Gruts

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Pottering

It's not often that I get to talk arty-farty stuff with my arty-farty friend, Stense—which is a pity, because, as it turns out, I can be rather profound when it comes to that sort of crap. The following is an extract from an email I sent to Stense this morning (with minor typos corrected, and hyperlinks added):

The weather was so awful yesterday that the two Jens and I decided to go to Hebden Bridge Picture House to see the latest Harry Potter: 'Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azerbaijan', or something like that. Don't get me wrong, we wanted to see the film anyway; the weather was just an excuse. I enjoyed it a lot, but not perhaps as much as the previous two (even though I've heard critics saying it is the best so far - but what do they know?). I think Farmer Jen hit the nail on the head when she described it as "a bit bitty", but it all came together in the end with a complex time-travel twist that joined up all the loose ends. Have you seen the film yet, Stense? If not, sorry about mentioning the time-travel twist, but, in my defence, I heard JK Rowling mention it on the radio once, so if she's allowed to give out spoilers, I don't see why I can't.

Anyway, the reason I launched straight into Harry Potter without so much as a howya-diddlin' is that I thought I saw Julie Christie in it. "Bloody hell, is that Julie Christie?" I wondered to myself. "I haven't seen her for years. Is it really her?" And according to the credits at the end, it was. But the thing that was really weird about seeing Julie Christie on the big screen (even weirder, in fact, than seeing her in a Harry Potter film) was the fact that we hardly got to see her face - in her first scene, she was a fair way from the camera and moving about a lot, and in the second we saw her from Harry Potter's point of view as he hid behind his cloak of invisibility, meaning she was all blurred. In fact, so uncertain was I that I was seeing Julie Christie that I began to wonder whether she might actually be Billie Whitelaw (which, according to the credits, she wasn't).

All of which goes to show that just about anyone who is anyone in British acting is queuing up to be in the latest Harry Potter. Get this, I even thought I saw Freddy 'Parrot Face' Davies playing a talking picture, but then decided I was pretty sure he is dead, so it must have been someone else. Unless he's not dead, of course, in which case very well done him! (Actually, come to think of it, I think it might be Bernie Winters out of 'Mike and Bernie Winters' who is dead; not Freddy 'Parrot Face' Davies - but I could be wrong.)

And then it hit me: all these classic British stars' queuing up to be in a film: it was like 'Gosford Park' all over again! Exactly. It even didn't have the same stars in it that 'Gosford Park' didn't have: where were Dame Judi, Sir Gandalf the Gay, and the delightfully buxom Kate Winslet? Nowhere to be seen. Mark my words, Stense, each of them will be in a Harry Potter before the end, it stands to reason: the delightfully buxom Kate has a young child (or is it more now?), so she's *bound* to want to be in one, and how can Dame Dudi and Sir Gandalf turn down the opportunity to out-Dame, out-Sir and out-pantomime Dame Maggie and Sir Michael? Impossible. But they don't stand a chance of out-pantoing Alan Rickman, who resurrects his Sheriff of Nottingham character to great effect. CAN ANYONE SMELL HAM? (Actually, I think Sir Gandalf would make rather a good wizard.)

Which leaves just one question: can you imagine a Harry Potter role for that other 'Gosford Park' stalwart and Jeremy Clarkson pin-up, Kristin Scott-Thomas? Too posh, do you reckon? Actually, that's two questions. And here's another: I can't remember, has Richard E Grant been in a Harry Potter yet? He's made for it. And so is Alan Bennett, but I suppose he's a bit above that sort of thing. HOLY SHIT! I'VE JUST REALISED: I DON'T THINK STEPHEN FRY HAS BEEN IN ONE YET! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!

