Squeaking In Tongues

Well right nice y'all are, dearest bloggerisationism fiends and welcome to the latest From The North update in the area and all that. Here is a visualisation is today's general mood.

Or, to put it another way.

The death of one of this blogger's favourite actors, Kenny Cope (mentioned in the last From The North bloggerisationism update), inevitably brought a Stately Telly Topping Manor rewatch of several episodes of his most widely-regarded work. And, with it, this image. With, perhaps, not the most original of potential captions: 'What kept you?'

So, first-things-firstly and, as mentioned on that last From The North bloggiersationism update, this blogger's first sustained piece of work in quite a good long while, Return to the Vault of Horror, has recently been completed, edited to within an inch of its life and then delivered and is thoroughly available for pre-order at the publishers' website. Here, in fact. Go on, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, if you haven't already done so, click on that there link and pre-order the mother. You know you want to. Well, this blogger knows you want to even if you, yourselves, do not.

As it happens, this very week Return to the Vault of Horror has acquired its very own ISBN number. This blogger had quite forgotten how thrilling getting page-proofs through for correction (in this case, on a PDF via e-mail) can be. It's just like child-birth. (Actually, no, it isn't anything like child-birth ... but it's probably the closest Keith Telly Topping is ever going to get to that particular sensation). Having spent the subsequent three days doing pretty much nothing but a full proof-read, please allow this blogger to say - even if he does say so himself - this is a thing of effin' beauty (and, this blogger is not merely talking just about writing. Although, that's pretty good too).

And, before you all ask, this blogger does assert his moral rights most fully. And, very moral they are, too. Just, you know, for the record.

All right, you can stop laughing now, it wasn't that funny.

On Thursday, this blogger finished his complete read-through and note-making (all four hundred and thirty two pages of it) and sent the last set of corrections and amendments (almost all of which were tiny, only mildly consequential, things like spelling and encoding issues) to his editor who is, of course, the greatest bloke in the whole world, bar none. Aren't you David? For anyone still considering their options over whether to pre-order it, here, or otherwise - just look what you're letting yourself miss out on if you don't.

To not pre-order one? Why, you'd be a laughing-stock among your fiends. You would have to be a brain-damaged moron, or the victim of a cruel medical experiment to even consider such a ludicrous strategy. You'd be a figure of fun, a joke, a risible excuse for an individual whom small children would giggle at in the streets and who would, as a consequence of your indecision, find yourself ostracised from polite society. And, possibly, kicked out of your family. And, you wouldn't want that, dear blog reader, would you?

Think of the shame.

Think of the disgrace.

Think of the ignominy.

Think of the potential repercussions.

Think of how Bob and Terry would feel?

People who have not ordered this book from the Telos website, as we speak, include: Donald Trump. Suella Braverman. Mister Nigel Farago. Hitler. Kim Jong Sun. Piers Morgan. Erik Ten Hag. Laurence Fox. That dancing bloke off the We Buy Any Car Dot Com advert. Is that a list you really want to be on too, dearest bloggerisationism fiends? Really?

No, dear blog reader, you're all - clearly - sensible, rational, tuned-in individuals (I mean, you're here in the first place, aren't you? That proves it). So, I'm sure you're already on your way here to do that which needs to be done. And, if you've already done so then, hey, why not do it again? Return to a Vault of Horror is, after all, the perfect gift. For people you don't like.

On that bombshell, meanwhile, it's been cheap-but-fun-British-SF-week at The Stately Telly Topping Manor. With this.

And this.

And this.

