It won't have slipped under your radar that the 2012 Olympics kicks off in just over a hundred days. What might have done, however, is the brilliant comedy Twenty Twelve, continuing its current mini-run on BBC 2 this Friday night. The thoughts of yet another mockumentary about the daily grind in an office might leave you wondering where you've seen that done before, but don't let it put you off.
Where The Office revelled in bullying and pranks, cartoon characters and embarrassment, Twenty Twelve is a much classier affair, following the fictional Olympic Deliverance Committee as they take charge of, well, delivering the Olympics. It's one of the more believable comedies out there - if you work, or have worked, in an office, then take a glance and see how long it is before you recognise someone. No one's hiding staplers in jellies here but Twenty Twelve is the sharpest take on office (pardon my phrasing) bullshit that you're likely to see this year. Everyone's favourite pater familias, Hugh Bonneville's Ian Fletcher, is the man for whom the word 'beleaguered' was coined. Well-intentioned but eternally put-upon, he's the boss who cycles his fold- up bike through London every morning and then sets about another day serving as head of a team of complete idiots. Stoic to the last, he keeps calm and carries on, suffering fools – if not gladly, then stoically. Everything's 'good', or 'fine' or 'great'. And it will be, once he figures out, again, just how to get out of yet another fine mess with everyone's reputations intact. To sooth his troubled brow, there's Sally – Ian's PA, played by the brilliant and completely underrated Olivia Coleman. Less faithful lapdog and more full-on Grayfriars Bobby, Sally has everything that Ian needs right to hand – pastries, coffee, plasters, unconditional love... Coleman plays Sally with such longing that it makes Tim and Dawn look indifferent to each other – there won't be a Christmas party in Twenty Twelve of course, but that doesn't stop us hoping for the moment that Ian might just decide to throw caution with the wind and allow himself to be smitten reciprocally. Ostensibly, the ODC are there to organise the greatest sporting event in the world, but in reality, their role seems increasingly confined, like real life, to simply not causing offence. The ODC staff's job titles are a particular PC joy - Amelia Bullmore's Kay Hope, Head of Sustainability, hates the term 'legacy' so much, that the commission has had to appoint a brand new Head of Legacy to do exactly the same job. Karl Theobald's Head of Infrastructure is little more than a traffic geek, a permanently hungry chimp given absolute power over London's transport systems. The team is completed with Vincent Franklin's consummate northerner and negativity- monger as Head of Contracts. It's Jessica Hynes' Siobhan Sharpe, however, who is the undisputed big laughs character. Head of Brand through her PR company 'Perfect Curve', she's completely clueless. Her concept of a mindblowing 'audio logo' for the games consisted of a single note played four times in quick succession. She speaks volumes but says absolutely nothing, trading in that 'okay, yeah, right, so....' speak that seems to denote enthusiasm among sterotypical, vapid PR types. Uber trendy clothes, phone fixed on with lobe-glue, she's a subtle, modern day Edina Monsoon but so close to the bone that when she opens her mouth to contradict herself (and believes whatever comes out of it 'tewtally', as she'd say) we can almost hear a crunch. David Tennant plays the voiceover and guest stars have ranged from Blackadder's Tim McInerney to Smack The Pony's Darren Boyd. Even Seb Coe has played himself. This isn't laugh-out-loud comedy. It's been described as 'nibbling satire'. It won itself a British Comedy Award in 2011, probably due in part to its perfect timing – in the very first episode the ODC's countdown clock – which counted backwards from the future – had a disastrous launch, on the same day as the real life equivalent flopped in London. It's not necessarily displaying psychic ability to foresee that there might be technical problems with such a piece of equipment, but it's astute observation and that's the beauty of Twenty Twelve. So far this series, the team have managed to stave off an Algerian Boycott and diffuse a potential religious timebomb caused by the fact that the 'Shared Belief Centre' didn't face Mecca. Tomorrow night, they face a challenge closer to home – pairing the Olympics with the Queen's Jubilee. That'll be the Jubilympics then. It won't have you rolling round the floor, but it will certainly raise a smile. A final series is scheduled for closer to the start date of the real Games so there's still time to get hooked. If you fancy a half hour of gentle, intelligent, observational comedy that really has nothing to do with sport in the slightest, then set the planner now. Twenty Twelve won't be around forever
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The Blaa wants them badly; Reports have it that Timoleague Brown Pudding didn't find them much good; There are calls to have them awarded to Wexford Strawberries or Listowel Mutton Pie. They're also causing a row between the Czechs, Germans and Austrians over a wafer.
