Forgive the radio silence. My pen ran out of ink. Actually that’s a teeny tiny white lie. I went to the new HMV flagship on Oxford Street the other day, bought the complete works of Benidorm on DVD and haven’t stopped laughing or come up for air since. Favourite character? Janice. Favourite villain? Sheridan Smith as the Scouse foul-mouthed con artist whose first line on getting on the coach to the Solano is ‘I’m sweating like a rapist’. Can’t make it up can you? Genius scriptwriting beautifully played by an ensemble cast.
My favourite series (No 4) involved 42-year old alcoholic Pauline played with a thick South African accent used to devastating effect. Favourite Pauline-ism? ‘I am forty two, I am morally and financially bankrupt and I’m on holiday with my mother’. Almost enough Benidorm. You have to buy the box set and judge for yourself.
I’m rather longing for a holiday aren’t you? Maybe I’ll take up one of the offers from Viking River Cruises to go up the Volga or down the Danube (not for the first time). As the booze cruise 18-30 ship in Benidorm so eloquently puts it ‘we weigh anchor and you get wankered’. Well, it is all-inclusive. Actually I don’t think I can take the great unwashed marauding round Gatwick Terminal One in sportswear like a herd of gormless cattle. Perhaps a train journey would be nice or as suggested a cruise.
Now, two things are ‘getting up my goat’ as Kath and Kim would say this fine Sunday morning. There really isn’t enough of Mary Berry on television or in the newspapers is there? It seems the telly producers and newspaper editors are engaged in a one-woman ‘help the aged’ campaign to line that old woman’s skinny jean pockets. She reminds me of that old bird on Titanic who had the temerity to drop the Heart of the Ocean blue diamond to the bottom of the briney.
Secondly, I agree with Nigel Farage. I walked from Clerkenwell to Bloomsbury the other morning and I did not see a white face or hear a word of English spoken. Do you know who the real minorities are these days? White middle aged men that’s who. And another thing: why does the BBC only employ women as sports presenters? I know there might be a substantial number of wimmin who actually like football but I don’t think the girls on the red sofa are amongst them.
Looking on the bright side (smiley winky face) I had two lovely invitations in the post yesterday: the delightful Emma Willis’s biannual Style for Soldiers party at The Ritz and the William Kent private view at the V&A. It’s a yes from me Bob. Deal. Not entirely sure yet whether I’ll go to Dame Angela Lansbury’s press night for Blithe Spirit yet but fingers crossed I’ll feel well enough and mentally equipped not to rip the two litre bottle of still water out of the hands of gormless Americans in sweatpants. Why does nobody dress for the theatre any more? You’ll be telling me Queen Mary’s dead next.
Madonna’s been irking me on Twitter again. She’s banging on again about Pussy Riot. As I said, ‘Alright Madge, can it. If they were called The Bangles would you even be bothered?’ Radio 4 Today programme presenters (I mean you Mr Humphries) take such delight in saying Pussy on a licence-payers’ service.
Apparently I have anger management issues. Well, as my old Grandmother Sherwood used to say, ‘if you’ve got issues here’s a tissue’. Off for a walk and a pint of Creme de Menthe at the old Cock Tavern this afternoon. You? Until next time…