Munchers, the intertextual references to The Godfather, Batman (Michael Keaton, not Christian ‘The Gruffalo’ Bale) and Jaws, as well as Smith’s usual litany of fast paced, whip smart characters all pondering at pace like dime store Sartres. The stink palm and the chocolate covered pretzels scarred a generation. There is also a great turn from Ben Affleck as the sleazy store manager. Affleck plays the unsympathetic role with a strutting insouciance and you realise what a big man he is when he goes toe-to-toe with Lee.

Interestingly, Affleck is also key to one of the scenes that does jar the viewer 20 years on. The scene where he attacks Lee in a corridor and explains his nefarious plan for Doherty has a gritty realism which actually makes the punches stark and aggressive. It really takes the audience aback, especially as mere moments before there have been comedic punches and kicks to the groin galore. It’s a shift which is uncomfortable.

There are other gripes, Jason Mewes is not as comfortable an actor here as he would go on to be, and some of the scenes have strange moments and pauses which I can’t help but think an editor as accomplished as Smith would now remove, but these are minor quibbles.

Smith has confirmed via Twitter, Instagram and the like, that the bulk of the cast have agreed to return, which is a huge boost. He’s also spoken about including the man of, like, 7 voices, Ralph Garman in the movie which is a massive boost for those of us who have marvelled at his dynamic performances and fury fuelled diatribes as point man on the tremendous Hollywood Babble On. The man will be a huge addition to the ensemble.

Mallrats shines on as movie which, if you have seen it, lives with you. I don’t know if it’s the simplistic tale of lovers spurned and returned or because no movie with a three-nippled fortune teller can be all bad, but it has a sweetness which resonates and which means that 20 years on, I think we’d all like to see what happened to Brodie, TS et al.

But, before you see the sequel, go back to mall – it’s worth it.

Train Ride

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The 17:15 had one seat left. Tattered, and coloured in the paint factory explosion beloved of rail company liveries, it was tucked against the wall with an embarrassed air.

Tinny music leaked from cheap headphones seeping from behind her; an old woman tutted. A mother could be heard explaining why the train hadn’t moved. Two men in expensive suits spoke in incongruous accents about West Ham’s defeat.

Her shoes were off, balancing on the hardened edge of the seat. The must rose through her tights and she took off her glasses and massaged her temples in a clichéd pose.

She looked at the window. The smear of forehead grease, the nicks and scratches of countless tree branch scrapes and dashes. There was mould around the loosening putty of the frame and a creeping fog of condensation between the two glass sheets in need of replacement.

She scrabbled through the detritus of her bag for a book and she clutched at the bag as it nearly slipped, threatening to scatter tampons, lipstick, pocket book and purse onto the floor.

She heard the automatic door and began shuffling her feel, trying to tuck them back into her slip-ons.

He was tall. Tall, like he had to duck to move through the door, tall.

He raised an eyebrow of permission.

She opened her book at the same moment as the bells pinged. There was the three ring blast of closing doors and the train began to chug out of the station. She was self conscious now. He had wonderful eyes. She opened the chubby novel and shifted in her seat. She chanced a glance up from her page and saw this he was reading his newspaper, casually folded in on itself.

‘If it’s the Daily Mail, I’m giving up on men once and for all and visiting Sapphic island, that’s all there is to it’ she thought.

The newspaper was a curve ball. She had hoped for The Guardian – at best – at worst The Independent, if one really must take a newspaper fashioned in a dolls house. Obviously no one took The Times now it only came in comic size. But the International Herald Tribune was a surprising selection. American? Possibly.

The train ambled on. The motion not soothing enough for sleep, nor uncomfortable enough for complaint. She looked out the window. Darkness had drawn in whilst she’d been indulging her taste for amateur media analysis and now she was back to the harshness of her reflection, backlit by the firefly strength bulbs of the carriage.

She knew that he was watching her. Is it an animalistic, danger signal left over from prehistory that makes us sense being watched? Whatever, he was watching her so it would pay to check that her nose was clean and that her blouse hadn’t unwittingly fallen open.

She shuffled her eyes to the left and met his eyes in the reflection. They glistened even in the smudged reflection of the South Central service window.  She risked a look directly across at him. He still held her gaze. Smiled.