PDO's, PGI's and TSG's, in a nutshell, are special status symbols awarded by the EU to quality, speciality foods exclusive to particular regions. Newcastle Brown Ale, for example. Parmigiano Reggiano, Parma Ham etc. Ireland has four approved products; Imokilly Regato Cheese, Clare Island Organic Salmon, Connemara Hill Lamb and Timoleague Brown Pudding. Sorry, that was my stomach rumbling. Ireland is food heaven these days. Waterford's Gourmet Festival kicks off this weekend; Jamie Oliver launches the Taste of Dublin in June – event listings all over the country are all about food, food, food. There is so much good stuff out there that we should have fifty of those EU accolades. So why don't we? Two words. Irish Stew. Not only is the oil-slick-with-chunks that is our so-called national dish a problem; there's also that other national offence: Boiled Bacon and Cabbage. A vegetable that smells like a stuffy classroom full of nine year olds accompanied by a meat the colour and consistency of human gums. Think of Italy. Picture pastas, sauces, pizza. The USA – steaks, burgers, ribs. Even the UK - ploughman's lunches, yorkshire puds. Though the realities of menus overseas can differ somewhat from the expectations – Tuscan boar anyone? Tripe and Onions? - it's all about perception. The French eat only snails, of course! Not amazing breads and cheeses, wines and champagne, then? Ireland's in the same boat - except no one can think of the good stuff. Our image abroad is as boozers who slurp down a plate of slop for soakage before resuming with a dip in the whiskey barrel. That's really getting old. But whose fault is it? A quick straw poll on Facebook reveals that when people of Irish origin are asked what they think is classic traditional Irish food, they automatically respond with stew followed closely by bacon and cabbage and trailed drastically by stuff that might actually taste good - soda bread, white pudding, barmbrack, coddle, colcannon and Tayto sandwiches for example. “Red or brown meat and fish on Fridays” was the response from one food-traumatised respondent. Irish people abroad responded with nostalgia. “Irish Breakfast, egg, sausage, rashers & white & black pud, brown soda bread with Kerrygold butter” came the rote response of someone who has lived in the States for many years. I fancy she was salivating as she wrote it. Before you accuse me of being a food snob, I've hated stew for longer than I knew any better. (When the alternative was Marietta biscuits bound with an inch of butter to ensure butter worms when you squeezed). Look at this recipe from an early Canadian cookbook - “Take the feet and legs of a pig... Singe off the hair and ... remove the toes by scorching. Put down in cold water and cook slowly for three hours...cut up nine or ten good sized potatoes and add to your stew...stir frequently with a spoon. What remains...pour into a mould and it will become a jelly, which is nice eaten cold for breakfast”. Yum yum, pigs bum. This is what we've exported! This explains why there is no reputation for Irish cuisine, for heavens sakes! And don't tell me it's 'rustic and traditional'. That only works in Italy when it conjures up images of Monica Bellucci nibbling seductively on a hare. Not in Ireland. It just makes me think of drawings from Punch magazine in the C19th. Old tractor parts are rustic and traditional. I don't see anyone wanting to eat them. Swiss Tony might say that Irish food is like a beautiful woman. Like a Seoige. Except no one can see her because someone's put June Rodgers in front. A quick scan today through some of Ireland's Bridgestone restaurant menus show that only a handful carry stew, and bacon is rarely served with its heinous co-dependent, cabbage. It's true that these traditional foods have a place. There's nothing like a hang sandwich on crusty bread after all, it's time that they stopped defining us. Not when there is so much more to offer. Irish food needs to get sexy. Kirsty Allsopp tweeted last week that she loves Barry's Tea, for example. Now there's a golden moment. Maybe An Bord Bia could plan a calendar for 2013? Michael Fassbender and Clonakilty Sausages? Bressie with a Blaa? Although I draw a line, with the utmost respect, through Brendan Gleeson and some artfully placed smoked salmon. Here comes another summer of food festivals. Let's make the most of everything that's amazing about Irish food and who knows, it might be the year that really standout grub takes centre stage and we can finally put corned beef back in the corner where it belongs. So, what did you spend your Easter Monday doing? Eating roast chicken? Stuffing your face full of chocolate eggs? I took all that chicken-related stuff a bit further as I found myself at the National Poultry Races in Carlingford, County Louth. I hadn't gone deliberately – while enjoying an enormous pub lunch I found myself reading the brochure that had been left considerately at my place setting and thought, well, as I'm here... One thing led to another and so I set off in search of the racing action – it wasn't hard to find. Carlingford is set in something of a natural amphitheatre what with the hills behind and the sea in front so the sounds of The Birdie Song floating on the air were easy to follow and I soon found myself leaning on a poultry-protective fence along with plenty of other excited punters, awaiting the start of the fourth race of the day and taking a moment to brush up on the rules. “The handlers line up with their birds”. So far so good. Five under tens stood there, perched (sorry) on the edge of action, their hands filled with fat feathered friends. “The starter then says 'Ready, Steady' and at this point the bird is held gently with its feet on the ground. The starter then says 'GO!'”