Which brings us, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, to that extra-special part of From The North overly dedicated to this blogger's horribly on-going medical malarkey. Or, strictly speaking, malarkeys as there have been and continue to be several of them. For those dear blog fiends who haven't been following this epic adventure, almost three years in the making, it goes like this: Keith Telly Topping spent some weeks around Christmas 2021 and into the New Year of 2022 feeling pure dead rotten, so he did; he experienced an alarming five day in hospital; was discharged; received some B12 injections; then more of them; somewhat recovered his missing appetite; got an initial diagnosis; had a consultant's meeting; continued to suffer from fatigue and insomnia; endured a (second) endoscopy; had another consultation; got (unrelated) toothache; had an extraction; which then took ages to heal; had another consultation; spent a week where nothing remotely health-related occurred; received further B-12 injections; had an echocardiogram; was subject to more blood extractions; made another hospital visit; saw the unwelcome insomnia and torpor continue; received yet more blood tests; had a rearranged appointment; suffered his worst period yet with fatigue. Until the following week. And then, the week after that. Oh, the fatigue, dear blog reader. The depressing, ceaseless fatigue. He then had a go on the Blood-Letting Machine; got another sick note; had an assessment; was given his fourth COVID jab; got some surprising-but-welcome news about his assessment; had the results of his annual diabetes check-up; had another really bad week with the fatigue; followed by one with the sciatica; then one with the chronic insomnia; and, one with a plethora of general cold-related grottiness. Which continued over the 2022 Christmas period and into 2023. There was that whole 'slipping in The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House bath and putting his knee through the side' thing; a period of painful night-time leg and foot cramps; getting some new spectacles; returning to the East End pool; only to discover that he remained as weak of a kitten in the water. Or, indeed, out of it; felt genuinely wretched; experienced a nasty bout of gastroenteritis; had a visit from an occupational therapist; did the 'accidentally going out of the gaff in his slippers' malarkey; saw the return of the dreaded insomnia and the dreaded return of the fatigue. Had the latest tri-monthly prickage; plus, yet more sleep disturbances; a further bout of day-time retinology; a bout of extreme exhaustion; picked up a cold virus in the week that he got his latest Covid and influenza inoculations; got through the entire Department Of Baths malarkey (and then, its sequel) whilst suffering from significant, on-going, back spasms. Received the welcome news that his latest test for cancer of the colon had come back negative. And got scheduled for yet more blood tests.

In mid-September this blogger broke a tooth over a weekend (it's always over weekends when the surgery is closed, is it not? Sod's law. And, as a fully-practicing sod, this blogger can attest to that fact). So, he did the 'ring up at one minute past eight on the Monday morning and hope for the best' routine. 'Can you get in for two o'clock?' the jolly nice receptionist asked when Keith Telly Topping told her of his misfortune and confirmed that, yes, he was suffering from a wee bit of discomfort. This blogger resisted the overwhelming temptation to ask if he could have an appointment half-an-hour later as that'd be much more comedically appropriate and merely said, in a state of complete and utter shock, 'what today?' Having expected something more along the lines of 'we can fit you in three weeks on Wednesday.' Soon, therefore, it was all sorted out satisfactorily thanks the marvellous-as-always hole-filling efforts of Dentist Megha.

Next, this blogger had to attend the hospital to receive the Ludovico Technique as part of his annual diabetes check-up, with the squirty, stingy, nasty eyedrops of horror. After which, his eyes felt like flying saucers and people walking past had vapour trails coming off them. It was, as usual, a bit like being unpleasantly drunk. Which, as the late Douglas Adams wisely noted, is okay unless you're a glass of water. 

Then, this blogger went into the RVI on Friday morning of last week, basically for some further blood tests (a regular occurrence over the last two years), plus his latest, three monthly, B-12 injection. During the course of which he had what his old mum used to call 'a funny turn.' That's funny peculiar as opposed to 'ha-ha', just in case you were wondering. Keith Telly Topping doesn't recall much about it, personally. Apparently, he had a blackout or a fainting spell or whatever you call it - he passed out, anyway (whilst sitting in a chair talking casually to the nice nurse who was going through his blood test results from the previous week). He came round but was babbling somewhat incoherently for a while thereafter (anybody who says 'so, no change there, then' with probably incur the considerable wrath of this blogger's considerable bombast).

This blogger was, thereafter, taken into intensive care and spent a very uncomfortable day and a night and another day being poked, prodded, asking questions and then poked, prodded and poked again. He only got out late on the Saturday afternoon because, he believes, they needed the bed following a spate of heart-attacks after United's unexpected one-all draw with Sheikh Yer Manchester City and because he was starting to whinge (really loudly) about the possibilities of spending another night in the joint. They had, then, absolutely no idea what had caused all this malarkey and kerfufflement (so, if they didn't know, this blogger had no chance of being ahead of them on that, particular score) but they were concerned enough that he had to go back the following week for yet more tests. Are you seeing a pattern being established at this juncture dear bloggerisatiosm fiends? It's not just me, then?