It was a good smile. Well judged. Not sleazy or louche nor honed and practiced to the point of confidence. His teeth were white enough to be attractive without speaking of masses of expensive cosmetic dental treatments and evenly spaced enough to be right, but not so regulation as to speak of teenage anguish and slurred sibilance.

She held his eye for a flirtatious fraction too long and went back to her book. When next she peeked up, he was sunk in his crossword. Yet she knew he was looking up too. A mating dance of apprentice peacocks. She wanted to fan herself like Elizabeth Bennett and be witty and coy, yet seductive at the same time. But wit, coyness and Jane Austen never feature highly on public transport so she, once again, returned to the novel.

As the adenoidal voice of the announcer gibbered the imminent arrival of the train into South Ruislip, she realized with horror that he was preparing to get up. He was fishing for his battered briefcase and pedantically clipped the lid back onto his fountain pen.

He caught her eye, stood and ducked as he moved through the panting of the automated door to wait for egress. Continuing on to West Ruislip, and the end of the line, she went back to her novel. From across the carriage, she watched the tall man bob his head as he walked briskly along the platform.

Idly, she reached across for the orphaned Herald Tribune which lay lazily folded on his still warm seat. She wondered how well he’d got on with the crossword. She frowned. He wasn’t as methodical as she’d have liked. Words were in the boxes but no clues had been scored through to denote completion. Very ill disciplined.

In the boxes, block capitals spaced evenly between horizontal and vertical, were the words:

“YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL. I SHALL NEVER FORGET YOU”

Revisiting… Dream On

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Revisiting… A new series of posts revisiting film and television shows worthy of attention

Revisiting… Dream On (1990)

40-years-of-hbo-comedy-6-638
As HBO was setting out to prove that it was not just television, (“It’s Not TV – It’s HBO”) the station that went on to dramatically shift the landscape of American media culture over the succeeding quarter of a century, commissioned Dream On as its earliest original series.

John Landis – best known for directing movies like The Blues Brothers and An American Werewolf in London – asked Universal if he could take advantage of their catalogue of old movies it didn’t really know what to do with. They agreed and, in an entrepreneurial mood, David Crane and Martha Kaufman were hired to produce a show that could utilise these clips – Dream On was the result.

The series follows the ups and downs in the life of book editor Martin Tupper, played by Brian Benben. His life is variously disrupted, supported, scuppered and generally beset by his ex-wife Judith (Wendie Malick who you may recognise from another American sitcom Just Shoot Me where she played the predatory sex-crazed former model Nina Van Horn), his teenage son Jeremy (Chris Demetral), his charismatic talk show host best friend Eddie played by Dorien Wilson and his acerbic secretary Toby (played with fine bulldog force by Denny Dillon).

The show now stands out for the way in which it both set and broke established norms of television sitcoms. On the one hand, the dating disasters of a recently divorced single man in New York was hardly ground-breaking topical comedy and Benben spends a lot of time mugging for the camera in order to allow the clips to be fed into the screen time, like a live-action collection of Family Guy cut aways.

On the other, HBO pushed the fact that it was allowed to do things that the networks couldn’t – Look: nudity! – which also meant they could address issues outwith the perimeter of ordinary television fare – open about sex, for example, and willing to do an entire episode centred around Martin taking an AIDs test; pretty close to the knuckle 25 years ago. Four years later, Crane and Kaufman were responsible for the behemoth that was Friends, not a story line I can imagine attaching to the casual liaisons of Joey Tribbiani.

Dream On is not laugh out loud funny, it has to be admitted. Benben is a likeable lead – although whiny – but this aspect is addressed by the writers too. The classic movie clips are used to punctuate the emotional beats of the scenes, which can get wearying for the viewers.

But there is charm: in the performances and in the chance to see the forgotten oeuvre of Ronald Reagan, and to realise how much B-movie schlock Lee Marvin made. The show has dated too – there are a lot of pastel colours and the shoulder pads are a wonder of quarter century old engineering.

But, it has a classic opening sequence, “https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4b7fzAdDxyE” which is actually the origin of the classic static opening for all later HBO shows and if, like me, you watched it as a child on late night Channel 4 in the UK, there is nostalgia for a time when kids were sat in front of the TV and told to be seen and not heard. A bit like the narrative of Martin himself, come to think about it.

Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack 2015

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Wisden 2015 - a welcome addition to the shelf

Wisden 2015 – a welcome addition to the shelf

Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack 2015

I remember reading a review of a previous edition of the Great Yellow Book that compared reading it to the eating of a Cadbury’s Cream Egg (the line of thought was something like the strapline – ‘How Do You Eat Yours?’ if memory serves…)

Well, I ingest mine in a gluttonous, inelegant fashion, diving headlong into the annually weightier tome with the certain knowledge that if Wisden is here, then Summer is here and I can go back to dreaming about cut shots and hook shots and pull shots that I do not have the talent to actually play when the season proper actually begins.

If the Great Yellow Book is to cricket fans what the Little Red Book was to Maoists, then this latest edition sees editor Lawrence Booth taking no prisoners and hitting the ECB hard for their bungled handling of the sport over the last 12 months.

Indeed – if you’ll allow me to labour a simile – it was Mao who said, “Members of the Party committee maintain only formal, not real, unity among themselves. This situation must be changed,” and that’s not far from Booth’s sentiments in his Editor’s notes, which maintain that, “It was nexus of self-preservation – yet, as the wagons circled, the wheels kept threatening to come off.” Ouch; harsh, but fair.

This is, apparently, not a sentiment shared by the ECB themselves; as evidenced by the reports of out-going Chairman Giles Clarke’s confrontation with Booth at the launch dinner of the almanack.

As on so many topics, I disagree with Clarke and am very happy with the 2015 incarnation. Booth’s notes are strident – but accurate to a large percentage of observers. But to read Wisden is never to endure a one-note innings; there is always timbre. Here we have Gideon Haigh’s affection ode to nicknames in the game, Ed Cowan on the mindset of opening batsmen and the ever-readable Simon Barnes on the increasingly rare joy of the genuine “bunny” no.11 batsman and Michael Clarke’s emotional farewell to Philip Hughes.

These joys are supplemented by the, long overdue, inclusion of a section dedicated to Women’s cricket as well as an expanded obituaries which takes in some of the people omitted for various reasons in the past (and I’m surely not the only person reduced to hoping for a call up due to illness/injury of a player while watching a first class match as my final hope of being included in this section in the future?)

Quite simply, Wisden is the go-to place for a collection of the finest writers, writing about a sport with an (arguably) greater literary tradition than any other. So alongside Booth, there is Simon Hughes on he-that-shall-not-be-named, Michael Atherton, Rob Smyth, Stephen Chalke, Jarrod Kimber, the ever-green Marcus Berkmann and the first fiction entry in the annual Wisden Writing Competition by a writer I’d not encountered before, Peter Casterton.

The final joy is the Chronicle of 2014 where you can read about the Pakistani Taliban’s refusal of a good will match against the government and the use of Cannabis growing lamps, confiscated by West Midlands Police, to aid the growth of Warwickshire’s (legal) grass alongside many other vignettes of the charming, and slightly dotty, world of cricket.

If you’ve not invested before, you’ll not be disappointed. This edition makes a fine addition to any cricket lover’s shelf.

The Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack 2015 in five words: Another delightful first class innings.

‘Gironimo’ by Tim Moore

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Girnomino

I read Tim Moore’s book, ‘French Revolutions’ when it came out 10 years ago and liked it. In the book, Moore details his attempts to cycle the route of the Tour de France on his own in his ill-prepared fashion, with a charmingly wry wit.

I liked it, I think, because I like travel books and I like travel, and manage to do so as regularly as I can, always in a wry and ill-prepared fashion and without any of the insouciance and sang froid that I would like to imagine that I possess. So, I liked his work. But I didn’t remember it as especially memorable and I’d lost track of his work subsequently.

I picked up this book for a friend’s birthday gift. A thought process no more complex than; ‘he likes cycling and we both love Italy. What could go wrong?’

This time, Tim Moore cycles the route of a race, on his own, recording his observations about his lack of preparation in a charmingly wry fashion. Seeing a pattern here?

In this case, he retraces the route of the 1914 Giro d’Italia, known as one of the most difficult races in cycling history. A nice addition is that this time he decides to undertake this madcap scheme on a reconditioned original – or as original as can be sourced – century old bicycle and dons woollen riding kit to boot.

And, here’s the thing: I loved it. It is one of the most genuinely laugh out loud books I’ve read, ever. I was not prepared for the sheer range of laughs the writing provoked, ranging from childish sniggers as he brakes and catapults his genitals onto the exposed rusted bolt where the front of his saddle should be, to the screamingly funny story of the cyclist who had enough in the original race and proceeded to savagely beat an unfortunately officious customs official who got in the way.

