Under The Radar

We begin the latest From The North bloggerisationisms update, dear blog readers, with a vitally important and necessary, sax solo.

And, now we're done.

So, firstly, a few observations of a, somewhat, political nature. But, there's a bit of a football analogy going on here too, so don't worry yourselves unduly, dear blog reader. Brian Clough was, infamously, sacked as manager of Dirty Leeds United after a mere forty four days in the role in 1974. Kwasi Kwarteng lasted six days less as the first Chancellor of the Exchequer in That Awful Truss Woman's Clown Cabinet. Before finding himself a convenient - and, entirely worthy, let it be noted - scapegoat for the moron who gave him the job in the first place. And then he got replaced by, perhaps most ignominiously of all, The Vile & Odious Rascal Hunt. As more than one person has noted over the last few days, you know your country is in serious bother when Jeremy Hunt is seen as 'a safe pair of hands.'

At least Cloughie's replacement at Dirty Leeds, the late Jimmy Armfield, was reasonably competent (he did, after all, get them to a European Cup Final). One imagines that, unlike Cloughie, when in the - possibly very near - future someone decides to make the inevitable movie about Kwarteng and That Awful Truss Woman's disastrous time failing to look after this country's economy, Michael Sheen is unlikely to be their first choice to play the male lead. Or, the female lead for that matter. Though, he's such a good actor he could probably pull it off.

Therefore, dear blog reader, it is now The Vile & Odious Rascal Hunt - both the worst lack-of-culture secretary and the worst health secretary in living memory and a prize wazzock to boot - who has been given the opportunity, following his previous attempts to destroy both the BBC and the NHS, to see if can score a hat-trick with the (already flatlining) British economy. So, how do we imagine that'll work out, then? Answers on a postcard to the usual address.

Of course, it's an age old truism that a week is a jolly long time in politics. This week was the very week that actually proved it! On Wednesday morning, in reply to the Leader of The Opposition's cheeky - but quite witty - contribution to PMQs 'why are you still here?' the Prime Minister, rather petulantly, scowled that she was 'a fighter, not a quitter.' Within twenty four hours, in the wake of a day of utter chaos at Westminster, she promptly went and quit. That Awful Truss Woman was Prime Minister for forty four days until her resignation - exactly the same period of time that Brian Clough spent at Dirty Leeds. The necessary difference, of course, is that Cloughie subsequently went on to a brilliant, successful, award-laden career as manager of Nottingham Forest. Whether an equivalent future - in politics or, indeed, in football - lies in store for That Awful Truss Woman is, as yet unknown. But, this blogger wouldn't put money on it.

It was noted, by more than one commentator, That Awful Truss Woman's spell in Downing Street was, in fact, shorter than the time she and the other candidates for the gig spent running their leadership campaign(s) to replace Bashing Boris Johnson. This blogger takes little pleasure - apart from the thigh-slapping hilarity of watching it all happen live on TV - in the collapse of That Awful Truss Woman's support (steady) and, eventually, her record-breaking short-lived premiership. No, actually, that's not true in the slightest, this blogger thought it was great, lettuce jokes and all. That must've been embarrassing for That Awful Truss Woman. When the Daily Lies takes the piss out of you (and, actually, does a pretty good job of it), you know things can't get much worse.

The King, seemingly, didn't think much of his first Prime Minister either. This blogger knew there was a reason he always had something of a soft spot for His Maj Chas besides his long-established green credentials and his low tolerance threshold for Nicholas Witchell. This blogger must confess, however, that he was shocked - and stunned - no headline writers took the opportunity for a Truss Loses Support moment. The Scotsman came closest.

Keith Telly Topping had a feeling when That Awful Truss Woman first got the job, that she did not have the intellectual capacity to run a piss up in a brewery let alone a country (many of her Conservative colleagues seem to have only come to the same conclusion during the last week). And, indeed, this blogger said so on this here very blog. So, whilst this blogger doesn't like to say he told you so, dear blog reader, he did, in fact, tell you so.

Meanwhile, there appeared to be a surprising front-runner in the newly-announced race to succeed That Awful Truss Woman.

A member of top late-1980s Indie Grebos, The Wonder Stuff, also appeared to be present at Westminster whilst all this malarkey was going down; building up the Tories' problems to the size of a cow, seemingly.

And then, it was announced that Bashing Boris was thinking of running for his old job - you know, the one he got his ass kicked out of a mere three months ago because he'd become an erection liability. Though, that idea didn't last long. 

This blogger's thanks go to his most excellent fiend Nick for posting the following photo and to his fiend Allan for noting that our generation watched The New Statesman as a comedy but, 'it seems Conservative MPs thought they were viewing a career path.'

Right, that's all the political stuff out of the way (for the moment, anyway). It seems like only but five minutes ago that this blogger was discussing the casting of Wor Geet Canny Jodie Whittaker as The Doctor. And, appearing, shortly thereafter, with his old oppo Alfie Joey on Radio Newcastle to discuss the implications of a female Doctor and how this blogger thought Jodie would play the role ('like an actor, Alfie' was the general consensus!) It was, in fact, over five years ago (in July 2017). Time flies. In the case of Doctor Who, quite literally. Which is quite comforting in a way. Now, Jodie's time as The Doctor is ending; for what it's worth this blogger - a couple of episodes aside - has enjoyed pretty much all of the last three series of Doctor Who (and associated specials). Like the majority of episodes of his favourite TV series since he first started watching it, in 1968, he thought they were great.

That, admittedly, is an opinion which is shared by some but not by others. It may be that, as at least a couple of people have suggested in the past, this blogger's critical faculties for what is and isn't 'great' have become jaded and, as a consequence, have a low threshold. That could be true. One thing which this blogger does have a very low tolerance threshold for, however, is mouthy arseholes who say things like that on his Facebook page (particularly when he's asked them, nicely, not to). Hence both of those overly assertive, slappable individuals were shown where the door is and how they should use it. A pair of exchanges which this blogger, also, thought were great.

'Are these extreme circumstances?' The Power Of The Doctor, then. Guess what? This blogger thought it was great. Especially the confirmation of something we've sort of known for fifty years - Cybermen are really rotten shots. Dear blog readers are, of course, entirely free to disagree with Keith Telly Topping. But, only as long as they remember that, in this matter (if not in others), he is right and they are wrong. 'I need more time.' Next ...