As a consequence, this blogger got at home (to a freezing cold Stately Telly Topping Manor) late on Saturday evening and spent the week since, convalescing and under strict instructions to, generally, try his very best to do nowt until they worked out whatever it was that caused these shenanigans. Meaning that. consequently, this blogger missed out on a long-looked-forward-to night out with his old mucker, Mick the Mod on Wednesday. This blogger then woke up the following (Sunday) morning to find sixteen (count 'em) PM messages on Facebook all from fiends of Keith Telly Topping asking, essentially, the same question - 'are you all right?' This blogger was, then and remains, genuinely not ungrateful for the sentiment but, as he'd just spent two days-and-a-night in hospital, clearly the answer to that question was 'no, I'm not!'

Today, it was back to the jolly old hospital for the follow-up to these previous shenanigans. Expecting some answers, this blogger ended up with naught but inconclusivity (which probably isn't a real word but it fits nicely). He felt like he was in a Little Bobby Thompson routine: 'I went to the Doctors. He said "Can't find anything wrong, it must be the drink." I said "Oh, I'll come back when you're sober!"' The bottom line being that they still have absolutely no idea what caused the fainting and speaking-in-tongues nonsense. They know what it was (a 'Vasovagal Syncope incident', apparently), but not what actually caused it. 'Possibly streets,' they suggested. This blogger stresses, 'possibly' (in a bit of would-be clever word-play he's actually quite proud of given the circumstances). But, seemingly they aren't too worried about it (although that didn't stop a further series of blood tests being taken - this blogger is now, officially, known as 'donor number one' to any vampires in the NHS). Still, at least this blogger had his annual 'flu jab whilst he was there, so that's that out of the way for another year. Of course, he would get it when he's in the middle of a stinking cold. Sod's law innit? And again, as a practicing sod, this blogger fully concurs.

Now, dear blog reader, here's an advert for Manakin Cigars circa 1973 from an era when adverts were worth avoiding the programmes for. Big Caroline, dear bloggerisationism fiends. She can hack her way through my jungle any time she likes ...

Also, when this blogger grows up, he wants Milton Reid as his personal 'chick-picker' like he was in the Saint Bruno adverts.

And finally ... So many questions ...

The Briefest Of Brief From The North Updates On Matters Related To ... The Horror

So, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, since the last From The North update, back in July, Keith Telly Topping has been busy working on something truly horrible. Two hundred thousand, seven hundred and eighty seven words; fifty eight extensive movie reviews; one hundred and fifty six footnotes; a dedication; full and extensive acknowledgments; an explanatory introduction; three short essays on the major film studios featured; an end piece on The Wilderness Years; an 'uge bibliography and an extremely self-indulgent About the Author section which makes Keith Telly Topping sound more than a bit like Edgar Lustgarten. All now completed. What was, at one point, going to be Another Vault of Horror but is, now, Return to the Vault of Horror has been delivered to those marvellously lovely people at Telos Publishing. To be honest, this blogger could've easily kept fiddling with it for another month at least but he's now got to the point where if he faffs around with it any longer than he already has, he's in danger of cutting something that he doesn't want to. So, for better or worse, it is done. Finished. Complete. Sorted. Brought home. And, thoroughly available for pre-order from the publishers website. Here, in fact. Please buy one, several or lots, dear bloggerisationism fiends, yer actual Keith Telly Topping has a - really deserved - King Prawn curry and fried rice habit and one hundred and ninety four illegitimate Blu-Rays to support. Thank you for allowing him into your homes.