. Here, according to the rules; “the handler is allowed to stand behind the bird and shooooooooo (sic) her/him to the line”. At least that's what's supposed to happen. What actually happens, is this – five kids and five chickens all scramble around (sorry), to no apparent intent in a very small corner of a long racing track all shouting 'hoosh', and 'go' and 'cluck' and suchlike. At this point you begin to realise that chickens aren't natural racers. I have seen shuttlecocks with more determination and a better sense of direction. One of the rules states that if for any reason the bird flies out of the enclosure, before the finish then it's disqualified. I think that's what happened to Goldie McNugget who, in a mighty leap, landed on the buggy of some unfortunate infant, scaring the aforementioned infant stiff with much flapping of redundant wings before he was wrangled back to safety. A quick check of the programme shows that Goldie McNugget was sponsored by 'Gerard Long Van Takeaway'. I'm not sure if that means vehicles or burgers, but if it were the latter, then I fear Goldie McNugget may have lived up to his name by the time the last race was run. Eventually, although I'm not sure how, a winner was declared (Latvian Girl, if you must know), the fowl were gathered up and a small boy trotted off triumphantly with an Easter Egg. Later, I spotted a few of these about town. The elite, the hot shot squad of poultry racing. It was the most fun thing I've watched, possibly ever. The weather seemed to affect attendance somewhat but then again, torrential rain and freezing cold tend to do that. The cloudbursts, however, added a special Craggy Island sort of feel to proceedings and I should hope that next year someone will sponsor a Tunnel of Goats. The Taafe's Castle National Poultry Races is surprisingly good fun and a real example of a town getting behind something silly and different. Local pubs, shops, restaurants, taxi companies etc. sponsor either races or birds because it's not just confined to chickens, you know. All poultry can participate - Geese, roosters – ducks, I've learned, are far better at racing than chickens. In that they can make it from one end of the course to the next which is pretty impressive under the circumstances. There was even a poultry-themed soundtrack piped out to entertain the crowds and inspire the runners between races. Until you've heard the Mission Impossible theme performed by Rhode Island Reds, you haven't heard music. So what else did I learn? Training techniques? Breeds? Feeds? Seeds? As it happens, nothing. I was just there for the fun. I'm not Nationwide. And brilliant as it was, I began to think of possible improvements. This sport needs a champion, a role model for our times. An Ayrton Henna, if you will. What about recruiting squirrel jockeys to keep the chickens in line, for example? Children clearly can't manage it. Why, I'd pay to see a squirrel whipping a Bantam to the finish line. We could try celebrity poultry racing? Who wouldn't want to see Francis Brennan giving a Silkie a pep talk, or Anne Doyle goose-whispering? And why stop at Carlingford? Ireland, even? There's international potential in this sport and so long as the games are held in the Southern Hemisphere every winter, no transport costs for the participants. Recession-busting as well as entertaining! I would have suggested Dave Lamb as a voiceover as well but there was already one there who ran a commentary as dry as a bag of birdseed. And a starting pistol probably wouldn't be fair. Funny, perhaps, but PETA might object. Well done to Carlingford for following up the National Leprechaun Hunt with the Poultry Races. It's all good, clean, family fun and the animals are responsibly treated. It's a bit of nonsense and whimsy for a Bank Holiday Monday, real village green entertainment for a country that needs a touch of silliness to cheer us all up. So what's next? Pig racing seems popular, for instance. And the mind boggles at what we could get cows to learn.....there's a whole summer of this sort of thing coming up so forget Macnas and the Rose of Tralee – for real public entertainment, see what's happening locally with farm animals in a competitive capacity this summer. I can assure you, you won't regret it. Poor Jermaine Clement. Who was he to root for? 'Rio', in which he voiced the character of Nigel, or its chief and only competitor in the Best Original Song category. The other nominee was, of course, Bret McKenzie who also happens to be the other half of Flight of the Conchords, comedy duo beloved of millions, New Zealand heroes embraced by America.