'She's spent her lives gathering friends. She can't help it!' One aspect of The Power Of The Doctor (or, should that be The Master's Dalek Plan?) which this blogger very much enjoyed was the conceit about some of The Doctor's former companions gravitating towards each other as a kind of support group once their time in the TARDIS concluded. After all, who else can one talk to about having walked on other worlds, without finding oneself in a secure location for The Terminally Bewildered, except others who have shared the same experience? 'Nobody else got to be us.' It's a brilliant idea ... and, indeed, it was a brilliant idea back in 1992 when this blogger pitched it as part of a submission to Virgin Books for a New Adventures novel, potentially to be called Back To The Old House ('I'd only just signed the lease'). It was rejected. Rightly. 'Extended fam? Far too fannish' considered this blogger's then-editor, Peter Darvill-Evans (quite correctly, given that this blogger was then and remains, to this day, a fan). So, congratulations are due to That There Chris Chibnall for having the same idea as this blogger did thirty years ago, considered that it wasn't 'too fannish' and used it in an episode of Doctor Who. A great episode of Doctor Who at that. Dear blog readers should also be aware that, unlike that twenty four carat oaf who claimed to have created Davros and had the drawings to prove it (true story), this blogger will most definitely not be initiating legal action against the BBC. Not this time, anyway.

On the matter of animated scarecrows being used as an alien-controlled Doctor Who enemy in Human Nature just like they were in The Hollow Men, yeah, that one is going all the way to the Court of Appeal!

Footnote: For those who may be interested, the late, great and much-lamented Terrance Dicks confided to this blogger in 2013 that, unsurprisingly, the judge, at a pre-trial hearing, decided there was no case to answer in relation to the 'I created Davros' oaf (despite him bringing his drawings to court). Mysteriously, the Daily Scum Mail which had made such a big fuss about the oaf's allegations in the first place, failed to mention the ultimate outcome. How curious. 

Keith Telly Topping wonders if fifty seven years, four months and three days between Doctor Who appearances for an actor in the same role (26 June 1965 to 23 October 2022) in the case of William Russell - ninety seven years young and still looking better than this blogger - is a record which will never be beaten? He's inclined to think so. The previous record, Keith Telly Topping believes, would have been Ysanne Churchman (The Monster Of Peladon to Empress Of Mars - a mere forty three years!)

Though leaving the role of The Doctor has been an emotional time for Jodie, understandably, she says that she is 'excited' for Ncuti Gatwa to take over. Speaking during a press screening of the Centenary episode, Jodie said that her stint on the BBC's popular long-running family SF drama series had been 'the most special time. I got to do it side-by-side with friends - us lot will be friends for life,' she added, before looking to the popular long-running family SF drama's future. 'But this family grows and it'll be bigger than us and it'll go on and Ncuti will be extraordinary and he will bring an audience that we haven't reached and his performance will be so magical.' She added that she is excited for the next era of the series, saying: 'Now we get to sit back and enjoy it as fans, knowing that whatever is to come we were once a part of that. You don't know that when you're about to step into something like this - all you feel is the narcissistic self-pressure. But now, you can be out of it and go, "Right, we're in the family and they can't kick us out!"' Beth Axford's piece in the Gruniad Morning Star, How The First Female Time Lord Changed Doctor Who Forever is also recommended for some choice Jodie quotage.

During an interview with Radio Times (which used to be run by adults), Jodie 'opened up' (that's 'spoke' for the hard-of-thinking) about what it was like to receive such a nasty backlash from a particular narrow-minded faction of Doctor Who fandom who 'took issue' with her casting and whinged about the fact that a woman was playing The Doctor. Something this blogger was horrified by and wrote, extensively, about (and the overgrown school bullies who spouted such bile), at the time. Here. And here. And here. Jodie called the experience 'terrifying. "No bras in the TARDIS!" she recalled: 'Come on! What's your argument? I'm. Playing. An. Alien! There's a fine line between the hilarity of it and the fact that it's terrifying that a woman being given a particular job can cause so much rage. It's just a tiny vial of rage, of course, but the anger, the negativity, are always the loudest.'

That There Chris Chibnall has commended the BBC on its dedication to their long-running family SF drama ahead of tne Centenary special, revealing that Doctor Who 'would not exist' outside of the broadcaster. The former showrunner told the press at the screening for The Power Of The Doctor that Doctor Who is 'the most BBC show there is' and that without the corporation, we wouldn't have the show we know and love today. 'They kept it on air, they reinvigorated it by thinking of the idea of regeneration when they needed to recast, they've changed it into colour, they've changed it into different formats.' Chibnall continued: 'The faith of the BBC in this show ... it's the most BBC show there is. It would not exist anywhere else.' He also praised BBC executive Charlotte Moore for supporting the show and making it 'really important to the BBC.' Jodie added that Doctor Who doesn't restrict where its characters can go, who they are and 'the social norms that often happen in TV. And, I think because of that, it always feels incredibly current as well as it feels completely other as well,' she said. 'It's a really difficult thing to distill down ... obviously, it's sci-fi, but it's also historical, it's also sometimes kitchen sink. It's for children. It's for adults, it's for everyone.'

The Power Of The Daleks was, of course, broadcast as part of a week of celebrations for the Centenary of this blogger's beloved BBC. On Tuesday 18 October 1922, The British Broadcasting Company was formed. Britain's first live public radio broadcast had been made from the factory of Marconi's Wireless Telegraph Company in Chelmsford in June 1920. It was sponsored by the Daily Scum Mail's Hitler-loving owner, Lord Northcliffe and featured the Australian soprano Dame Nellie Melba. The broadcast caught the people's imagination and marked a turning point in public's attitudes to radio. However, this enthusiasm was not shared in official circles where such broadcasts were considered to interfere with important military and civil communications. By late 1920, pressure from these quarters and uneasiness among the staff of the licensing authority, the Post Office, was sufficient to see the imposition of a ban on further broadcasts. However, within two years, the GPO had received nearly one hundred broadcast licence requests and moved to rescind its ban in the wake of a petition by sixty wireless societies with over three thousand members. Anxious to avoid the same chaotic expansion which had been experienced in the United States, the GPO proposed that it would issue a single broadcasting licence to a company jointly owned by a consortium of leading wireless manufacturers, to be known as The British Broadcasting Company Ltd. John Charles Walsham Reith, a Scottish Calvinist, was appointed its general manager in December 1922 a few weeks after the company made its first official broadcast on Tuesday 14 November 1922 on 2LO London (369 metres). L Stanton Jefferies was the BBC's first director of music. The company was to be financed by a royalty on the sale of BBC wireless sets from approved domestic manufacturers. To this day, the BBC aims to follow its initial Reithian directive, that all of its programmes should at least attempt to 'inform, educate and [or] entertain.' What was, then, the BBC's in-house listings magazine, the Radio Times (in those far off days, run by adults) didn't appear for another eleven months, the first issue being published for the week commencing Sunday 30 September 1923. Following the opening of 2LO London, over the subsequent two years local BBC stations began to pop up all across the UK. In Birmingham (5IT), Manchester (2ZY), Newcastle (5NO0), Glasgow (5SC), Cardiff (5WA), Aberdeen (2BD), Bournemouth (6BM), Sheffield (6FL), Plymouth (5PY), Edinburgh (2EH), Liverpool (6LV), Leeds (2LS), Kingston Upon Hull (6KH), Belfast (2BE), Nottingham (5NG), Stoke-On-Trent (6ST), Dundee (2DE) and Swansea (5SX). By 1925, Daventry (5XX) became the first British station to achieve near national coverage, the first step in the establishment of the BBC's National Programme in 1930 (subsequently The Home Service, from September 1939, then Radio 4, from October 1967).