Ultimately, the question before the house today is 'do you, dear blog reader, wish to read Keith Telly Topping's considered and forthright opinions on fifty eight great* British horror movies made between 1956 and 1978?' (* ... and not so great). Specifically these ones: X - The Unknown, The Snorkel, Blood of the Vampire, The Revenge of Frankenstein, Horrors of The Black Museum, The Man Who Could Cheat Death, The Brides of Dracula, The Shadow of the Cat, The Man in the Back Seat, The Damned , Captain Clegg, The Phantom of the Opera, Paranoiac, Nightmare, Unearthly Stranger, The Gorgon, Witchcraft, Repulsion, Eye of the Devil, The Reptile, Revenge of The Blood Beast, Carry On Screaming!, Dance of the Vampires, Berserk!, Torture Garden, Corruption, Performance, Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed, I Start Counting, Mumsy, Nanny, Sonny & Girly, The Man Who Haunted Himself, Cry of the Banshee, Goodbye Gemini, Scars of Dracula, Die Screaming, Marianne, Countess Dracula, A Clockwork Orange, The Fiend, The Abominable Dr Phibes, Fright, What Became of Jack & Jill?, Endless Night, Tales from the Crypt, Straight on Till Morning, Fear in the Night, Horror Express, Neither the Sea Nor the Sand, The Asphyx, Horror Hospital, The Mutations, Don’t Look Now, Ghost Story, Symptoms, The Ghoul, Frightmare, House of Mortal Sin, To the Devil A Daughter and Terror. That is what you all have to ask yourselves ... before, obviously, answering 'yes. Yes I really do' and then ordering one. Here.

As a consequence of all this malarkey and shenanigans, of course, this blogger's current physical state is, roughly, thus. To help alleviate this, should you be of a mind, you can, simply, order the book here.

Please note, your author shall now be lying down for about a fortnight in a darkened room, only getting up for two necessary hospital appointments next week, the odd trip to the lavatory and an evening of rock and/or roll jiggery-pokery on 2 October with a close personal fiend. It's been emotional. Oh, that ordering address again. Here.

It's nice to know, by the way, that the New Testament is only one hundred and eighty thousand words long - Keith Telly Topping is, therefore, officially, more verbose than God. He'd suspected as much for a long time, to be fair, but it's very nice to have it actually confirmed. 

Mind you, it hasn't all been nose-to-the-grindstone for the last couple of months. Only most of it. Five days into the largest solo book edit this blogger had ever undertaken, he did take a few hours off last week for a necessary happenstance diversion with his close personal fiend, Young Malcolm. Because he really deserved this. How much did he really deserve this, you are no doubt asking yourselves? This blogger will tell you. This is how much he really deserved this. On a scale of one-to-ten in terms of just how much he really deserved this, with one being he really deserved this and ten being he really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really deserved this, eleven was how much he really deserved this. How much more could he have really deserved this? None more, that's how much.

Just to tease you all with one of this blogger's favourite footnotes from the book. Did you know: One term occasionally used for a bum-double in the UK film and TV industry is 'a stunt arse'. This, allegedly, goes back to the 1972 Dick Emery vehicle Ooh .. You Are Awful in which the (rather contrived) plot involved a conman who gets out of jail to discover that his, now-dead, partner has tattooed the Swiss Bank Account number in which their ill-gotten gains are stashed, on the bottoms of four of his girlfriends. The first of these, played by the delightful Cheryl Kennedy, was required to kneel in a train station photobooth and bare all, but had a last minute change of heart due to embarrassment and couldn't go through with the scene. The director, the late Cliff Owen (1919-93), sympathetically told her 'don't worry, we can get a stunt arse in!' True story.

And now, to quote from a previous book, written long, long ago in a land far, far away (although, actually, in this very Stately Telly Topping gaff right here), 'The opening images of a kinky orgy feature a goat, an overweight man in leather y-fronts with antlers on his head, a dazed-looking geezer in a suit and a couple of young women in a state of undress, one with leather nipple-patches and brandishing a vicious-looking whip ... So, just like an average Saturday night round my place.'

This is only a very, very, very brief bloggerisationism update, as you'll no doubt notice cos you're all really perceptive like that, bloggerisationism fiends. Mainly to remind you all that this blogger isn't, actually, dead yet. Merely resting (deservedly). However, this blogger isn't able to close this particular update without acknowledging the recent, sad, news of the death of one of his favourite actors, the very, very great Kenneth Cope. Just about the last piece of writing this blogger did for Return to the Vault of Horror before the editing process began, in fact, was to add five (very unwelcome) words to the actor's biographical piece in the X - The Unknown entry. To wit: 'He died in September 2024.' Kenny Cope was one of Keith Telly Topping's first TV heroes, a man who appeared in more better-than-average films and TV series than any one person has a right to in a fair and just society. And he looked great in a dress.