Who cares? McKenzie won, deservedly so. His enormous song writing talent had my three year old belting out 'Man or Muppet' after one listen. But we're not here to talk about the good news stories. We're here to talk about the leg. You know the one. Everyone's talking about it. That milky white, bony protuberance appearing from the folds of Angelina Jolie's dress at a carefully maintained right angle. I defy anyone not to shudder at the memory. Or eliminate the image from their minds before long. Who told her it was a good idea? Who came up with the unnatural pose, for heaven's sakes? She looked like something from Skeletor's Readers' Wives magazine. In fact, she looked like what Skeletor might dress up as at Halloween to scare the neighbourhood children. On the red carpet, doing her presenting duties, probably in the queue for the toilets – she stood there with a pair of mortuary curtains slashed to the thigh and a ghost's leg thrust out of it like it was somehow sexy. Did Brad find it sexy? Probably. These days he looks like she's crushing something and putting it in his food and he's struggling to merely stay conscious. In fact he just stared at her lustfully throughout (although I fear he does that because she commands him to), thinking about how she's still a 'bad girl'. Oh dear, I just did a little sick in my mouth at the thought. At least Streep looked good. Too good, for my liking. At 62 she's flawless – her skin the same milky perfection as it was in The Deer Hunter, her eyes still glinting and clear. She must just sleep for months between movies and drink water. Either that or she's some sort of Drama Vampire - a Drampire - and she feasts on the talent of young actors, feeding her own by doing so. Her modesty sometimes makes me wonder too. As she sat in the audience being praised by Colin Firth (imagine being able to say that, ladies!), her face went through such an alarming range of humble expressions that as I watched the gurning, the frowning, the 'oh you-ing' I thought for a moment that I was staring into the inner workings of a very humble clock. Then the tears in the speech, the perfect mixture of joy and gratitude and I-told-you-so-ness.... Here's what I think. I think Streep paces her home in Hollywood alternating between delivering lines from all her movies in different ways, constantly trying to improve; (“The lady's NOT for turning”; “I HED a farrrrm in Efffreeeka”; “A dingo ate my baby?”) and beating her chest shouting “I am the greatest!” while doing those scissor jumps that she did in Mamma Mia. Then sleeping soundly for very long periods of time and waking up dewy skinned before going off to snack on Vanessa Hudgens and make another shedload of movies, stopping off on the way home to pick up another armload of awards. Oh yes. Streep. She's good alright. Too good..... And so they're over for another year, the damp squib that was the 84th Oscars. Some moments verged on boring, some snippets were just embarrassing. (Christy Brown was a drunk and had only one foot anyone?) while others were downright squirm-in-your-seat uncomfortable. Like that Sandra Bullock Chinese\German bit. Or Billy Crystal's opening number. In fact, any of the bits with Billy Crystal in. Like the ill-judged, borderline racist comments throughout. And his general odd appearance. It's good to know that if they ever do a remake of The Princess Bride he can play Miracle Max again but this time without the makeup. Of course there were some great moments too - the expression of sheer maternal pride and hope Jessica Chastain's mum's face as she held her daughter's hand and waited for the Best Supporting Actress to be announced. Christopher Plummer finally getting to embrace his golden statue after a career that most actors will only dream about. Gwyneth Paltrow's dress... But I think it will be remembered as the year of the Leg, unfortunately. And of the Dog. And I just hope that Jolie put the limb away after a while because I don't know how long Uggie could have held himself back from making off round the back with it and burying it in a hole for later. I've always been fascinated by the idea of ghosts - I can remember distinctly asking my mother what ghosts were at roughly the age of three as she tucked me in for the night and thus began a lifetime spent being just that little bit on edge most of the time.