The financial arrangements soon proved inadequate, however. Radio set sales were disappointing as amateurs knocked up their own receivers and listeners bought rival - unlicensed - sets. By mid-1923, discussions between the GPO and the BBC had become deadlocked and the Postmaster General commissioned a review of broadcasting by The Sykes Committee. This recommended a short-term reorganisation of licence fees with improved enforcement in order to address the BBC's immediate financial distress and an increased share of the licence revenue split between it and the GPO. This was followed by a ten shillings licence fee per household to fund broadcasts. The BBC's broadcasting monopoly was made explicit for the duration of its then current broadcast licence, as was the prohibition on advertising on its services. To avoid competition with newspapers, Fleet Street persuaded the government to ban BBC news bulletins before 7pm and the BBC was required to source all of its news from external wire services. Mid-1925 found the future of broadcasting under further consideration, this time by The Crawford Committee. By now the BBC, under Reith's leadership, had forged a consensus favouring a continuation of the unified (monopoly) broadcasting service, but more money was still required to finance expansion. Wireless manufacturers were anxious to exit the loss-making consortium with Reith keen that the BBC should be seen as 'a public service' rather than a commercial enterprise. The recommendations of The Crawford Committee were published in March 1926 and were still under consideration by the GPO when the General Strike broke out in May. The strike temporarily interrupted newspaper production and, with restrictions on news bulletins waived, the BBC overnight became the primary source of news for pretty much everyone for the duration of the crisis. This, nevertheless, placed the BBC in a delicate position. On the one hand Reith was acutely aware that the government could chose to exercise its right to commandeer the BBC at any time as an official 'mouthpiece' of the government if the BBC were to be perceived by an unfriendly government to have stepped out of line. But, he was also anxious to maintain public trust by appearing to act independently. The government was divided on how to handle the BBC, but ended up trusting Reith's judgement; his opposition to the strike mirrored the Prime Minister's own. Although Winston Churchill, in particular, wanted to commandeer the BBC to use it 'to the best possible advantage,' Reith wrote that Stanley Baldwin's government wanted to be able to say 'they did not commandeer [the BBC], but they know that they can trust us to be really impartial.' The resulting coverage of both striker and government viewpoints impressed millions of listeners who were unaware that the PM had made his own broadcast to the nation from Reith's home, or that the BBC had banned broadcasts from the Labour Party and delayed a peace appeal by the Archbishop of Canterbury.

The British Broadcasting Corporation came into existence on 1 January 1927 under a Royal Charter and Reith - newly knighted - was appointed its first Director General. To represent its purpose and (stated) values, the new corporation adopted the coat of arms, including the motto which it still uses to this day, 'Nation shall speak peace unto Nation.' Throughout the 1930s, political broadcasts were closely monitored. In 1935, for example, the BBC cancelled planned broadcasts by Baronet Oswald Ernald Mosley leader of the British Union of Fascists and a terrible old jack-booted stinker and Harry Pollitt the leader of the British Communist Party and a right bolshy gobshite of extraordinary proportions. So, frankly, the listenership had something of a lucky escape. In 1938, Winston Churchill proposed a series of talks regarding British domestic and foreign politics and affairs but this was, similarly, censored. Experimental television broadcasts were started in 1929, using an electromechanical thirty-line system developed by John Logie Baird. Limited regular broadcasts using that system began in 1934 and an expanded service (now named the BBC Television Service) started from Alexandra Palace in November 1936, alternating between an improved Baird mechanical two hundred and forty-line system and the all-electronic four hundred and five-line Marconi-EMI system which had been developed by a research team led by Sir Isaac Shoenberg. The superiority of the electronic system saw the mechanical system dropped early the following year, with the Marconi-EMI system the first fully electronic television system in the world to be used in regular broadcasting.

After a Century the BBC remains what it had always been, a World Class broadcaster with an unequalled reputation right across the globe for quality, balance and truthfulness. The only places in which it is not highly regarded are in knobcheese dictatorships like China and Iran where the regimes are so terrified by what the BBC stands for and that their people might, actually, discover what's going on in both their own countries and in the outside world that they ban the BBC's World Service. 'Nation shall speak peace onto nation,' indeed. And also - and with a huge irony - it is also disrespected in its own back yard. Where shit-scum politicians and louse newspapers with a sick agenda smeared an inch thick across their disgusting faces use the BBC as their own personal punchbag. The corporation's future, according to the current government (and the Gruniad Morning Star among other parts of the media with an agenda), is uncertain. That's what tofu does to the mind, seemingly. Well, at least according to a political non-entity who used to have a job but now, it would seem, she does not. To quote a popular BBC television programme of the 1970s, 'Oh dear. How sad. Never mind.'

