A Problem Shared Is A Problem Doubled & Everything Is About Something Unless It's About Nothing

Yes, it's (ahem) 'that time of the month' again, you lucky people; From The North bloggerisationism update, ahoy detailing all of the latest goings-on in the utterly unextraordinary life of this very blogger. So, fire up that there bloggerisationism signal, Mister yer actual Keith Telly Toppin and, like, let's get this shit on road, right now. If not sooner. 

Let us kick-off, big-style, with the important news update (well, to this blogger, anyway) from The Stately Telly Topping Manor since last this blogger blogged (like big bloggerisationism thing). The contracts have now been well-and-truly signed and this blogger can now confirm that he has signed-up to write his third book in, roughly, the last twelve months having spent the best part of the previous decade writing precious little except this very blog. Good, eh? Well, Keith Telly Topping thinks it is. 

Therefore ... hands up (no, hands up in the air) who'd like to see/read this - the third part of the Vault of Horror tetralogy(!)? Because - a potential (likely) change of title, notwithstanding - once Keith Telly Topping writes it, you will extremely be able to. On Telos Publishing, sometime in 2026. This blogger has until the end of the year before he needs to deliver the manuscript so that's, roughly, five months of solid work ahead of him. Hideous self-aggrandising plug and fishing-for-sympathy ends. Note: As with Island of Terror, this isn't the cover, it was just something this blogger knocked-up as part of the pitch to David and Stephen. 

Just to mention, if this blogger hasn't approximately seven thousand five hundred and ninety four times already, the much-awaited Island of Terror will be released whilst yer actual is busy writing Taste the Blood of the Scars of the Bride of the Revenge of the Vault of Horror Has Risen from the Tomb, AD2025 Must Be Destroyed - in October(ish). So, that's something to look forward to - consider buying one, several or lots as the perfect early Christmas gift for that very special someone ... that you don't like. 

At the time of writing, this blogger hasn't actually, started writing Revenge of the Return of the Son and/or Daughter and/or Bride of Vault of Horror Has Risen from the Grave, AD 2025 just yet - apart from a little bit of work on the introductory piece, taken pretty much directly from the pitch. Rather, he has been doing extensive preparation, research and the gathering of notes on (to date) the first nineteen of the seventy two films he'll be covering in his usual idiosyncratic Vault of Horror-style. Students of the Telly Topping oeuvre will, nevertheless, be delighted to know that this blogger was only three films into this task (and, had reached (1945) when he managed to work in his very first link/reference to The Be-Atles (a popular beat combo of the 1960s, you might've heard of them). Predictable? Yer actual Keith Telly Topping? Always.  

One of the thing that this blogger did need a bit of help on from his delightful Facebook massive was a section he was planning on the role of the plain-clothed police detective in British horror movies and thrillers. This blogger mentioned the rationale for having them there in the first place (realism and, sometimes, the introduction of some intergenerational tension). He noted that, in many cases - although perfectly adequately-played by more-than-decent actors - they usually do little to service the development of the plot and, frankly, often just hold up the narrative (several examples were provided). That, as a rule, they should always have a Holmes and Watson-style relationship (in terms of intelligence) with their nice-but-dim sergeants (further examples were provided) and a Holmes and Lestrade-connection to their frequently thick-as-mince superior (one specific prime example was provided). And, that whilst there are several broadly interesting police characters present within the genre who do, actually, need to be there to propel the story onwards (examples were provided) really, only Alfred Marks' Bellaver in Scream and Scream Again and Donald Pleasence's Calhoun in Death Line stand as the high-watermarks of the type. Both being representatives of the kind of wise-cracking Jack-The-Lad DCI soon to become a regular feature (and, ultimately, a parodiable cliché) of much UK-TV police drama of the 1970s. The question this blogger needed to ask his dear Facebook fiends, however, was 'have I missed anything obvious?'

After some terrific suggestions (and, much affirmation), this blogger provided a necessary 'thank you' to everyone who helped with this 'coppers in British films of mystery and suspense' plea. And, to inform them that he had managed to edit the thoughts down to a roughly six hundred word, five paragraph piece (plus a couple of footnotes) called It's a Fair Cop, Guv! Which will go into the book sandwiched - conceptually rather brilliantly, this blogger immodestly feels - between Cover Girl Killer and Hell is a City. This blogger also managed to include references to this trend not being unique to the UK with French thrillers, gialli, krimis and even Hitchcock sometimes suffering from similar problems. So, once again, heartfelt thanks are due to all who contributed; you're all heroes in this blogger's book. And, indeed, you will all be heroes in this blogger's book.

Next, dear blog fiend, when yer actual Keith Telly Topping goes (hopefully not for some considerable time to come) he is stipulating, right here, right now, that this is the music he wishes to have played at the cremation. And, as the coffin goes into the furnace he wants everyone amongst the masses attending to bellow, simultaneously, 'mind the doors'. And, why not?