Throughout my childhood it was easy to feed the flames of my unease – TV was and still is, a massive influence and my whole family tuned in weekly to fare such as Arthur C Clarke and Tales of the Unexpected. The Armchair Thriller episode 'Quiet as a Nun', or 'The Black Nun', as she is still known in our house, terrifies me to this day but I have never forgotten it. Weekly, while other girls pored over their copy of Jackie, I waited for my sisters to finish with their copy of The Unexplained magazine to immerse myself into the world of the supernatural. UFO's I could take or leave but it was the ghost photos that fascinated me – look them up – the Brown Lady of Raynham Hall, the Staircase ghost of the National Museum in Greenwich. I can't have been more than seven or eight years of age when these images first burned themselves into my consciousness and they've never left me. All of these influences, combined with living in an old house filled with strange bumps and bangs once the lights went off set my imagination alight, not to mention my nerves. Add in a boarding school education in a convent filled with corridors, nuns and warrens of dark rooms – it's no wonder that when I finally turned to write my first novel that it had an element of a ghost story to it. Write what you know, they say, and I know fear of the unexplained. My voice as a writer had never sat comfortably with conventional chick lit.. I'm a voracious but difficult-to-please reader and, raised on a diet of Stephen King and James Herbert, I was unfortunately never going to master the art of girl meets boy, girl loses boy, girl buys shoes, loves chocolate and falls over a lot stories which, if they are well written, I adore. The afterlife, however, felt more my thing and I let the story guide me – what would happen if a vulnerable new mum with a small baby went to live in a house and spooky things began to happen? The Dead Summer wrote itself from there. Nowadays I can spot the fake ghost photos a mile off and I have grown, if not less jumpy, at least a little more cynical in my old habit of labelling every sound and sensation supernatural. The science of ghost hunting fascinates me – how spooky feelings of being watched can be caused by old wiring, how sleep paralysis has created an widely felt experience of someone sitting on your chest, how sound can be distorted to seem like ghostly voices. There is generally a logical explanation for every unusual thing and as I grow older I am more likely to seek that out than jump to the immediate conclusion that we are in the presence of something strange. However I love the idea of life after death and all that goes with it – revenge, unfinished business, fear – as a storyteller, it creates endless possibilities. I'd love to think that there are definitely ghosts out there, either carrying on as they did in life, or taking on some task which will enable them to cross over to wherever it is we're supposed to go. What happens after we die? My greatest fear is that it would be absolutely nothing. It would thrill me to think that we could carry on in some way but who knows? For every cynic, there is a believer. For every 'orb' photograph which is really smoke or a raindrop there's a Newby Church Monk. It's the possibility that's as thrilling as the evidence for me so until the day that someone can categorically prove to me that ghosts are nothing more than electricity or mist or air currents I'm going to continue to keep a corner of my eye on alert in an old building for a face watching me, or keep an ear cocked for a voice giving me a message from the other side. And I'll continue to sleep with the light on...just incase. There's no denying that Social Media was key in mobilising the mobs of looters, thieves and thugs swarming the streets of the UK over the past nights. Science-fiction-like news reports highlight growing locations where shutters are rolled off shopfronts like tins of sardines, livelihoods are engulfed in flames and hooded rioters display uncharacteristic perseverance as they bash in someone else's plate glass windows til they shatter.
It's not protest – it's greed, theft and delinquency. It's the actions of scum. The criminals disagree; “It's showin' da police we can do what we want, innit?”. No. You can't. No one can. Innit? In as much as social media has been derided as a force that enabled these sickening scenes, it must also be credited as a force that has been responsible for huge displays of good. Through the last few days my Twitter feed has been a complete inspiration, showing hope that goodness will ultimately dominate. The force of the Tweet has never been more apparent than in the rallying calls to simply come clean up. Morning after morning, England's cities have been engulfed in deck scrubs and marigolds as fast as they were swamped by thieves. The picture of the cleanup volunteers at Clapham, brushes aloft, tweeted and retweeted on Tuesday morning, is surely one of the most stirring positive sights that we have seen for a long time in a city that survived the Blitz with the same determination and good humour. As Irish people, it's worth our while to remember that most, if not all of us, know someone, care for someone, have lived or might plan to live in the UK at some point. When things really started to kick off a quick visit to Facebook and Twitter established for me that relatives near Croydon and friends in Birmingham and Clapham were all safe and sound. Irish people in Britain have been as threatened as every other nationality over the past few nights. We can't say that this is not our problem – who can forget the Love Ulster Riots of 2006? We've had our own taster and it behoves us to keep a close eye on current events because we can't be so socially superior to assume that it'll never happen to us. The type of sickening perpetrator involved is a