Happy one hundredth birthday, therefore, Auntie. You have been a constant presence, mostly for good, in all of our lives for as long as the majority of us have been aware (in every sense of the word). You've made us laugh, you've made us cry, you've excited us, relaxed us, cheered us up and, occasionally, depressed the Hell out of us beyond the telling. You have informed us, educated us, entertained us and given us Doctor Who. And Don't Scare The Hair, admittedly just to prove that you're only human after all. And, please remember this, Auntie: Every time that some goose-stepping slappable arsewipe of no importance at the Daily Scum Mail whinges that you're all a bunch of Communists or some louse smear of no importance at the Gruniad Morning Star claims that, no, in fact you're all nasty Tories, every time that a politician - of any stripe - complains that you're biased against his or her particular point-of-view, every time that you get criticised for not showing the sort of programmes which, it is claimed, 'the public wants' (because, of course, those making such allegations asked all of them, didn't they?), just recall a motto which could have, many times, been a useful replacement for 'Nation shall speak peace unto nation.' 'If they're shooting at you, you must be doing something right.'

From The North favourite and national treasure Stephen Fry was this week's guest on the Radio Times View From My Sofa podcast where he discussed all things TV, including memories of the first episode of Doctor Who, in 1963. 'The biggest moment I remember was when I was seven we moved from Buckinghamshire to Norfolk, where we moved into this big house,' he told host Kelly-Anne Taylor. 'All our furniture came and was fitted into so many rooms and there was one room where the television was, my father shoved it in there and plugged it in. The week before in Buckinghamshire we had seen the first episode of Doctor Who with this old man and his granddaughter and a police box that could travel in time and we were absolutely blown away by it.' Stephen explained how heartbroken he was when after the move, the TV didn't work, but his father didn't get it fixed it before the second episode was broadcast. 'A valve had blown and my father was too busy to bother mending it. He said "Oh, I'll mend it tomorrow" and we said "But, but, but, ..." and he said, "Don't be ridiculous it's just a television programme,"' Fry explained. Ah yes, we've all had those sort of discussions over the years. Many, many, many times and, usually, with our dads. 'For the next twenty odd years, there was a little gap in my heart which could only be filled by watching that second episode, which I managed to do eventually, [when] they all came out [on] video.'

If it's any consolation, you didn't miss much back in 1963, Stephen. The Cave Of Skulls was something of a disappointment after the ground-breaking wonder of An Unearthly Child. Although it did provide the Gruniad Morning Star's reviewer, Mary Crozier, with history's first opportunity to write a 'Doctor Who's not as good as it used to be' piece, admittedly.

National heartthrob and now, seemingly (for another three episodes, at least) The Doctor David Tennant has revealed that he was once under consideration to play James Bond. The actor, claimed that he had no idea he was floated as an option to play 007 until he was told that Eon producers Barbara Broccoli and Michael G Wilson had put him on Ze List before Daniel Craig was cast in the role.

Asked if he had ever been in the running to play James Bond, David claimed: 'I never believed I had, until I worked with a director recently who had worked with the Broccolis who said, "Yeah, you were on the list that time." I was like, "What time? What are you talking about?" He went, "The last time." I suppose it must have been Daniel Craig, before that I would have been a child.' Danny was ultimately cast in the role in 2005 - you might have notice. He was very good - the same year that David played The Doctor for the first time, replacing Christopher Eccleston. David added, during his appearance on the Acting For Others podcast: 'I think it was quite a long list and I don't think I was ever very near the top of it. But apparently so.'

David's immediate successor in the TARDIS first time around, From The North favourite yer actual Matt Smith was recently asked how he felt looking back at his own regeneration scene in The Time Of The Doctor. Smudger's Doctor bowed out of the BBC's popular long-running family SF drama in the 2013 Christmas special, during which he fought against The Daleks and other alien invaders on the planet of Trenzalore. Asked at Motor City Comic Con whether he liked the ending his Doctor was given, Smudger said: 'It's always hard leaving that show because it's such a wonderful part to leave. I knew I had to leave really but part of you goes, "Oh I could stay for a bit." Regenerating is a tough ... was it the best episode it could be? I dunno, maybe, maybe not. But I thought Steven [Moffat (OBE)] wrote some really great stuff. And it was nice, I had Jenna [Coleman] and Karen [Gillan] there as the two companions and stuff so yeah - look, I was proud of the body of work up to that point. But I think everything can always be better.'

From The North favourite James Nesbitt has said he is 'unnerved' and 'saddened' after being targeted with graffiti, which police are treating as a hate crime. A message mentioning Jimmy was painted on a wall in Portrush, County Antrim and featured a crosshair next to it. Blimey, that's a bit harsh - this blogger is aware that Bloodlands isn't to everyone's tastes but, come on. Politicians have condemned the message and have described it as an attempt to intimidate and stifle debate. It comes weeks after the Cold Feet, Murphy's Law and Jekyll star addressed a forum in Dublin discussing a united Ireland. He told BBC Radio Ulster's Talkback programme: 'It really saddens me because I am just really sorry this has been brought to Portrush; brought to my neighbours; brought to the community I love.' Nesbitt said that the message and its sentiment did not reflect the views of the majority of residents in Portrush. The message reportedly read: '1x king, 1x crown, no Pope in our town James Nesbitt.' Jimmy said he believed that some people had 'misunderstood' his position after he participated in the Ireland's Future conference at the beginning of October. 'In a democracy people are entitled to engage in a public conversation about the future and that is all I was intending to do when I took part in the debate,' he said. 'I certainly don't promote any solution and I don't support any outcome.' He described himself as 'a proud Protestant from the North of Ireland. I have never shied away from my Protestant culture but it doesn't define me,' he said. 'If there is going to be change in the relationship between the North and the South [of Ireland] and the rest of the British Isles, then I was hoping to put forward the point that people from my tradition feel that their identity is in no way threatened and they have an equal voice.' The actor said he found out about the graffiti as he was travelling back from a holiday.

'Hey Keith Telly Topping,' this blogger's most awesome fiend Clay recently said. 'Just wanted to tell you, the comic I'm reading right now for work actually has a Parker Lewis Can't Lose joke in it and I thought of you immediately. Make of that what you will!' To which this blogger could only reply 'you know me too well!'

Via Keith Telly Topping's recent essays on British post-war B-movies, The Corpse, The Yellow Teddy Bears, Saturday Night Out and The Black Torment, The Pleasure Girls, Hell Is A City, Cup Fever, Face Of A Stranger and Yield To The Night, Hell Drivers, The Day The Earth Caught Fire and Game For Three Losers, Hammer Films, Blood Of The Vampire and Good-Time Girl and, most recently, Beat Girl, From The North has started seeming like a film blog which, sometimes, discusses TV. Rather than the other way around which is, in theory, this blog's raison d'être. C'est la vie, chers lecteurs du blog. And, this blogger is happy to report that there still seems little or no reason to stop such movie-related malarkey for the time being.