You know how, sometimes, when you're just idly minding your own business whilst ploughing through every regional newspaper archives you have access too trying to find a review of The Flesh and the Fiends that doesn't mention the word 'bawdy' in it and you find something that makes you go 'Eh? Sorry, run that one by me again ...' Anybody else know that feeling?

The past, as this blogger's excellent fiend Nick noted, really is another country (one with a different dictionary at that). This blogger still recalls his late mother, back in the 1980s, asking what Keith Telly Topping had thought about a particularly fine Edgar Wallace Mystery shown on Channel 4 the previous evening (it was, actually, the superb Game For Three Losers). This blogger said, not unusually, that he 'thought it was great.' 'It had a queer ending, though,' Mama Telly Topping replied. This blogger didn't know what to make of that at all.

Also in the book, your faithful author will be attempting to answer stuff like the following: Logic, Let Me Introduce You To This Window (part ninety seven). In The Innocents, Peter Quint is played by the late, great, Peter Wyngarde (twenty eight at the time of production according to the 'official' version ... although we now know he was, actually, thirty four having knocked six years off his age when he came to the UK in the 1940s). In The Nightcomers, a decade later, a 'younger' version of the same character is played by the forty seven-year-old also late (and, also, great) Marlon Brando, two stone heavier and with a much more aggressively-challenged hairline. Explain that discrepancy in yer forthcoming book, Keith Telly Topping. Using graphs if necessary.

That, frankly is even more discombobulating than the utter implausibility of the respective ages of Adrienne Corri's three children in Vampire Circus. So, let's try that one again to see if makes any more sense than the last time this blogger checked (the answer to which remains, almost certainly, no). To sum up: It is said to be fifteen years since Anna Müller fled the village after naughtily procuring a child-victim for Count Mitterhaus, leaving her young daughter, Dora, behind. Now, she has returned with the titular circus (played by a completely different actress). She has, with her, extremely non-identical twins Helga, played by twenty-one-year-old Lalla Ward and Heindrich, played by twenty-two-year-old Robin Sachs - both of them looking every single inch of it; neither of whom can be any older than fourteen-and-a-few-months even assuming that their mother was pregnant with them when she fled the village. Meanwhile, their supposedly-several-years-older half-sister, Dora, is played by seventeen-year-old Lynne Frederick … who looks about twelve. Anyone? Because this blogger's still struggling. And, no, in the case of one of twins, time-travel is not involved.

Having pitched the book to his delightful publishers (who, as previously noted, clearly have exquisite taste in all things) and having gotten a swift and positive reply, but always cautious not to announce anything publicly until bits-of-paper have been signed (and, not for nothing, money has been paid) this blogger decided he needed to celebrate. 'Had a bit of cautiously good news, today (details only once confirmed),' he told his dear Facebook fiends. 'Therefore on a scale of one-to-ten with one being "yeah, I suppose I sort-of deserve this, perhaps" and ten being "yes, my brothers and sisters, yer actual really, really, really really deserves this right good and proper and no mistake", give us a score.'

In the middle of all these malarkey and shenanigans, however, this blogger was required to start one day last week having to do a complete 'Windows System Restore' due to the Larry the Stately Telly Topping Manor laptop running so slowly that a snail would've outpaced him over one hundred metres. All, of course, occurring when this blogger was busy and eager to get his shit sorted, which was the biggest 'bugger' in the history of, ahem, buggerisation. The reboot took so long, this blogger was forced to go shopping and leaving it running whilst he was out. Thankfully, by the time he returned to The Stately Telly Topping Manor a couple of hours later, it was all finished and it was, indeed, running faster. Not that much faster, if truth be told, but still visibly faster than it previously had been.

A recent recording on The Stately Telly Topping Manor SkyQ-box of Day of the Jackal on Legend (rapidly become The Stately Telly Topping Manor's second favourite TV channel) reminded this blogger that it is a brilliant film based on the fine source-text and with a great central performance by Eddie Fox. It is, however, impossible to watch without recalling the late (and much-missed) John Sessions' memorable assertion on Qi that Eddie is the only actor in the history of acting to possess 'a bicep in his face!'

The same channel's showing of Freddie Francis's Amicus-like Tales That Witness Madness a few days later also reminded this blogger of a Californian cruise more than two decades ago when he was writing A Vault of Horror. And, of a lovely couple of hours spent in a bar in Mexico with the late (and definitely much-missed) Mary Tamm who told this blogger some delightful on-the-record behind-the-scenes stories about her film debut. 'I was in a car crash on the way to the first day's filming. And then, just after I got there, one of trailers burned down. It was like somebody was trying to tell me something!'

Ah! Happy days. That was, in truth, one Hell of a trip, dearest blog fiend (yer actual even had hair back then).

A couple of days after that, this blogger suffered a horribly late start to the day - having hardly slept at all until about 5am (what with the tossin' and the turnin') and then, consequently, massively oversleeping to compensate, he woke-up with a stottin' sore-heed aal-full of cotton wool. Still, at least he had The Night Caller recorded off From The North favourite Talking Pictures TV to watch that very afternoon. Some minor compensation, let it be noted.