Moore manages to convey all of this with grace and no little use of simile. “‘To ride is to work,’ I said to my knees. ‘Each turn of the pedals is like the click of the freelance writer’s mouse’ or “‘It was as if my intimate parts now belonged to someone else: someone who was dead, and had died a virgin.’”

There are lags in the book, for sure. Any travel book will, at some stage, encounter the problem that, after a while, the writer must move and conveying regular movement – unless something extreme is happening – can be quite dull.

Moore’s solution when he doesn’t have a homemade wine bottle cork brake block repair anecdote to convey is two-fold. He either simply dips into the official history of the original tour and finds another tale of riders falling asleep in barns from hypothermia or drinking red wine from their panniers or keeps track of his own progress along the course against the times and distances of the original riders.

This book is a triumph of the genre and fully deserved its place on the Radio 4 Book of the Week list. It is so good I’m off to re-read ‘French Revolutions’ to check that I didn’t miss something a decade ago.

Moore is an approachable guide and its light, amusing, tone is the perfect complement to the guilt that comes from reading about someone else’s adventures while you’re slobbing at home.

I’m glad there are men out there prepared to do things to push themselves physically to the limits. I’m glad it’s not me that has to and I’m especially glad when they have Tim Moore’s ability to document these feats of ill-prepared carnage in charmingly wry observations.

Gironimo! in Five Words: Laughing to the Finish Line

You can follow the author on Twitter @MrTimMoore and the publishers, Yellow Jersey Press @YellowJersey_ed

I Think, Therefore I Play by Andrea Pirlo

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I Think, Therefore I Play – Andrea Pirlo with Alessandro Alciato (translated from the Italian by Mark Palmer)

Oh good, another footballer’s autobiography one hears the book buying public exclaim at this BackPage Press publication. However, this small Scottish publishing house is building a reputation as nothing if not surprising, innovative and imaginative in both its list choices and its execution of what ought to be standard fare.

All of us interested in football know that Pirlo can play. He has been the de rigour hipster football man crush since he scurried onto the scene at Brescia in the late 1990s.

Few people can control a game, caress a pass or steer a free kick, like the man.
If you’re not familiar (a, shame on you and b, why are you reading this?) have a look here:

However, he also appears to have a way with words hitherto unexplored. Sometimes, this can be quite moving in its simplicity, such as when he explains to team mate Alessandro Nesta that he will be leaving AC Milan, saying simply, “I kept him up to speed with everything: step by step, tear by tear… I cried and I wasn’t ashamed to do so.” Not the sort of phrases one can imagine in the memoirs of a contemporary British footballers. Or even past British footballers if it comes to that.

There is remarkably little in the way of ‘the gaffer told me to go out and do that so I did.’ Instead, Pirlo seems to view himself as an almost metaphysical embodiment of Italy and – by extension – of calcio itself. The “wandering gypsy” on the pitch is translated into words with wit and insight by both Alessandro Alicato and the translator Mark Palmer who both do a superb job.

To be sure, Pirlo has got a healthy dose of self-confidence. “I would never have got to feel like just another guy. A normal person… The Pirlo I could have been but instead never became. They treated me like I was nothing special.” These are big words for any man and, in less skilfully written texts, can make a reader feel queasy. However, Andrea Pirlo gets away with it for a couple of reasons. Firstly, he really is one of the all-time greats and, secondly, there are lashings of humour.

An already oft-cited example is the chapter on Milan’s signing of much-maligned Dutch forward Klass-Jan Huntelaar which is a comic master class from the writer interspersing his thoughts on the club at the time with the occasional exclamatory – “Huntelaar!” – to make the point that this really didn’t meet the standards of our Andrea. This chapter is worth the £9.99 admission price alone.

Perversely, the only real criticism I have of the autobiography is that it strays too far from the conventional. I learned that Pirlo is a cultured man, a fragile man and a vastly more interesting and intellectual man that we seem capable of producing in our own home grown sports men. But there was sometimes too little of the back story. I know almost no more about his growing up, his relationship with his parents or his wife than I did at the beginning.

It would appear that Pirlo’s beguiling obfuscations and sleight of hand are not restricted merely to his feet.

I Think Therefore I Play in Five Words
He Thinks. You Should Buy.