What follows, therefore, are reviews of a half-dozen British movies which this blogger has been watching during the last week on From The North's favourite TV channel of the moment, Talking Pictures TV (that's number eighty two on your Freeview channel list or number three hundred and twenty eight if you've got Sky).

The Earth Dies Screaming was a 1964 science fiction/horror film directed by From The North favourite Terence Fisher and written by Harry Spalding (under the pseudonym Henry Cross).

'What happened earlier this morning, that was no accident. Whoever did it, won the war. All they're got to do is to move in and take over and then it's every man for himself.' Human bodies are scattered, willy-nilly around an English village, apparently dead as part of a sudden cataclysm. A small group of survivors gather in the local hotel, led by American jet test pilot, Jeff Nolan (Willard Parker). It appears that a mysterious gas attack has killed off most of the population. Figures in space suits appear in the streets; Vi Courtland (Vanda Godsell) thinks they have come to rescue the survivors but when she rushes into the street to greet her saviours, they turn and kill her with their deadly touch. The remaining group go to a Territorial Army drill hall to look for weapons. Armed, they struggle for survival in what appears to be the first step of an alien invasion. When Vi reanimates as a zombie with white eyes, Quinn Taggart (Dennis Price) shoots and kills her for a second time. Quinn subsequently knocks out Jeff and heads North with Peggy Hatton (Virginia Field) as his hostage in a sports car. She escapes when Quinn stops for petrol. Peggy becomes trapped in a house pursued by both aliens and zombies and hides in a wardrobe. Peggy is saved by Jeff, who runs down one space-suited creature with his Land Rover and discovers that it is, actually, a robot. They go back to the drill hall, where Lorna Brenard (Anna Palk) is about to give birth to a daughter. Meanwhile, Ed Otis (Thorley Walters) cannot face the new reality and is drinking anything alcoholic he can find. Jeff and Lorna's husband, Mal (David Spenser), use a shortwave radio and triangulation to work out where the aliens are transmitting their control signals to the robots. They locate the transmitter tower and destroy it with explosives, severing the link to the robots. Quinn returns to the village as a zombie but Otis shoots him, saving Peggy, Lorna and the baby. The survivors commandeer a Pan Am Boeing 707 and fly South in search of other survivors.

The film was shot in black and white at Shepperton with location filming in and around the village of Shere in Surrey. It was one of several 1960s British horror and/or science fiction films to be scored by the avant-garde composer Elisabeth Lutyens, whose father, Edwin Lutyens, designed Manor House Lodge in Shere, which features prominently in the film. A collection of contemporary location stills is hosted at the extremely useful and fascinating Reelstreets website. As usual with a Terence Fisher picture, The Earth Dies Screaming looks beautiful. Lutyens eerie score is very effective and the cast mostly acquit themselves reasonably well with a somewhat formulaic script (Packer is the exception, he looks bored throughout). The film was produced by Lippert Pictures, owned by Robert Lippert (1909-1976) an America who had a lengthy association of co-productions with Hammer (where he'd previously been involved in several other movies directed by Fisher). To be honest, this is not a particularly distinguished line on Fisher's CV, his direction and the music and sound palate being, by far, the best things about it. However, it does occupy a minor place in movie history. Writing in The Zombie Movie Encyclopedia, Peter Dendle, correctly, cited the film as 'an obvious precursor to Night Of The Living Dead.'

Radio Cab Murder was a 1954 thriller directed by the veteran Vernon Sewell, made at Walton Studios and on location around Kensington and Notting Hill. The film's sets were designed by art director John Stoll. It was made as a second feature and was released by the independent Eros Films.

'It could happen to you. This is a story based on true-life adventures of men and women of the City of London. Thanks are due to Radio Cabs of London and to Metropolitan Police Force, without whose help this film could not have been made.' Fred Martin (Jimmy Hanley) is a decorated World War II soldier who used some of the skills he picked up in Germany to become a safe-cracker when he got back to civy street. Pinched by The Fuzz and having done a little Richard III and fully paid his debt to society, Fred has vowed to go straight and now works as a taxi driver. He is engaged to the lovely Myra (From The North favourite Lana Morris), the cab company's dispatcher. Whilst dropping off his final fare of the day, Fred witnesses a brazen daylight bank robbery and gives chase, but his taxi is wrecked during the pursuit. The police, meanwhile, find a well-known safe-cracker dead of apparent natural causes. Fred's boss, Parker (Jack Allen) receives an anonymous letter informing him of Fred's criminal past but Parker already knows all about that, is outraged that one of his best employees should be the target of such treatment and goes to the police. Old Bill suspect that this may be part of a wider plot to get Fred sacked so that he can be lured back to safe-cracking by the gang who have pulled a number of bank blags across the city. They ask Fred to go undercover, join the robbery gang and expose its leader. Fred says, not unreasonably, that he is no dirty stinkin' Copper's Nark but he is persuaded to do his public duty and Parker arranges a sham firing. However, this causes a revolt amongst the other cabbies, who plan to go on strike in support of Fred's reinstatement. The only other person in on the ruse is Myra who is Fred's contact for getting messages to the police. The robbery is carried out, but as the gang are splitting up the loot, they discover that Fred is a grass and try to kill him by locking him in the deep freezer of the ice cream factory where they are hiding out. He is saved from a chilly death by a combination of his cabby mates, Parker and Myra who ride to the rescue and corner the crooks with the aid of Old Bill.

Hardly the most original of the plethora of Post War crime movies that British production companies specialised in (see this blogger's previous essay on the British B-movie for dozens of further examples) Radio Cab Murders is, nevertheless, really good fun and has one major factor going for it - a quite superb cast. Sonia Helm is particularly good as the robbery gang's femme fatale and de facto leader, Jean. The great Sam Kydd is another of the blaggers, Bruce Beeby is terrific as the police detective hot on their trail and there are smaller roles for the likes of Elizabeth Seal, Frank Thornton, Edwin Richfield and Joan Carol. There's also some great location filming around High Street Kensington including, seemingly, an early appearance for the TARDIS.

Seven Days To Noon was a 1950 apocalyptic drama/thriller directed by John and Roy Boulting. Paul Dehn and James Bernard won the Academy Award for Best Story for their work on the film.