universal phenomenon as are the excuses – education, unemployment, disaffectation. Lack of respect for other humans is not something that's confined to the UK. Neither is copycat behaviour. Something else that we share with our closest neighbours is a wonderful gallows sense of humour, however, and this, above all else, is what's most inspiring when following Twitter closely this week. It's the jokes – the ability to be quick, funny and clever in 140 characters to keep spirits aloft. Alan Carr created an image of Cameron striding forth, wielding the oversized Toblerone he'd possibly brought back from holidays, as a weapon. Many comments have praised the Kaiser Chiefs for being a hands-on part of the clean up; “...they could've quite easily sat back and said I told you so”, tweeted Simon Pegg. Comedian Dan Skinner, tweeting as his alter ego Angelos Epithemiou from Shooting Stars, has created the hashtag #rapawaytheriots. His timeline is a volley of responses from ordinary people such as @bexybobs; “All the youth of the UK are turning to crime, but the tweeters on twitter be turnin' to RHYME” and @no_left_feet who sums up hours of political debate in the succinct summary “The thieving scum have no political agenda, they just wanna own the latest nintenda”. Social media, particularly Twitter, has given everyone caught in this wave of violence and terror, a voice for the first time ever. Instead of relying on potentially self-serving representatives, ordinary folk now have a forum to express themselves, to make the jokes that show they have more wit and resilience in their forefingers than a thousand hoodies could ever possess, to express sympathy and to seek toys and blankets for people made homeless or to request dustpans and brushes for a smashed up store on a high street. Social Media has done so much to peacefully show that Jo Ordinary doesn't have to lie down and take this nonsense. As London-resident Irishman, Graham Linehan, tweeted on Wednesday morning “If the Big Society exists in things like #riotcleanup, remember that Cameron didn't give us it, the Internet did”. I wonder did it start this way for Alexander McQueen? “For my birthday I will wish for....a.....doggie!”. And so the road to Petville was paved and at the end of it were some lucky pooches who inherited £50,000 last week. For that kind of money, I'd be your dog, to paraphrase a Kia Ora commercial.
The toddler wants a puppy. He will be fluffy, he will be called Boy and he will be taken for walks. Naturally, she's not getting one. I have no desire to add another incontinent, mess-creating, eater-of-random-things entity to this household. I have children already. I don't dislike animals – I love dogs, in fact. I cried for two days when our Spaniel was put to sleep in 1985. Not even a trip to Penneys for a new outfit could console me. I love a go off someone's terrier but, like a grandparent, I like to hand the little furballs back before I get a whiff of Chum-breath. I wouldn't be averse to one in the house, but the law of the universe indicates that Dad and the kids get to do the running in slow motion down a hill throwing a ball, all flailing paws and flapping ears, while Mum gets to do the rubbing of noses in puddles and cleaning up of whatever that mess is before it's re-ingested. Thus it was, and always will be. Or won't be in my case. How about a cat? I'm a complete cat magnet. Once, in Cape Town, the owners of our accommodation watched in awe as the angriest, fattest, oldest cat in the world, Antonia, waited patiently day and night outside our room for me to rub behind her ears. In my hands she was putty; a feline Beryl Reid. In everyone else's she was a whirlwind of teeth and claws. If I wore a catsuit it would be an actual suit made up of three tabbies, two tortoiseshells and a Siamese all vying for attention, all sandpaper tongues and wiry hairs. But how do I feel about cats? It's the ultimate irony – I am completely indifferent to them. Take that, puss! And I also don't think they're devious and mysterious. I think they're quite frankly a bit self-serving and dim. Like babies. Or Cheryl Cole. I've also never understood the appeal of reptiles, rodents and all things creepy. If you're going to keep a spider for example, then why not a ladybird? They're more colourful and tend to make people shriek less. You might even find you have more friends. If I ever do cave and get a pet, I sincerely hope I don't become one of those frankly disturbing animal-lovers. The last one I encountered had a 'leedle puppy dog at home' that had the same name as my daughter. I was informed of this with breathless excitement and obviously expected to do a cartwheel at the prospect. Instead we had a stare-off – she waiting for reciprocated excitement; me, frantically thinking of an appropriate response, both with breath held and faces like startled goldfish, blinking silently at each other. I think I said; “Oh”. And much as I respect vegetarians, I simply could never give up sausages and roast beef. I won't buy factory-farmed meat, but I will not surrender a chicken kiev for the sake of anyone's principles. Take heed, my old friend Morrissey. Meat isn't that murderous compared to crazed killers wielding guns at teenagers, wiping out young lives. You can't make that comparison. Oh, you did already? Groan. So relax all hamsters, goldfish, parakeets, budgies, pot-bellied pigs, chinchillas, monkeys, snakes, gerbils, chickens, rabbits and ponies. You won't be coming to live with us just yet so you still have your chances, just like Minter, Juice and Callum, the heirs to the McQueen dynasty. Unless you're any good with a nappy of course..... My daughter loves In the Night Garden, shown on Cbeebies about three times a day although the one we tend to catch is in the bedtime hour between 6 and 7 each evening - just incase you fancy checking it out.
