Russell Davies (OBE) did not go gentle into that good night when letting the government know exactly what he thought about them during an acceptance speech at this year's South Bank Sky Arts Awards. It was a sight to see, dear blog reader. The screenwriter and producer collected the prize for Best TV Drama for his acclaimed Channel 4 AIDS drama It's A Sin. After telling the audience of the 'immense privilege' it was to work on the series, the once and future Doctor Who showrunner then took the opportunity to call out the Tories plans to sell off Channel 4. Likening the government to a rabid 'wounded dog' which 'bites everyone', he warned the audience that 'the things the Tories say they'll do, they do. They're very good at that. We're full of doubt, they're not, they will do this. This is wrong.' So, that's them told.
Bit of politics there, Big Rusty. Bet that'll have gone down fantastically well with certain sections of Beeb management. Meanwhile, according to the ever-reliable (well, sometimes-reliable) Digital Spy website, yer actual Ncuti Gatwa hasn't started filming on Doctor Who yet, as he's has the Barbie movie and Sex Education series four to complete first, but he has, allegedly, 'teased' that his Doctor Who costume is going to be 'something worth looking forward to.' As opposed to, what? Something not worth looking forward too? (Admittedly, Colin Baker's would fall into that particular category.) This is because, the occasionally-reliable website claims, '[Ncuti's] got a hand in what it will look like.' 'I will [get a say in the outfit],' Ncuti told the not even seldom-reliable Radio Times. 'It will be exciting.' As 'teases' go, dear blog reader, on a scale of one to ten with ten being 'I'm now going to pretty-much tell you something that I shouldn't but, what the Hell ...' and one being 'schtum, alright? It's more than my job's worth' that's, like a two. Two-and-a-half, possibly. This, dear blog reader, is what happens when fandom is desperate for Doctor Who news and there isn't any. Next ...
A case in point. The official Doctor Who Twitter account reacted to NASA's James Webb telescope images after finding the visuals 'very similar' to the title sequence of the show during the - miserable - period when Colin Baker was The Doctor. The popular long-running family SF drama series has, of course explored time and space since 1963 (you knew that, right?) often incorporating many real-world scientific inspirations as part of its oeuvre. The first images from the James Webb Space Telescope were released to the media in July 2022, offering an in-depth look into space. The final frontier. No, sorry, wrong series. Anyway, the Doctor Who Twitter account 'quote-tweeted' (for which read, 'copied a, probably copyrighted, picture') a recent post by a NASA account that featured infrared images capturing the early universes. The series' social media account commented that NASA's images looked 'familiar,' before sharing a video clip featuring the opening titles from Colin Baker's time on the series. And, this bollocks constitutes 'news' apparently. See what this blogger means about when you've got little-or-nothing of substance to report related to forthcoming episodes, any old piece of nonsense will do? And, From The North - sad toi report - is every bit as guilty of this as anyone else, this blogger is in no position to cast aspersions. But, he likes doing that so, you know ...
Fans of From The North favourite Neil Gaiman's The Sandman snapped up all of the available tickets to an exclusive world premier of the forthcoming Netflix adaptation in just a few minutes. The BFI announced last week that it would host a 'special event,' which would see the writer of the multi-award-winning comic take part in the world premier on Wednesday 3 August. The event would also see lead actor Tom Sturridge join Neil on the panel following the screening of the much-anticipated fantasy series for a question and answer session. Tickets to went on sale at 4pm on Thursday but were completely sold out within minutes. Minutes, dear blog reader. The - not-even-remotely-reliably - Plymouth Herald, in reporting this malarkey, appeared to be shocked - and stunned - that anything could occur in mere minutes.
Quite right too. It takes three minutes to boil an egg. Slightly longer if it's still inside the chicken, admittedly. The panel, you will be shocked - and stunned - to learn, is set to include director Mike Barker along with actors Gwendoline Christie (playing Lucifer), Vivienne Acheampong (playing Dream's librarian, Lucienne) and Boyd Holbrook (playing the serial-killer The Corinthian). The screening aimed to show the first two episodes of the drama which will, hopefully, kick-off a remarkable adaptation of what started life as a remarkable - and much-loved - monthly comic in 1989 and ran for seventy five issues (plus a couple of specials). This blogger's got them all, dear blog reader. The Herald then, helpfully, explained what it was all about for any younglings out there: 'The main plot of the comics follows Morpheus, who also goes by the name Dream, who is captured by an occult group in 1916 and imprisoned for decades before escaping and trying to rebuild his kingdom of The Dreaming, which includes a quest to reclaim his stolen objects of power - a ruby, a bag of sand and his helm forged from the bones of a dead god. From there on in we watch as this more-than-Godlike being comes to question his own past actions, the consequences of that questioning and the remarkable individuals he meets along his journey. For those who followed the run of comics - considered one of the most popular in DC's history - they encountered everything from William Shakespeare, John Milton, characters from Greek, Roman, Norse and Celtic mythology, plus cameos from Caesar Augustus, Marco Polo, Mark Twain, Maximilien Robespierre and even the little known Emperor Norton I of the United States.' Plus cats, ravens, a secluded shady glade-made-human and, well, Death. Trust this blogger, even the Plymouth Herald can't make The Sandman sound rubbish even if they try really hard.
