Stockard Channing

Has it been a phenomenal summer of sport on the telly or what? First came all that European soccer, then the tennis, now the Olympic Games. Unbelievable!

All of which explains how Jen and I have finally managed to make massive inroads into our West Wing box-set. We're about half-way through season four at the moment, and we're totally hooked. I mean totally.

If you've never watched The West Wing, you really should. What makes the series so special is that every one of the main characters is both extremely likeable and extremely intelligent. You don't get that very much on the telly. And there are some fantastic jokes too. I'm not kidding, Jen and I have been literally laughing out loud at least once per episode.

One thing about The West Wing has been troubling me, though. The character of the First Lady is played by a very fine actress named Stockard Channing. Yes, that's right, Stockard Channing:

Channing
Stockard Channing (L) and Martin Sheen (R) as Mrs and President Bartlet respectively.

I know: where have you heard the name Stockard Channing before? It's been doing my head in.

I Googled her, obviously, and discovered that, in addition to playing First Lady Abbey Bartlet in The West Wing, Stockard Channing is perhaps best known for her role as Betty Rizzo in the film Grease. Which didn't particularly help, as I don't think I've ever seen Grease. Thanks for nothing, Google.

Then, after several days' frustration, it finally dawned on me why I recognised the name. Honestly, you're going to kick yourself…

Stockard Channing is the name of a motorway service station on the M5 just south of Bristol. I stopped there once for a comfort break and a coffee and blueberry muffin.

Holy crap. The poor, poor woman. She must have been teased mercilessly at school. What sort of person names their child after a motorway service station? (Apart from Charlton Heston's dad, I mean.)

Jen and I are pretty devastated that we're already half-way through The West Wing. So much so that we're starting to get a bit jittery about which landmark US TV series we're going to watch next. We already polished off The Sopranos during the last World Cup. We tried the first couple of episodes of The Wire, but couldn't understand a word anyone was saying. Which has left us in something of a quandary. The front-runner at the moment is the highly acclaimed Game of Cards. What do you reckon?

Roll call

Earlier today, the BBC described last night's Olympic Games opening ceremony from Rio as lavish.

That was totally unfair. It was nothing like a toilet.

Davey No-Mates

In-car conversation with Jen this morning:

J: I think his name must be Dave C.
R: Whose name?
J: The chap in that blue car. Its registration was D4 UEC.
R: That's not even close.
J: The 4 represents an A.
R: Yes…
J: …and the U represents a V.
R: No way! You can't have a U representing a V!
J: I didn't say it was any good. I was just trying to work out why he'd spent his money on a personalised numberplate, and what it was supposed to stand for.
R: Do you think his mates call him DAUE?
J: I don't reckon he'll have many mates.

Wotsit all about?

You might remember that, the last time I visited York, I was shocked to be served a burger which had been skewered to a plank of wood with a steak-knife.

I was back in York this week. As you might expect, I was apprehensive when I ordered a burger for lunch. You can imagine my relief, therefore, when the burger was delivered on an ordinary plate, without a stupid steak-knife sticking out of the top of it.

But then I bit into my burger…

Weird burger

…No, your eyes do not deceive you. My burger had been topped with Cheesy Wotsits.

The dirty bastards.

Knowing her clints from her grikes

Theresa May
Theresa May, B.A. (Oxon).

Apparently, our new Prime Minister holds a second-class degree in geography. That's exactly the sort of thing I'm looking for in a leader.

At difficult times like these, we need a Prime Minister who isn't going to be flummoxed by the concept of an ox-bow lake. When it comes to seeing us through the Brexit shambles, we're going to need a premier who, when she lands at Brussels, knows she needs to turn hard-right to face France. And when Angela Merkel, in her own inimitable way, demands to know, “wo in Gottes namen ist das Sudetenland?”, we're going to need a leader who can step up to the plate and explain that it's now very definitely part of the Czech Republic, so hands off.

Jen points out that Theresa May's degree makes her ideally qualified to be a P.E. teacher, so maybe she might be better placed as Minister for Sport. But I'm having none of that: we need a leader who can tell a drumlin from an alluvial fan; who knows that the Ordnance Survey symbol for a church with a tower is a little black square with a cross on the top; and who can remember that the blocks and fissures of a limestone pavement are known as clints and grikes respectively (and definitely not the other way round).

I confess I had my misgivings, but I'm beginning to think Theresa May might be just the person we need to see us through this.

Cheryl Ladd turns 65

Cheryl Ladd
Cheryl Ladd in 1978 recently.

Fifteen years ago today, I noted in utter astonishment that Cheryl Ladd had just turned 50.

I'm no mathematician, but I reckon that makes Cheryl Ladd 65 years young today.

And I'm now 51, which makes me older than Cheryl Ladd was when I was astonished at her being 50 just a few short years ago.

None of this makes any sense.

Anyway, in celebration of this remarkable event, here is what was always my favourite track from Cheryl's eponymous first album.

The track is called Skinnydippin'.

To be honest, that is almost certainly why it was my favourite.

Many happy returns, Cheryl.

Power vacuum

Power vacuumOn a more positive note, with Cameron abandoning ship, Labour self-imploding, the Lib-Dems (remember them?) being led by a god-botherer named Tim, the Scotch about to take the high road, Screaming Lord Sutch long dead, and the English electorate having taken total leave of its senses, could now be the perfect time for the Gruts Party to rise from the shadows to save a grateful nation?

Let's face it, we would have massive popular appeal (cat-owners excepted, obviously). I appreciate we don't actually have any policies at the moment, but we could take a leaf out of the Brexit campaign's book and make up random, undeliverable promises as we go along. Who knows, with any luck, we might even be able to rope in former Italian Prime Ministerial nominee Prof. Alice Roberts. She'd be handy in a political fist-fight.

Clearly, we'd need a catchy tagline, but we've got that well and truly covered. Or maybe we should come up with something more jingoistic:

PUTTING THE GRUTS BACK INTO BRITAIN: THE HOLE IS GREATER THAN WHAT'S LEFT OF ITS PARTS.
Union flag

Please feel free to leave your undeliverable manifesto pledges, voter-duping scare-stories, and campaign mottos in the comments.

We can do this.