She's loved it since she was about four months old and would lie on her back staring at the TV - that's doing what it says on the tin, apparently, because one of the aims of it is to relax babies and toddlers. With a 14.5 million pound budget I'm glad it's achieving its aims. And I even find myself mesmerised a little - it's her must see TV - her Wire. I foresee a merchandise blitz in years to come. She's eleven months old. The show intrigues me. The production values are incredibly high - for starters it's narrated by Derek Jacobi. According to Wikipedia, he holds two knighthoods (Danish and British), he's a celebrated actor with a film career dating back to 1965 and he's up there with Olivier, O'Toole and McKellan. And every day, on Cbeebies, you can hear him deliver deep and touching lines, inhabit a whole new character, bring to life the magic of the English language. "Makka Pakka wicky wacky picky poo", he says. And then some. In the Night Garden is apparently filmed in a real woodland setting. Truth be told it's like an al fresco acid trip. It's HR Pufnstuf for the noughties but far far less scary. It's also filmed in HD - all we can hope is that it's never filmed in 3D. They may as well hand out acid tabs to one year olds. The lead character is a sort of slaggy rag doll called Upsy Daisy. She looks like newsreader Moira Stewart and has a skirt which inflates when she gets excited - which is quite often. Much like a parachute, with a simple tug of an emergency string, it puffs up like a rubber tutu, revealing floral underwear much to the joy of all the other inhabitants of the Night Garden who appear to be male. She's like Lady Gaga for under fours and looks like she'd get up on a gust of wind. Upsy Daisy has a mobile bed that follows her round, presumably so that she can pop under the sheets at any time she needs because quite frankly, she doesn't make any money out of her singing career and has to keep herself in fetixh gear and multicoloured hair extensions. Her main attentions are focused on Iggle Piggle who is sort of the downtrodden hero of the piece/ He's a bit like Ricky Butcher. Gormless, nervous, talentless and excitable, he carries a red blanket around with him at all times for comfort and appears to suffer from stress-induced narcolepsy. This is particularly evident at the end of each episode where he realises that everyone else who hangs out in the Garden has gone to bed and he's still out there, after dark and alone with no protection. It's bloody scary and Iggle Piggle goes rigid, and collapses. Come to think of it, maybe there's something really nasty that comes out in the Garden at nighttime and that's a different show, maybe shown on CBBC after seven perhaps. Or maybe it's the same set as they use for Dr Who or Torchwood and Iggle Piggle's been exposed to all sorts of horrific creatures without the help of a sonic screwdriver. Or maybe it's where Anne Robinson actually lives. Iggle Piggle doesn't do much, professionally speaking. He appears to have had some sort of a career as a fisherman as he's often pictured drifting around in a little boat but he insists on taking the sail down and having a kip under his little red blanket so I think maybe he's one of those guys whose actually lost his job but can't face telling Upsy Daisy for fear of recrimination. I imagine she'd probably beat him senseless with a handy log or something so no wonder he's anxious. By the looks of this, he probably made a lot of money when he had a job - the soles of his feet are red which, my 24 year old niece tells me, indicates that they have been made by Louboutin. A blue man's got to keep some of his dignity I guess. One character with no dignity whatsoever is Makka Pakka who lives in a cave and sleeps with rocks (he actually kisses one goodnight every evening). He's brown and has two curly protrusions on his head which are probably little cones of dirt - imaginary creature-style dreadlocks - because this guy looks like he hasn't had a bath in years. He's a kind of stinky old tramp who has a trolley to push his belongings around him and he trundles around all day, pushing his little wheeled vehicle and saying 'Makka Pakka' a lot. At Christmas, he probably gets a can of beer from the producers and goes on a frenzy in search of more alcohol - puking behind bushes and scaring Iggle Piggle half to death demanding change before pissing on the Pinky Ponk and being brought home in one of the Torchwood 4WD's. Makka Pakka isn't a nice harmless tramp, though. He 's one of those bothersome ones who has to interact - the kind you avoid by pretending to text or staring down the platform for a train that isn't there, even though he's right up in your face, shouting obscenities. Worse than that, Makka Pakka, who clearly hasn't washed in a while, has decided in his own ironic way that his mission is to wash the world and he wanders round the garden with a manky old sponge that looks like it came from a pond, fifty five years ago, and a bar of carbolic soap insisting on cleaning everyone's faces. This is where the production values really excel because not only do you get a close up camera shot of Makka