'Repressing of fear is like trying to hold down the lid of a boiling kettle. Something's got to give eventually.' First thing on a Monday morning, the Prime Minister (Ronald Adam) receives a letter from a man who says that he has stolen a nuclear weapon and will destroy London the following Sunday at noon, unless the British government declares that the country is going to stop making such devices. The letter is signed Professor Willingdon (Barry Jones), the senior researcher at the Wallingford atomic weapons development facility. Detective Superintendent Folland of Special Branch (André Morell) is charged with investigating whether the letter is a fraud or represents a genuine and present threat. At the Research Centre, Folland finds that Willingdon has, indeed, gone missing. As has a UR12 nuclear bomb - small and light enough for an individual to carry. Folland recruits Stephen Lane (Hugh Cross), Willingdon's assistant, to help with the search. Neither Lane, nor Willingdon's wife or daughter, Ann (Sheila Manahan), had noticed anything unusual in the Professor's recent behavior, but troubling notes are found among his papers which, coupled with some stray remarks he made to a local vicar (Wyndham Goldie), the last person known to have spoken with Willingdon, indicate he has come to believe his life's work is being used by the government for evil purposes. On Tuesday, Willingdon, who is carrying the bomb around with him in a small bag, sees his picture in the newspaper (though it is not stated why he is being sought), so he has a barber shave off his moustache before he rents a room from Mrs Peckett (Joan Hickson). However he frightens her by pacing around his room all night. After he has left the next morning, she sees an article about the hunt for someone who has been killing landladies, so she calls the police. A quick-thinking constable realises that the description matches that of Willingdon. The Professor, nevertheless, evades the police, throws away his overcoat and goes to a pawn shop to buy another. There, he meets Goldie (Olive Sloane), an actress whose best days are long behind her and her dog, Trixie. They go to a pub and, when it closes for the night, Goldie invites Willingdon to her flat, as he has no lodgings. He sleeps on her spare bed and leaves before she wakes in the morning.

The recent unscheduled Cabinet meetings and indications of an impending mass mobilisation have not gone unnoticed by the press. By Thursday, rumours of war are circulating and there are growing crowds outside Downing Street, so the Prime Minister decides to make a radio statement. He reveals the threat and announces an evacuation of the twelve square miles around Parliament, to begin the next morning. When this is complete, Army units will begin a search of Central London. Goldie sees one of the increasing number of posters with Willingdon's face on it and goes to the police. When she gets home, she finds Willingdon waiting for her - the intensifying search has made him nervous, so he has decided to hold Goldie hostage in her flat, saying he will detonate the bomb if she calls for help. The evacuation (of people, as well as important cultural artifacts) proceeds smoothly by road, rail and river. When the systematic military search reaches Goldie's street on Saturday evening, Willingdon escapes from a back window. Shortly before noon on Sunday, he is found, praying in a church which was destroyed during The Blitz. Folland and Lane ask Ann to try to talk Willingdon out of his plan. He says it is too late, but she sees his bag and calls for help. Willingdon is restrained and Lane begins to defuse the bomb. Willingdon breaks free, runs from the church and is killed by a nervous soldier. As the clock strikes twelve, Lane finishes disarming the bomb. Goldie, who is on Westminster Bridge attempting to hitch a ride to Aldershot hears the all-clear sirens and heads home.

Seven Days To Noon is a properly good film and entirely deserved the Oscar it won. It shares with the later The Day The Earth Caught Fire a sense of looming dread and quiet, almost fatalistic, pessimism. The opening and closing credits state that the film was 'fictitious' and any similarity to any incident or person, living or dead, would be purely 'coincidental.' Just in case any rogue atomic scientists at Aldermaston got any ideas having watched it. Though their joint careers as producers, directors and writers extended over four decades and embraced a variety of styles and genres, the Boulting brothers are best known for their excoriating portraits of Post-War Britain. While for the most part the brothers leaned towards wry, socially satirical comedies, they played it straight in both of what are arguably their two best films: 1948's Brighton Rock (as shown on Talking Pictures this week and widely considered to be the definitive British noir) and Seven Days To Noon.

The film was based on a story by journalist Paul Dehn and musician James Benard. Roy Boulting produced and edited, while John directed (though, both brothers are credited with performing all three tasks). The Boultings described the story as 'Guy Fawkes in modern dress' and deliberately did not cast any stars in the leading roles, as they felt the story would be more believable to an audience that way. During filming, John Boulting said: 'We don't want any stars. They would be a positive hindrance. Those old familiar faces and old familiar tricks and gestures, would entirely destroy the illusion we have created. Only my brother and I know the full story of Seven Days To Noon. Even our players haven't seen the entire script. We're keeping it secret until it's ready for sale.' Production began in July 1949, with the co-operation of the War Office and the police. Location filming took place in London over several weeks, including at Westminster Bridge, Lambeth Grove, Trafalgar Square and Wembley Stadium. The scenes following the evacuation of an apparently deserted London (some army patrols aside) are genuinely creepy. For the movie, cinematographer Gilbert Taylor claimed that he had been influenced by the photography of Jules Dassin's The Naked City.

It is possible to watch Seven Days To Noon simply as a thriller or a manhunt movie: from the discovery that Willingdon really has taken a bomb, its surface narrative divides between the efforts of the authorities to locate the rogue scientist and Willingdon's own efforts to remain at large while the titular seven days of his ultimatum play out. However, it is what is going on behind this familiar surface scenario that is so fascinating. In the first place, there's the film's sense of 'dislocation', the playing out of a genre one tends to think of as exclusively American on the streets of London. The film was not only shot largely on location, but gets many of its effects from the combination of familiar, comforting landmarks and reminders of a war not so long ended, in buildings either missing altogether or still suffering from damage by the Luftwaffe. The film's climax takes place in and around St Stephen's, Westminster, which bears a sign asking for donations: 'Blitzed ten years ago, please help us rebuild.' Furthermore, the producers somehow arranged for large sections of London to be cleared for the filming, resulting in numerous chilling shots of an empty and silent city.