This blogger will tell you all one thing he loves the mostest, baby, about the Interweb. How full it is of people who can't wait to tell you how disinterested they are in something that's happening which other people are being very enthusiastic about. This occurs every time there's a World Cup, an Olympics or some other major sporting event taking place ('I hate sport, me, I won't be watching a single second'). Or when there's a Royal event in the offing ('I'm a Republican, I won't be watching a single second of it'). Or a new series of Strictly or Britain's Got Toilets or Doctor Who about to begin ('can't stand that rubbish, I won't be watching a single second'). They're quite a sight. Recently, it's been happening again, in some abundance, following the news of the forthcoming Oasis reunion tour ('never could stand them, I won't be buying a ticket'). Do you want a fucking medal for your glorious self-sacrifice or what?

Wouldn't it be better instead to talk about something you are interested in or is that to much like hard work? Jesus, some people are just in awe of their own magnificent self-importance.

In actual fact, this blogger has been asked by several close personal fiends to comment upon the forthcoming 'Sis reunion thing. Often. He shall make only but one comment. And it is this - 'where were you while we were getting high?' This blogger will tell you exactly where he was, dearest bloggerisationism fiends. Here was there. You could always spot yer actual Keith Telly Topping at a 'Sis gig; there'd be a big white arrow stickin' out of the top of his heed.

On to stuff, now, that genuinely gets right on this blogger's tit-end. Massively. If there is one thing which irritates this blogger more than just about anything else in the whole wide world (except, possibly, Nazis and Hippies) it's seeing someone casually mention they have some really mild medical complaint (like a tickly cough) online. And then some, no doubt well-meaning but ultimately clueless, prick pipe-up with something along the lines of 'you wanna be careful with that, it might be cancer of the arsehole.' Well yes, it may be ... but chances are, it isn't. Such people, of course, seldom have any actual medical knowledge themselves but will use the crass excuse that, say, their partner is a doctor. So what? This blogger's dad was a welder, that doesn't mean Keith Telly Topping has the ability to knock up a battleship in the Stately Telly Topping Manor back yard.

Meanwhile, this blogger is idly wondering if the missing word in this classic 1970s advert is 'anything'? It would certainly make a great deal of sense.

So, as noted, this has been a much shorter-than-usual From The North bloggerisationism update, dearest fiends. The next one will be longer as there's much - non-horror-related - malarkey to be a-catchin' up with. Remember, that link address again so you can order the book should you wish to do so. Here. Go on, you know you want to. It's been emotional.

And finally ...

Being, As It Were, A Short Diversion On Matters Bloggerisationisms Related (Slight Return)

Since From The North last received an update a month ago, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, much has occurred. Muchly much. Both in yer actual Keith Telly Topping's own private life and, indeed, in the wider, public, world at large. Taking the latter first, we've seen England ingloriously failing at the Semi-Final stage of the cricket T20 World Cup (though the test side had somewhat more success at Lord's). We've also seen England ingloriously failing in the Final of the football European Championship having made it that far despite plaing utterly terribly through the majority of the tournament, followed by their manager deciding he'd had enough of the gig. To the sadness of, pretty much, no-one except the FA. We've had a general erection in the UK. You might've noticed (it was on The news and everything). The outcome of which was, though entirely predictable in advance, still bloody good fun to stay up all night and watch. Couldn't happen to a bunch of nicer people. We've had all sort of shenanigans and malarkey going on in That There America. And by all sorts, this blogger really does mean all sorts. And, sadly, we've seen the announcement of the death of Donald Sutherland, the last of The Bradley Five to leave the station.

Plus, we've witnessed the final episode of Ncuti Gatwa's first series of Doctor Who, Empire of Death. Which this blogger thought was great needless to say and which he went on the radio to talk about. At length. (it's available on BBC Sounds only until 24 July, sadly, so if you haven't heard it yet, be quick. This blogger can be heard at exactly two hours, eighteen minutes and twenty five seconds in, immediately after Mister Rag And/Or Bone Man and, thereafter, in three chunks over the next twenty minutes or so.)