Pakka clearly getting a massive kick out of rubbing down the other residents with his filthy cleaning kit, but you also get a close up of his chosen victim grimacing as they are hit firstly with the stench of filthy hobo and then the up close odour of his unspeakable apparatus as it rubs against their skin like some sort of damp nightmare. Faces washed, Makka Pakka seeks no payment but carries on about his business, seeking out new filthy victims and making piles of rocks. He's my favourite. Then there are the Tombliboos who are clearly music students stuck in an early 90's rut. They wear multicoloured madchester pants which keep falling down because they haven't eaten a decent meal since they moved out of home in Tellytubby land. They all have hair like Bjork in the Big Time Sensuality video (but they're closer to the Dawn French version in overall appearance) and live in a dump of a house filled with tree roots and musical instruments. Occasionally they do a little practice but in separate rooms with exceptionally noisy instruments at top volume and cause all sorts of problems for the Pontipines who live nearby. The Pontipines seem to be the most normal characters - well, I say normal in that they have a house and parents but there are a total of ten of them which I suppose makes them Catholic and therefore repressed and guilty and prone to doing odd things. Like taking picnics on public transport, and deciding to eat dinner in the woods which is facilitated by making the eight children carry a very heavy, already laid table to their destination. Then they look outraged when they end up with food all over their faces for a variety of reasons. Those crazy Pontipines. Next door to the red Pontipines live the sinister blue Wottingers. I say they're sinister because you very rarely see them emerge from their semi detached house. Like the Pontipines, there are eight children and two parents. I think they must be on Witness Protection - where better to hide out than in a fictional surreal woodland inhabited by total crazies who are all vying for attention?. Transport in the Night Garden is public with two forms to choose from - the airborne Pinky Ponk, an elegant way to travel which harks back to the 1930's Zeppelins. The Pinky Ponk serves drinks, much to the delight of Makka Pakka who is allowed on occasionally but has probably been ejected most times for bothering the other passengers. The Ninky Nonk is like a completely mental tram consisting of carriages from a variety of other retired trams through the ages - a vehicle where carriages go to die. It's a far less genteel and much more dangerous yet exciting way to travel, despite the presence of safety belts and on board announcements as it keeps rolling up trees and along branches upside down. Upsy Daisy seems to like the thrill of it and likes making sure that Iggle Piggle goes on as many Ninky Nonk rides as possible with her - presumably so that they can recreate that scene from Risky Business - you know the one. They're always snogging in fact but I think Iggle Piggle does it because he loves Upsy Daisy and she just does it for attention, incase any of the Dr Who cast pop by and she can inflate her skirt at David Tennant. There's wildlife in the garden as well - mainly in the form of the Tittifers who are exotic birds that have been trapped and kept on a branch of the only tree that isn't on the Ninky Nonk's route of danger. The HaaHoos are then giant inflatable characters that bounce gently around all day, making Jacobi shout 'Haaaah Hoooooo!' in a very Shakespearian way. I don't see the point of them, other than to keep the Pontipines and the Wottingers firmly in their places because with their size, they wouldn't stand a chance if they even got caught in a HaaHoo downwind, much less underneath their considerable bouncy bulk. There's a lot to be learned from the Night Garden however - there's a huge spirit of cameraderie, mostly evident in that all of the residents - even the reclusive Wottingers - all get together at the end of each day and have a little song and a dance in the Gazebo - the Queen Vic equivalent I suppose. Needless to say the Tombliboos are as tuneless as most university students after a few, and Upsy Daisy uses it as an excuse to flash her underwear to anyone who cares to look and then has the audacity to take a bow at the end of it all. But it's quite sweet - I imagine they all get together and the lucid among them chat about their day while trying to avoid Makka Pakka and his potent sponge - and bless him, even his intentions are honourable. He's lonely I guess, and maybe there was once a Mrs Makka Pakka who ran off with someone, like Bob the Buidler or Chris from Doodle Doo. Anyway - there they are, all down t'Gazebo, singing and dancing as if there isn't a care in the world - even poor, displaced, unemployed and nervous Iggle Piggle - with Sir Derek Jacobi, famed actor, celebrated and respected thespian swaying along in his little voiceover booth and afterwards you can be damn sure that they all feel the better for it. I'd like to live in that world I think.
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