At this point, dear blog reader, Keith Telly Topping is tempted to relate to you all his infamous after-dinner story about the time he shared a panel with Neil at a convention in Minneapolis and then, cheekily, got Neil to signed about eight random issues of The Sandman that this blogger had dragged six thousand miles across the Mighty Blue Ocean specifically for that purpose. He would, dear blog reader, but telling that story is so 2019.
Monday morning's record-to-last UFO on Legend was The Responsibility Seat. In many ways a pretty standard episode with some good action sequences and George Sewell acting his little cotton socks off. But, it was turned into an, allegedly, 'controversial' segment (and, as a consequence, in certain parts if the country not shown for up to four years after most of the rest of the series and, even then, only in a Midnight graveyard slot). Due entirely, it would seem, to the - very real - fears within ITV that if anyone saw Jane Merrow in her bra and panties, their brains would simply explode. To which, actually, there may be some truth ...
The finale of Legend's breakfast-time repeat run of UFO occurred on Tuesday. The following day, they replaced Gerry Anderson's acclaimed 1969-70 SF drama with, of all things, Airwolf. And, if Legend believed this blogger would be crawling out The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House stinkin' pit for that, they'd've had another thing coming. So, The Long Sleep, then, dear blog reader. Hippies! Hippies running away from home cos, like, it was a tired scene, okay? Hippies getting hassled by The Pigs. Hippies squatting (because, all property is theft, right?) Hippies, pumped full of drugs. Hippies on an acid trip with a really together spooky-weird colour scheme. Hippies believing they can fly. Wrongly, as it turned out. An attempted rape. Weird malarkey and shit. Get a wash, hippies and get your hair cut. No wonder some of the ITV regions got extremely twitchy over this one. Because, as everyone knows, you should never trust a hippy. So, now, if this blogger wishes to have a daily dose of UFO over The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House cereal, it'll mean lugging out The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague Houser UFO DVD box-set(s). Given a choice between that and Airwolf, however, this blogger will go for the DVDs every time.
In the last From The North bloggerisationisms update, this blogger bemoaned - at some length - his total regret at having missed a couple of quite obvious examples of the form from his previous bloggerisationism essay B Crumble & The Stinkers: The British Post-War B-Movie - A Re-Assessment. This week, of course, as anyone with half-a-brain in their skull could've predicted, he recalled another - and, really quite obvious - one that he'd missed (this may well turn into yet another semi-regular From The North series, dear blog reader, 'B-Movies Keith Telly Topping Forgot About When Trying To Be All Authoritative On The Subject'). But, this was a - truly - spectacular missed opportunity for this Keith Telly Topping to witter on - at length - about one of this blogger's favourite British movies of the 1960s, The Pleasure Girls.
Made, in 1965, by Michael Klinger and Tony Tenser's Compton-Cameo Films, produced by Klinger, Harry Fine and Robert Sterne and directed by Gerry O'Hara - previously responsible for such curios as That Kind Of Girl (1963) and a magnificent adaptation of Edgar Wallace's Game For Three Losers (1965) - The Pleasure Girls was a mid-1960s London variant on the cautionary 'if you can't handle The Big City, young lady, stay at home in the provinces' morality tale which was very much in vogue at the time. Both in music (think of, for instance, The Kinks' 'Big Black Smoke') and in the cinema. It's a sort of (very) low-budget version of Georgy Girl (with bits of A Taste Of Honey thrown-in), or a (low-budget) female equivalent of The Knack ... And How To Get It. Only, without the laddish humour (though it does have the latter's quota of - entirely frowned-upon - sexist gittery).