Keith Topping Topping his very self has also had a couple of further medical appointments for yet more blood-letting in the area and his latest tri-monthly nasty, stingy B-12 injection (which, as usual, knacked like fek, so it did); had a couple of very nice - and productive - meals with his good chum and confidante Young Malcolm at the Little Asia in town; bought his first issue of Record Collector magazine in about a decade because a close personal fiend of this blogger had a piece in that particular issue. This blogger was, sad to report, shocked - and stunned - by the price. Nine English pounds and forty five new pee for one hundred and fourteen pages. That's 8.289pee per page if you're taking notes. And, of even greater importantance, this blogger managed one dull Sunday afternoon to change Derek The Stately Telly Topping Manor duvet cover without the usual fifteen minutes of wrestling with the damned thing first. Which, needless to say, pleased this blogger no end.

We've also seen the arrival of various new online purchases at The Stately Telly Topping Manor including some reading material, some viewing material, a couple of household goods and Ernie, the new Stately Telly Topping Manor External Blu-Ray Drive.

This blogger also discovered that, apparently, it is now possible to walk from Lands End to the Orkneys and, if you chose your route very carefully, you would need to traverse only but one Conservative-held constituency thoughtout all the land. Though, obviously, you'd get your feet rather wet during the last bit.

However, we must, by necessity, move on to the really important news - at least, around these parts. Yer actual Keith Telly Topping has, in recent weeks, been in active discussions with a publisher with whom he's had many previous, enjoyable, dealings concerning a new project (which is, sort of, exactly like an old project only ... newer). An agreement has, since, been reached, a contract has been signed and so details can now be revealed since many of this blogger's closest fiends asked nicely and kept their various digits crossed for a positive outcome upon request. So, coming your way whenever this blogger finishes it, dear blog reader, will be this tasty little beast.

Works is already underway (it was underway the second this blogger got a sniff of interest, to be perfectly honest). The number of 'fifty' films mentioned on this provisional cover artwork is somewhat arbitrary, it may well be fifty five or sixty or another number entirely by the time the project is finished depending on how it goes, what this blogger can get access to, how it will affect the word-count and how he is feeling(!) What can Keith Telly Topping say, dearest bloggerisationism fiends? He's something of a man of whim.

This blogger had, of course, quite forgotten just how exhausting the process of writing this kind of book can be, given that it's been a decade or more since he last worked on such a project. When Keith Telly Topping was young (and pretty), watching a ninety-to-one-hundred-and-twenty-minute film, making notes, researching the piece, getting it all categorised and written up and then edited to, at least, first draft level, would take a day, maximum. Sometimes, if this blogger was feeling particularly energetic, he could managed two in a day. Thus far, this blogger is matching the rate of one-movie-a-day with apparently ease but it is undeniably tiring. The delivery date is the end of the year, however, so Keith Telly Topping has plenty of time to take the odd day off if he ever gets too knackered.

This edition will contain a handful of films which really should have been in the first edition but were left out due to space restrictions (during the writing of A Vault of Horror, it came often down to choices like 'you can have The Abominable Doctor Phibes or you can have Tower of Evil, but not both. Do you want to go for the better film or the more interesting film?') There will also be two inclusions that would have been in the first edition if this blogger had been able to lay his hands on copies at the time he was writing it; three or four which were seriously considered for the first edition, if only to irk the purists and one movie which did appear in the first edition but has been completely rewritten because this blogger was never entirely happy with the original review and, here, it will be massively expanded and included purely as a bonus entry (a bit like a director's cut with commentary track on a double-disc DVD set). Plus, of course, about forty(ish) others, availability depending (this blogger already has access to copies of all-bar-one of his provisional list and the one he doesn't have is easy to get hold of).

For those taking notes, ten days on from signing up for Another Vault of Horror, this blogger is still maintaining the rate of one-film-per-day (ten down, forty-ish to go at the time of wiritng) with five thousand words completed on the rather spectacularly good Unearthly Stranger (1963) last evening. The list currently stands at fifty two 'definites' and about five or six 'possibles.' So, it will be more than fifty, possibly fifty five, maybe an odd number. Hey, dear blog reader, yer actual Keith Telly Topping is contrary in his ways. This is, of course, always assuming that David and Stephen are okay with such a left-field conceit. He said, remembering his manners and his place in the great scheme of things.