For the record, since I sent the email quoted above, I have done some research and ascertained the following facts:

Freddie 'Parrot Face' Davies is still very much alive, and did indeed play a talking painting in the latest Harry Potter film
Bernie Winters, on the other hand, is very much dead, so it probably was him I was thinking about after all
Bernie Winters appeared in the critically acclaimed 1981 film, Mary Millington's World Striptease Extravaganza (starring porn queen, Mary Millington, who, despite having committed suicide two years earlier, was apparently still seen as a big box office draw)
Kirstin Scott Thomas does not have a hyphen
Richard E Grant has not been in any of the Harry Potter films (yet)
Stephen Fry has narrated some Harry Potter audiobooks

Oh Come Come, Emmanuel

BBC: Concern over Bible-based lessons
The views of a fundamentalist Christian foundation which runs a series of state schools on Biblical principles have come in for renewed criticism. A curriculum document by Emmanuel College in Gateshead describes how it should seek to infuse all lessons with Biblical Christian thinking. It asks, for example, whether Hitler halted at the English Channel rather than invading England because of divine intervention.

So not only is Emmanuel College bastardising science, it is now bastardising history.

In case anyone hasn't noticed, we are now well into the 21st Century. Isn't it about time we stopped teaching mumbo-jumbo in the classroom, and leave it where it belongs: in churches, temples and synagogues? Shame on Tony Blair and his so-called faith schools. Let's refuse to accept this innocuous label and start referring to them as what they really are: sectarian schools.

Besides, everyone knows Hitler halted at the English Channel because the water looked cold.

What I did on my day off

Opening the treasure chest Carolyn and her three children came to my house for the first time yesterday and it was a very long journey in the car and they had to drive up a steep hill that their mum found frightening but they weren't scared and they were very brave because they went exploring down my cellar with their torches which they needed because someone had taken the light bulb out and they found a treasure map which I had never seen before honestly which was made by Cap'n Braces the Yorkshire pirate and they dug up the treasure which was in a treasure chest buried in the garden under a stone marked with an X and they had to follow some clues to find the key which was down a hole in the patio with bars on it so they had to get the key with a magnet on a piece of string and then they had some orange juice which they didn't like because it had bits in it and then we all went for a ride on the steam train and we ate our sandwiches on the train and then we got a Cranky the Crane from the Thomas the Tank Engine shop and then we went back to my house and we had another drink and then they went home and it took them three hours on the motorway.

Ten Years On

I'm getting old. This stark reality slowly began to dawn on me when I realised that I had started to think in decades:

Today marks the tenth anniversary of the last time I climbed a proper mountain—defined by me (and Sir Hugh Munro) as any summit over 3,000 ft. Now I never claimed to be a mountain man of the calibre (and, let's face it, obsessiveness) of Irish Mick, but I've knocked off my fair share of summits in my time. So how can it possibly be ten years since I bagged a proper mountain?

Carolyn in sensible mountain gear (fwoar!). Despite the encroaching memory loss often associated with old age, my last mountain trip holds particularly vivid memories for me for one very good reason (see photo). Carolyn and I climbed Snowdon, the highest mountain in England and Wales. As a seasoned mountaineer (or so I would have Carolyn believe), I came fully equipped (rucksack, waterproofs, fleece, change of clothes, food, water, Kendal Mint Cake, map, compass, camera, film, (unused) spare lens). Carolyn, on the other hand, wore what I have often since taunted Irish Mick by describing as a bikini, although I now realise that she had actually come in fancy dress, as Daisy Duke out of The Dukes of Hazzard.

Weighed down, as I was, with all my kit (well, that was my excuse and I've stuck to it for ten years), I trudged my way slowly up the Watkin Path from our Beddgellert base camp, while, way ahead of me, the unencumbered Carolyn leapt from boulder to boulder, like a magnificent moutain goat. [Younger gentlemen please note: it is not generally advisable to use goat similes when describing ladies; mountaineering is one of the few contexts where one can hope to get away with it.] When I finally coughed my way to the summit, I found Carolyn waiting for me, fresh and fragrant, doing some quick limbering-up exercises, wanting to take on another peak. Fortunately for me, however, I then had a (perfectly genuine, let me assure you) cramp attack in both legs simultaneously, giving me the excuse I desperately needed not to take her up on the suggestion.