In a London which is not quite yet a-swingin' like a pendulum do (but, sort-of getting there), O'Hara's film takes place over the course of just one weekend as relationships are established and then crumble to dust when the darker sides of the male characters come to the fore. At the beginning, however, The Pleasure Girls feels like it's going to be something entirely different. Sally (the astonishingly-good From The North favourite Francesca Annis) is a reasonably well-off country girl, new to the capital and ready to start a career as a model. The fact that this is almost directly a word-for-word description of the plot of Edgar Wright's recent - From The North favourite - Last Night In Soho - proves that there's nothing new under The Sun, dear blog reader. (This blogger, please note, did say 'almost' directly; in Last Night In Soho, Thomasin McKenzie comes to London from Wiltshire to be study fashion design rather than appearing in front of the camera. But, otherwise ...)
Sally moves in with her new beast fiends, the sensible Marion (From The North favourite Rosemary Nichols), the slightly less-sensible Angela (From The North favourite Anneke Wills), the much-less-sensible Dee (Suzanna Leigh) and stock 1960s Australian, Cobber (Colleen Fitzpatrick), along with their gay friend Paddy (Tony Tanner). Which was quite a brave bit of storytelling, considering that this was 1965, two years before homosexuality was decriminalised in the UK.
The plot is almost exclusively based around the women's relationships. Sally quickly meets flash young photographer Keith (From The North favourite Ian McShane) at a slightly-swingin' party, But, she refuses to give in to his desperation for a quick bit of how's yer father and two minutes of squelching noises. Because, she's a nice girl and she doesn't do that sort of thing. Yet. Marion, meanwhile, is pregnant with the child of gambler Prinny (another From The North favourite, Mark Eden whom O'Hara had previously used as Michael Gough's blackmailer in Game For Three Losers). Dee is chasing money as 'the other woman' of married slum landlord Nikko (a curiously out-of-place Klaus Kinski), Cobber spends all of her cash trying to lose her Australian accent for a potential film career and Angela runs around (unsuccessfully) looking for the right man. Come on, darlin', you're Anneke Bloody Wills, you shouldn't have any trouble attracting a chap or several. Paddy is content being everyone's shoulder-to-cry-upon, until he's caught in a supposedly 'shocking' clinch with his boyfriend by Sally.
Each of the relationships plays out individually, but they occasionally overlap. Keith uses both charm and guile in an effort to get Sally's knickers down, Prinny sells Marion's jewellery to fund his gambling, whilst making more enemies in the process. Mainly in the audience, let it be noted. You utter bastard, Mark Eden! That's Rosemary Nichols you're screwing with, matey. You should be as ashamed of yourself as you were when you tried to kill Rita Fairclough in Corrie two decades later.
Meanwhile Dee enjoys the high life, but not without seeing the misery and violence inherent in the system relating to Nikko's slums and the hatred that his tenants have for him. With, ultimately, hilariously toxic consequences.
The Pleasure Girls is a fine movie, its minuscule budget notwithstanding. The storyline is Mod-sharp and covers a wide spectrum of 1960s clichés - from the grubby gambler to the 'with-it' David Bailey-style photographer and the evil Peter Rackman-wannabe. A gay relationship and a single mother are also thrown into the max (that's the A Taste of Honey influence there in one line), adding a very then-current realpolitik edge to a movie which, despite flirting with both is neither sensationalist, or overly-ernest and moralistic. A perfect reflection of the swiftly-changing times in which it was made and the shifting attitudes that came with it, it's a far more realistic portrayal of 1965 London than, say, the far more successful Darling or the far more controversial Repulsion. In some ways (notably, Marion and Dee's stories), it's closer in spirit to something like Alfie. The acting is mostly very good and, thanks to Anneke and Rosemary's future Telefantasy-related career paths it even has a bit of a cult following already. And, yes dear blog reader, this blogger does, indeed, deserve to be flogged in the mush with a wet kipper for not including it in B Crumble & The Stinkers: The British Post-War B-Movie - A Re-Assessment. If you should ever get the chance to see it (and, given that it's available on duel format DVD from the BFI, it's not rare or anything), for God's sake don't let the 'very much of it's time' trailer ('They Came For Kicks! These bittersweet beauties of London's bedsitter land!') put you off.