Let us, therefore, have a deserved three cheers for David and Stephen for being, you know, Princes amongst men, jolly good blokes and clearly having impeccable taste in their commissions! As previously noted on many an occasion, if life was a party, dear bloggerisationism readers, then this blogger would rather like his to be just like the one seen in Dracula AD 1972 - with top beat-combo of the 1970s, Stoneground (you might've heard of them) rockin’ the effin' shack with ‘Alligator Man’ in The Stately Telly Topping Manor front room and Caroline Munro dancing, provocatively, on the sideboard. A man can dream, can he not? Beccause dreaming, as Blondie once noted, is free.

Of course, there have - even at this early stage in the process - been a few ups and/or downs. That's inevitable in such a project as this. For instance, here is a visual representation of that moment when one has been trying to watch a movie for a book on British horror movies that one is currently writing, which is on an eight-film DVD box-set that one picked up in Los Angeles twenty years ago (also containing five other films that one will want to come back to at a later stage). One has tried it on four of the five DVD players one has in the gaff, it will not play on any of them, then, in desperation, one tries it on the fifth - the old model that one has in the bedroom which one hasn't used for anything in months - and it actually only bloomin' well goes and plays, doesn't it? Take that 'region not supported on this devise'!

Or, alternatively, here we have a visual representation of that moment when one has been up half-the-night trying (and completely failing) to discover the exact date of the UK terrestrial TV debut of Mumsy, Nanny, Sonny & Girly (Freddie Francis, 1969) and one finally thinks 'Sod this for a game of strip poker, I need me bed more than I need this.'

Nevertheless, the long and the short of all this malarkey is that this blogger's time for bloggerisationisms updating of From The North may (and, indeed, will) be somewhat limited during the next two, three or four months until the book is completed, edited and delivered. Keith Telly Topping apologises in advance for any inconvenience caused to dear bloggersationism readers who demand their regular fix of updates from The Stately Telly Topping Manor but, what can he do, he's just one man? (Well, he could 'not write the book', obviously. But he is sure that dear bloggersiationism readers will, broadly, understand if he's somewhat reluctant to go down that particular route.)

Meanwhile, something of case in point. This blogger got the inevitable phone-call that he'd been expecting from Downing Street one day last week. 'Keith Telly Topping', Sir Keir said, breathlessly. 'So, we won. You might have noticed. Finally, we've got some adults in the room and we are looking to rebuild a broken country. Are you, therefore, interested in helping us from the comfort of The Stately Telly Topping Manor? A sort of Minister for TV, Horror Movies and Loud Pop Music without Portfolio kind-of thing?' This blogger must admit, he was tempted. But, then, that would have given him even less time for bloggerisationisms and all that. 'Howay, man, Sir Keith, man' this blogger replied. 'The cricket's on shortly and the football later. I've just washed me hair, I've got a book to write (and I'm half way through watching Horrors of the Black Museum as we speak) and I'm due to have lunch with Young Malcolm tomorrow in town. I'm a busy man. Ring me back at a more convenient time, will ya.' You've got to be firm with these Prime Ministers, dear bloggerisationism fiends, or they'll take advantage of your kindness and generosity. And gullibility. Truth be told, however, until all this happened this blogger was completely prepared for government.

Incidentally, speaking of our new First Minister - Things That This Blogger Totally Never Knew: Number One. The shocking - and stunning - discovery that Keir Starmer was, apparently, once the singer/guitarist in Big Country.

Though, according to the BBC's profile of the man on the morning after he was extremely erected to the biggest job in all the land, there's very little about his past not to love. Curry and chips. This blogger would most certainly vote for that.

And, indeed, he did. By postal vote, admittedly. Here's the evidence, your honour.

And finally in this somewhat shorter-than-usual From The North update to bring you all the good and all the bad news, yesterday this blogger received the following reply to something which he had posted on Facebook. Phone calls from the new PM are one thing, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, but Facebook correspondence from yer actual Sir Elt is completely another and no mistake. Mind you, given the amount of records he's sold over the decades, this blogger always assumed Elton would have had somewhat more than but six Facebook followers. One learns something new every day.