The cast is extraordinary; Barry Jones and Olive Sloane were virtual unknowns but dominate the film. André Morell was terrific as Folland. Further down the cast there were grand little turns from the likes of Joan Hickson, Russell Waters, Martin Boddey and the BBC radio announcers Frederick Allen and John Snagge (essentially playing themselves). Victor Maddern was the highly-strung soldier who shot Willingdon at the climax. Geoffrey Keen played a loudmouth in the pub coolly proposing that we should use this as an excuse to bomb Moscow. Amongst the uncredited cast members and bit part players were the likes of Joss Ackland, Jean Anderson, Colin Douglas, Sam Kydd, Rupert Davies, Bruce Seton, Willoughby Gray, Patrick McNee, John Stratton, Henry McGee and Marianne Stone. Morell would portray Folland again in a semi-sequel, High Treason, directed by Roy Boulting in 1951. Seven Days To Noon performed well at the box office (winning that Oscar probably helped in that regard). It was one of a string of financially successful films from Alexander Korda's production and distribution companies made during the 1950-1951 period following a series of expensive flops.

Murder In Reverse was a 1945 British thriller film directed by Montgomery Tully and based on the story Query by Seamark.

Tom Masterick (William Hartnell) works as a stevedore in Limehouse and is married, with a young daughter. After discovering his wife, Doris (Chili Bouchier) has been putting it about a bit with Fred Smith (John Slater), Tom fights Smith and they both end up high on a docks crane, from which Smith falls, apparently to his death. Following a police investigation and trial, Masterick is sentenced to death for Smith's murder, although this is later commuted to fifteen years imprisonment. Stitched-up for a crime wot he never done Tom is, understandably, a bit aggrieved at how life has treated him. Upon his release from The Slammer, Tom seeks to find the truth about what happened to the apparent murder victim, whom Tom is adamant he saw alive following his arrest. After his wife disappeared with her lover, their daughter Jill (Petula Clark) was adopted by a close friend and grew up with no memory of her real parents or early childhood. Masterick is friendly with a newspaper editor, Sullivan (Brefni O'Rorke), who had unsuccessfully tried to change public opinion on the case in favour of Masterick during his early incarceration. Sullivan had adopted Tom's daughter, who grew up living a happy family life. Her adoptive father wishes for her not to learn of her true identity and Masterick agrees, expressing his only desire is to see real justice done and discover the truth about the fate of Smith. Jill (played as an adult by Dinah Sheridan), who is in a relationship with a reporter Peter Rogers (Jimmy Hanley), becomes involved in the case and learns of Masterick's incarceration and the seeming miscarriage of justice, oblivious to the fact that Tom is her real father. Following a period of sleuthing, Masterick finds his former wife, now abandoned by Smith and living a destitute life. She discloses the location of where Smith can be found. Masterick finds Smith running a pub and upon Smith believing Tom is not out for revenge, the two agree to split any potential compensation monies that Masterick believes he will secure for his wrongful prison sentence. The pair visit the judge who originally presided over the case, who is entertaining guests at a dinner party. Masterick explains there has been a miscarriage of justice and the murder victim is alive and well, standing right next to him. Believing that the judge is unwilling to help Masterick clear his name due to the passage of time, Masterick shoots Smith in full view of the judge and his friends. During the epilogue, Sullivan comments that Masterick cannot be convicted of the murder of Smith, under the law of double jeopardy (having already served a prison term). The crime has, in effect, been 'a murder in reverse.'

Billy Hartnell, as he was billed here, was at the peak of his first wave of popularity in 1945, having just made three masterpieces, The Way Ahead, Strawberry Roan and The Agitator (the latter also shown recently on TPTV). He was a vesitile and in-demand actor who hadn't quite, yet, developed the typecasting of playing gruff Sergeant Major types, policemen or gangsters (ironically, that all started with his magnificent performance in The Way Ahead and would dominate his career through the next decade-and-a-half). That said, his appearance as an older, white haired man in the second half of this movie will be a familiar look to many dear blog readers. According to trade papers, Murder In Reverse performed well at the contemporary box office. Reviewing the film in 1949, the Philadelphia Inquirer praised it highly, describing the film as building to 'a tricky climax which leaves the audience breathless and virtually able to write its own ending.' The author particularly highlighted the performances of Hartnell as 'extraordinarily good as the betrayed husband.'

Dead Man's Chest was a 1965 B-movie, made as part of the From The North favourite Edgar Wallace Mysteries series and was directed by Patrick Dromgoole.

David Jones (John Thaw) and Johnnie Gordon (John Meillon) are a pair of rather ruthless and cynical journalists who work up a stunt to keep their newspaper going during a slow-news summer. And, also, to spite society and thwart The Establishment. It will be a typical 'Silly Season' story, to expose the frailty of circumstantial evidence in convicting someone of a - potentially capital - offence. They intend to fake Johnnie's death, stick him in a chest, drive to a location and then point the police in the direction of David before Johnnie reveals that he is alive and the police have been made to look like fools. Meanwhile, a trio of naughty blaggers, Arthur (John Abineri), Joe (Peter Bowles) and Knocker (Jack Rodney) are planning their latest caper. David and Johnnie's scheme is working beautifully, until the car containing the chest (and Johnnie) is stolen by Knocker, intent on using it in a forthcoming robbery. In a panic, David goes to the police and tells them about the hoax, hoping that they can recover the chest before Johnnie suffocates. Instead, David is arrested for murder. The major problem for Plod is that there's no corpus delicti. Whilst the duo's editor, Murchie (Graham Crowden) milks the story for all it's worth, Inspector Briggs (John Collin) and Sergeant Harris (Michael Robbins) form a theory that David killed Johnnie because he was jealous of his colleague's close relationship with David's wife, Mildred (Ann Fairbanks). Ann goes off on what may be a wild goose chase to Dundee, searching for Johnnie's girlfriend, Flora (Renny Lister) to prove to the police that Johnnie wasn't having an affair with Mildred but was already in a happy relationship. David is working on his defence strategy with his solicitor, Lane (Geoffrey Baylon). Joe, meanwhile, has been arrested on a separate matter and Knocker, wracked with guilt, visits him in The Scrubs wondering if he should tell The Filth about the chest which the blaggers have stored in a deserted garage. Eventually, he phones Murchie anonymously. The police recover the chest but find it empty which neither helps nor hinders David.

Flora shows Mildred a postcard she has received proving that Johnnie is alive - somewhere - and the duo later find him working in a country pub where he is lying low until such times as David comes to trial when Johnnie intends to do what they always planned too and make a dramatic reappearance. The ladies take over, forcing Johnnie to go to the police to prove David did not kill him. Whilst Mildred and Flora are busy considering selling the film rights, David and Johnnie are left open to charges of wasting police time and wondering if the whole stunt was worthwhile.