Now - by popular request (no, really) - the return of the latest semi-regular From The North feature, Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Eleven (in a series of more than this blogger imagined when he started it): Peter Cushing: 'Ze verewulf izt ze devil's own spawn ... Zer izt only von cure!' Ze sorry The Beast Must Die.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s (or, in this case, the late 1960s). Number Twelve (in a series of lots): Jill Howarth: 'I'm a country girl, moonlit nights and me were made for each other!' Mark Wynter: 'What do you fancy, an orgy or a séance?' The Haunted House Of Horror. How different history may have been had Michael Armstrong's original choice for the role of Richard (David Bowie) been cast. Armstrong also, allegedly, wanted Ian Ogilvy for the role that was eventually taken by Frankie Avalon and Jane Merrow for the female lead. He got neither.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Thirteen (in a series of lots): Roger Moore: 'Espionage isn't all James Bond on Her Majesty's Secret Service. Industry goes in for it too, you know?' The Man Who Haunted Himself. Yes, Roge, very meta. He's bloody good in that film, though. It's the movie to show anyone who claims that Roge can't act.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Fourteen (in a series of lots): Daniel Massey: 'Attempts were made to bribe or threaten her into handing over a complete list of her blackmail victims to a bunch of foreigners. She said "No! Over my dead body." Hence ... her dead body!' Fragment Of Fear. A genuinely sharp, paranoid little chiller - with a superb cast - right up to the final scene which, then, conspires to ruin everything that's gone before.
Though, to be fair, David Hemmings did acquire a wife out of the experience. So, you know, you win some, you lose some.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Fifteen (in a series of lots): Michele Dotrice: 'Did you get your bum pinched?' Pamela Franklin: 'No, that's Italy.' Michele Dotrice: 'What are we doing in France, then?!' And Soon, The Darkness. Which, apart from a couple of bits that make no sense towards the end, is another thoroughly terrific little movie. Brian Clemens proving that he was capable of writing decent dialogue if he really put his mind to it. And, Terry Nation proving that he was, also, capable of writing decent dialogue ... for non-Daleks.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Sixteen (in a series of lots): Ronald Lacey: 'She introduced Victor to this weird cult. They believed that the spirits of the dead had power over the living. They actually believed that souls could take over and transform living flesh.' James Bolam: 'You don't believe all that rubbish? The only spirits you believe in are pale brown and poured from a bottle!' Crucible Of Terror. A daft line from a really daft (though, hugely enjoyable) movie.
This blogger also noted during the subsequent discussion on Facebook that, although by all accounts Jimmy Bolam had a not particularly pleasant experience making this movie, both he and Ron Lacey seems to be having a lot of fun with their characters, both rather playing against type. Less so in the case of Ron who still has elements of his stock 'spineless, corrupt, alcoholic and rather sneaky' character(!), but at least he's not playing a Nazi in this one. Or, indeed, a baby eating, red-hot poker-wielding Somerset bishop.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Seventeen (in a series of lots): Ringo Starr (MBE): 'Now, please excuse me, I must concern myself with completing your astrological chart.' Son Of Dracula. Another absolute triumph for Apple Films!
God, dear blog reader, Son Of Dracula is a phunking dreadful movie. Though, compared to the other great disaster in Freddie Francis's - otherwise, more-than-decent - filmography, The Vampire Happening, Son Of Dracula is Casablanca!
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Eighteen (in a series of lots): Richard Todd: 'Rest in pieces!' Asylum.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Nineteen (in a series of lots): John Cater: 'What he doesn't know about vampirism, wouldn't fill a flea's codpiece!' Captain Kronos - Vampire Hunter.
Memorably Daft Lines From British Horror Movies Of The 1970s. Number Twenty (in a series of lots): Ralph Bates: 'You can help me with my studies.' Glenys O'Brien: 'Shall I take my clothes off now?' Ralph Bates: 'Later, Maggie, later!' Horror Of Frankenstein. Such a thoughtful mad scientist that Victor Frankenstein ...
As mentioned two or three From The North bloggerisationism updates ago, this blogger is, soon, to start on another all-weekend DVD marathon. He's got it down to one of two choices for the series involved, dear blog reader. To be honest, though, it's a far tougher choice than it might first appear to be.
Following the insomnia-induced completion of the last From The North bloggerisationisms update, frighteningly early last Sunday morning, the day then proceeded thus, dear blog reader: Weekly washing, done. Vacuuming the bedroom, done. Breakfast, done. Paying the rent, water rates and topping-up this blogger's gas and electric charges, done (online). By just after 10am, already, this blogger was seriously knackerated, done for the day and in dire need of a nice long lie down as the mercury threatened to explode out of the thermometer. Who was it that said Sunday was a day of rest? God, apparently. That's right, this blogger knew it was some Tory (thank you, Rik).
Which brings us - with a dreadful inevitability - to that inexcusably-regular part of From The North dedicated to this blogger's on-going medical-related thingies. For those dear blog readers who haven't been following this on-going saga which appears to have been on-going longer than The Rolling Stones have been growing old disgracefully, it goes like this: This blogger spent weeks feeling awful; had five days in hospital; was discharged; received B12 injections; then more injections; somewhat recovered his appetite; got a diagnosis; had a consultant's meeting; continued to suffer fatigue and insomnia; endured a second endoscopy; had another consultation; got toothache; had an extraction; which took ages to heal; had yet another consultation; spent a whole week where nothing remotely health-related occurred; was given further - really painful - injections; had an echocardiogram; had more blood extraction; had yet another hospital visit to see the consultant and saw the usual - thoroughly whinge-worthy - insomnia and continuing exhaustion continue. So, no change there, then. The roasting hot weather hasn't exactly helped with sleeping or with feeling energetic, let it be noted.