Things that, genuinely, keep yer actual Keith Telly Topping awake in his pit in The Stately Telly Topping Manor at night. Number three hundred and twenty seven (in a list which may, well, be infinite): Is Mister Big in yer actual Live & Let Die the same Mister Big whom Rik states is '"in" with the warders' and fears getting raped-in-the-showers by if he goes to Pris for not paying his telly licence? And, if so, did he also have a hit in 1977 with 'Romeo'?

Remember, dear blog fiend, if someone is shooting at you, you're probably doing something right. Well, it's either that, or you're playing an extra-long version of 'Magneto and Titanium Man' and you deserve all the bullets coming your way - this blogger could go either way on that score.

On a somewhat-related theme; 'Hey Paul?' 'Yes, Dave?' 'Do you realise, your jacket's the same colour of the Goose in 'Morse Moose and Grey Goose' and mine is blue, blue, electric blue. What were the chances?' 'Cosmic, Dave.'

Another late-night Qbox-type affair on From The North favourite Talking Pictures TV was Fragment of Fear; a film with many outstanding qualities - a superb cast, nicely shot, a really interesting, atonal, jazz score and a great performance by the pigeon. But, oh my, that ending ... not so much ambiguous and downright encrypted. This blogger is never, ever in favour of filmmakers spoon-feeding their audience all the answer. But, just occasionally, one or two might be quite helpful.

Next, a word from our sponsor. T-rextacy. 

Over, now, to Old Trafford for the latest from the Fourth Test ...

This blogger loves history, dear blog fiend. It's so ... historic, don't you think? 

A confession: The 'immediate post-shower-and-blow-dry' thing is never the ideal look for yer actual, dear blog fiends, under any circumstances whatsoever. Except if he's about to enter his very self into a Father Jack lookalike competition. 'That would be an ecumenical matter ...'

Frankly, there are days (and there seem to be more of them year-upon-year) when this blogger desperately needs a couple of shots of these lil beauties. Because, whatever they are claiming to cure, this blogger had got all of it - in abundance.

Cheap at half-the-price. And, Bobby Chariot advertises the stuff, so it must be good.

Following that, some properly sensible advice for all of those who may be considering swimming across the moat at The Stately Telly Topping Manor to confront yer actual Keith Telly Topping over something-or-nothing. You have been warned.

This current government's enlightened and wholly just BBQ sauce-availability policies (previously discussed, at some length, on this very blog) continues to bring joy and happiness to the entire nation. Truly, we are living in wondrous times.

Finally, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, this blgoger wishes to draw readers attention to a couple of pieces from 'newspapers' (those are things that people used read on a daily basis, of you were wondering) which he, for once, actually agrees with. Stevie Wonders will never cease, it would seem. Firstly, there's That Awful Mangan Woman's Gruniad Morning Star review of Mark Gatiss's sublime Bookish, easily - by about a thousand miles - the best thing produced on British television so far this year (and, likely to remain so for the rest of 2025). That Awful Mangan Woman is - as this blog has highlighted, not infrequently, in the past, a hideous, atypical Gruniadista, a Middle Class hippy Communist vegan quiche-eating gobshite who talks snobbish, slappable bollocks most of the time. But, for once, she actually got the point of something. Well, even a broken clock is right twice a day, this blogger will concede.

Secondly and, possibly, even more surprisingly, James Hall's review of the opening night of Oasis's tour at Wembley from the Torygraph, Enough Tears to Fix a Water Shortage. As a useful, necessary alternative to all of those tiresome, odious, full-of-their-own-importance wankers who've spent vast swathes of the media (both social and actual) telling the world how much they never liked Oasis in the first place and, seemingly, want a funking for their glorious self-sacrifice in this regard (like this arsehole in, of course, the Gruniad Morning Star, to take just one example), a paragraph in Hall's piece deserves to be given its own blue plaque and thoroughly mounted. 'These concerts matter for another reason. The economy's shrinking, taxes are rising, pubs are permanently shuttering, trains are creaking, supermarket food costs so much it's security tagged and Britain hasn't produced a decent mainstream rock band for decades. In other words, the UK feels about as effervescent as Keir Starmer's haircut right now. Reasons to be cheerful? Lionesses and Bazballers aside, there aren't many. So, believe it or not, something as slight as a rock-concert by greying men in their fifties can actually make a difference. Sometimes the shallow end is where the important stuff happens. If last summer belonged to the Swifties, this summer belongs to Oasis and their fans.' Yeah. What he said. Haters gonna hate. Sod 'em all, they - genuinely - don't know what they're missing out on. And, seemingly, they never heeded their mum's advice that, if the wind changes direction, their faces might stay like that.

And that, fiends of the blog, is how we do that. This somewhat sorter-than-usual missive from the luscious splendour of The Stately Telly Topping Manor ends hereabouts. Time, work and 'tales of mystery and suspense' willing, From The North will return with yet more fun-and-games from this blogger's extraordinarily unadventurous but moderately successful life sometime reasonably soon. Ish. As always, it's been emotional.