But increased age does not necessarily bring increased wisdom. When, a few months ago, I realised that the tenth anniversary of my last mountain jaunt was rapidly approaching, I sent Carolyn a text message, pointing out that it would soon be ten years since we climbed Snowdon together, and that I was feeling old. Carolyn's reply was unexpected: "You are old but I'm sure we could still get up Snowden if we tried - shall we give it a go one day?" (seconds later, she sent another text message saying, "Sorry about spelling of Snowdon").

So I now find myself in the rather embarrassing position of having agreed to another (possibly final) trip up Snowdon later this year. If the Gruts website suddenly stops being updated in late September or early October, please assume the worst and call mountain rescue.

Bouquet

I never had much time for wine poseurs, with their silly wine-tasting ceremonies, and their pretentious adjectives. But, as I started to develop a more discerning taste for wine, I began to realise that it isn't all bullshit: some wines really do smell of blackberries, others really are smokey, and you can detect a corked wine a mile off (if it smells of unwashed gym socks, believe me, it's corked—don't even think about drinking it; throw it away immediately).

But the glass of wine that I'm drinking as I type this—I won't name the brand for fear of litigation, but it's a 2003 vintage Australian Shiraz Cabernet which cost me £5.99—has a very strange property: it tastes very good (dry, with a strong, spicy flavour), but it smells—how can I put it?—it smells of, erm… well, to be totally frank, it smells of fox piss.

Just for the record, I cannot confirm whether or not fox piss also has a strong, dry, spicy flavour.

No refunds

BBC: Green abandons M&S takeover plan
Retail tycoon Philip Green has scrapped his takeover approach to Marks & Spencer

Apparently, he started getting cold feet when he was told he couldn't just take it back for a no-questions-asked refund, if he decided he didn't really like it.

St. Swithin's Day

St. Swithin's day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain
St. Swithin's day if thou be fair
For forty days 'twill rain nae mair.

Believe it or not, the above constitutes a pretty good scientific hypothesis in that it makes a (fairly) clear and testable prediction: if it rains on St. Swithin's Day, it will rain for the next 40 days; if it doesn't rain on St. Swithin's Day, it won't rain any more.

Today (15th July) was St. Swithin's Day, and it pissed ropes (as they say in France).

Let us test this particular scientific hypothesis…

Postscript (15-Jul-04): A-ha! It's stopped raining! Hypothesis well and truly falsified!

An space-alien went gavelling

BBC: Chris de Burgh buys Alien 'icon'
Irish singer Chris de Burgh has fended off global bids to buy a latex "chest bursting" Alien model from the 1979 sci-fi classic film. He paid just under £29,875 at a London auction…

Just under? So he'll have paid about £29,874, will he?

Richard Saves the Day

Last week, Carolyn asked me to do her 'a big favour': would I mind picking up eleven toy bicycles for her to put in some party bags she is putting together for her young son's birthday party next weekend? I said I'd do my best, but, in the end, I could only get five. Today, I met Carolyn for coffee:

"Here are those toy bikes you wanted."
"Brilliant! I managed to get some more at the weekend, so now I have enough for one each."
"So does that mean I saved the day?"
"What?"
"Does that mean I saved the day?"
"Well, I saved the day as well, because I got some of the bikes."
"Yes, but as far as you are concerned, it's me who saved the day…"
"Well, let's say we both saved the day."
"No, let's not. Admit it: it was me who saved the day as far as you're concerned."
"OK, I admit it."
"No, say it; say, 'You saved the day'."
"[Sigh] You saved the day."
"No, don't whisper; say it so I can hear it!"
"You saved the day."

So there you have it, it's official: I saved the day!

Out-namedropped

Email to Stense last Saturday:

I'll have you know that you're not the only one rubbing shoulders with D-list celebrities... For whom should I espy filming in the Albert Dock on Thursday? That's right, you've guessed it: Rowland 'Raw Sex' Rivron, erstwhile comedic entertainer, and current stalwart of the BBC's Holiday programme. Not quite in the same league as Philippa Forrester perhaps, but damn impressive nevertheless!

Stense's reply last night:

Right I am now going to namedrop unashamedly in reply to your last missive - I used to know Rowland Rivron quite well!

Bitch!