This blogger was, sad to report, back to the hospital for another round of blood letting and blood pressure tests on Tuesday. Still, at least once that minor inconvenience was over it was down to the Little Asia to meet up with his fiend Young Malcolm. At which point, dear blog reader, lunch was extremely taken.
And, dear blog reader, needless to say it was deserved.
Really deserved.
It's not often these days, dear blog reader, that yer actual Keith Telly Topping gets to leave the (allegedly) germ-free safety of The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House for anything other than medical appointments once in a week, let alone twice in three days. But, this week was an exception to the 'new normal'. Thanks for this singular state of affairs go to this blogger's fine fiend Mick The Mod Snowden and his good lady, Cath. And, to the pandemic which twice postponed a rock and/or roll jigg which this blogger was supposed to have attended with them. Sadly, this blogger couldn't make the jigg in question which finally took place this very week (From The Jam and The Selecter at The Boiler Shop which, by all accounts, was a bit of a corker). Due, of course, to his current inability to stand upright for more than ten minutes let alone a couple of hours. This blogger was, frankly, a bit gutted at having to miss the show since a) he hasn't seen The Selecter live since 1981 (when they sounded like this); b) it was the Sound Affects Fortieth Anniversary Tour and this blogger actually saw The Jam on the original Sound Affects tour in 1980. At this very gig, in actual fact. He's in the front row of the balcony at the City Hall wearing a parka if you reckon you can spot him. And c), given that it was the Sound Affects Fortieth Anniversary Tour, one of the things that was keeping this blogger awake at night was wondering how the Hell Russell, Bruce and ... the other one were going to play 'Music For The Last Couple' live, something that The Jam themselves never managed.
In the event, Mick informs this blogger that they didn't bother (and, they didn't do either 'Dream Time' or 'Scrape Away' either). So, make that The Three-Quarters Of Sound Affects Anniversary Tour. Even so, this blogger is still Goddamn pissed-off that he was unable to make the show.
It's probably just as well that The Godlike Genius This Is Bruce Foxton's former bandmate isn't currently touring the Long Hot Summer Thirty Ninth Anniversary Tour, topical as such a happenstance would be.
It's a pity The Weller Fellah isn't doing that, on reflection. Merton Mick could probably do with the money. Anyway, health-related malarkey notwithstanding, we did meet up for a really nice meal at the very excellent Pani's on High Bridge before Mick and Cath made their way down the hill to the Quayside for a night of quality skanking (and, Mick got a selfie taken with Pauline Black, the lucky so-and-so). The meal - and the craic - was splendid, as usual. Including a rather more heated and intense debate than was entirely necessary about what record labels The Vapours and The Jags were on - United Artists and Island respectively, if you're wondering. You want proof, dear blog reader? I'll give ya proof ...
The only downer of the night, for the first time in a bloody fortnight, it started raining just as this blogger headed off up Pilgrim Street to the bus stop. Not just a little bit, either. Don't you hate it when that happens?
First thing on Saturday morning, dear blog reader, this blogger left the (allegedly) germ-free safety of The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House and got the bus down to ALDI assuming that getting his shopping out of the way then, it would been a bit cooler(ish) than once The Sun got up, properly later on. Bad move. Later, just before lunch, this blogger popped out for a few minutes to get some fresh air. And he noticed, with utter horror, that his local amateur football team (err, that's Soch-her for all From The North's dear American blog readers), Walker Central (formerly Walker Celtic), who play a mere short stone's throw (if you're the world shot-putting champion) from The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House were having a pre-season 'warm-up' game. At noon. On the hottest July day in living memory. The guys did not look like they were putting in a lot of effort, to be fair. Returning home, this blogger had a cold lunch and then did something that you're only supposed to do if you're in your Seventies; he fell asleep on The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House sofa. For three hours. Come November, dear blog reader, if this blogger should utter so much as a teeny-tiny whingette about hating the cold, someone, please remind Keith Telly Topping about this day. And then shoot him!
And finally, dear blog readers, the winner of this week's From The North Headline Of The Week award is yet another triumph for the headline writers at BBC News. And, in other news, apparently The Pope is Catholic.