Dead Man's Chest, an original screenplay by Donal Giltinan was, in fact, the last of the forty seven Edgar Wallace Mysteries produced between 1960 and 1965. It was filmed at Merton Park Studios for Anglo-Amalgamated and in nearby Wimbledon and Wandsworth and was released in October 1965 by which time B-movies were becoming not very cost-effective. Along with all of the other great little movies in the series, however - The Man Who Was Nobody, The Clue Of The New Pin, The Sinister Man, Solo For Sparrow, Playback, Death Trap, Return To Sender, Face Of A Stranger, Game For Three Losers, Strangler's Web et cetera - it had an afterlife in TV syndication. The Radio Times once described the series as 'Brit noir at its best, updating some of the author's stories to more contemporary settings and blending classic B-movie elements with a distinctly British feel.' Dead Man's Chest is one of the best examples, fifty nine minutes long with not a frame wasted and, despite a miniscule budget, looking great.

The Gelignite Gang was a 1956 crime movie directed by Terence Fisher and Francis Searle and scripted by Brandon Fleming. It was released in the US as The Dynamiters .

'What good is money to a dead man?' American insurance investigator Jimmy Baxter (Wayne Morris) works for the Anglo-American Investigation Company in London. He is searching for a gang of jewel blaggers who use gelignite as part of their modus operandi. He goes to The Green Dragon Club to interview its owner, Mister Popoulos (Eric Pohlmann). After Baxter leaves the head waiter, Bergman (Monti De Lyle) calls him from a phone box but is shot, extremely dead, by an unseen assailant before he can say much. Baxter is more successful in the chatting up of his office secretary, Sally (Sandra Dorne) and asks her to dinner at The Green Dragon. Whilst there, Sally does some sleuthing of her own and finds valuable clues about the thieved Tomfoolery. Baxter tracks the gang to its lair, but Sally is kidnapped by Mister G, the gang's mysterious mastermind and is tied up in a warehouse. Initially an old pawnbroker (Arthur Young) appears to be the mastermind of the gang's various capers. The gang are tracked to his pawn shop and when they fail to shoot their way out, they set fire to the building. Ultimately Mister G is revealed to be Rutherford (Patrick Holt), the boss of Anglo-American.

The film was shot in Brighton and nearby Hove during the summer of 1955 and premiered in March of the following year.

On a similar theme, also shown on Channel Eighty Two during the last couple of weeks, Edmond T Gréville's highly-rated Noose (1948).

The Boulting brother's twenty-four carat masterpiece adaptation of Graham Greene's Brighton Rock (1948).

Compton Bennett's flawed-but-interesting train heist movie The Flying Scot (1957).

And, Sidney Hayers' Night Of The Eagle (1962), featuring a pair of terrific performances by From The North favourites Peter Wyngarde and Janet Blair.

All of which brings us, most excellently, to Memorably Daft Lines from Blockbuster War & Espionage Movies of the 1960s and 70s: Number Forty Two: Michael Bates: 'Put that cigarette out! The mains have gone, can't you smell gas?' Susannah York: 'Don't you yell at me, Mister Warrick!' Battle Of Britain.

Memorably Daft Lines from Blockbuster War & Espionage Movies of the 1960s and 70s: Number Forty Three: Donald Sutherland: 'Ma'am, we are surgeons and we are here to operate. We just waiting for a starting time. That's all.' Elliot Gould: 'Look, mother, I want to go to work in one hour. We are the Pros from Dover and we figure to crack this kid's chest and get out to golf course before it gets dark. So you go find the gas-passer and you have him pre-medicate this patient. Then bring me the latest pictures on him. The ones we saw must be 48 hours old by now. Then call the kitchen and have them rustle us up some lunch. Ham and eggs will all right. Steak would be even better. And then give me at least ONE nurse who knows how to work in close without getting her tits in my way!' M*A*S*H (yes, this blogger is fully aware that the on-screen title of the movie is MASH - without the stars. But all of the posters and other assorted publicity materials used the more famous version. Happy?)

Memorably Daft Lines from Blockbuster War & Espionage Movies of the 1960s and 70s: Number Forty Four: Françoise Dorléac: 'Goodbye Harry. We would have made nice babies together!' Billion Dollar Brain.

Michael Caine, Mad Ken Russell and 'Hey, English, you sell Beatles records?' What's not to love?!

Memorably Daft Lines from Blockbuster War & Espionage Movies of the 1960s and 70s: Number Forty Five: Yvonne Craig: 'Derek, darling. Your American music is so decadent.' James Coburn: 'Yeah.' Yvonne Craig: 'But it's so exciting.' James Coburn: 'Well, that's where it's at, honey!' In Like Flint.

Memorably Daft Lines from Blockbuster War & Espionage Movies of the 1960s and 70s: Number Forty Six: Diana Rigg: 'With your ideas, I'm surprised you're shocked at the thought of war.' Oliver Reed: 'Not at all. It's purely a matter of business. How can we charge our sort of prices with everybody happily killing each other for a shilling a day?' The Assassination Bureau.

Memorably Daft Lines from Blockbuster War & Espionage Movies of the 1960s and 70s: Number Forty Seven: Gregory Peck: 'Can you do anything at all?' David Niven: 'I don't know. There's always a way to blow up explosives. The trick is not to be around when they go off. But aren't you forgetting something? The lady. As I see it we have three choices. One we can leave her here but there's no guarantee she won't be found and in her case they won't need a truth drug. Two, we can take her with us, but that would make things worse than they are already. And three ... well, that's Andrea's choice, remember?' Gregory Peck: 'You really want your pound of flesh, don't you?' David Niven: 'Yes, I do!' The Guns Of Navarone. Yet another Alistair Maclean adaptation (the third in this on-going series). There's clearly a pattern emerging here.

Memorably Daft Lines from Blockbuster War & Espionage Movies of the 1960s and 70s: Number Forty Eight: Peter Sellers: 'Gentlemen, you can't fight in here! This is the War Room!' Doctor Strangelove Or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying & Love The Bomb.

Also, for that bit where George C Scott was getting so carried away with his performance that he tripped over his own feet but still managed to deliver his line. That's genius!

Memorably Daft Lines from Blockbuster War & Espionage Movies of the 1960s and 70s: Number Forty Nine: Tom Adams: 'You enjoying yourself?' Judy Huxtable: 'I am. I have an aptitude for figures.' Tom Adams: 'So have I. Tell me, what does this machine do?' Judy Huxtable: 'It gives general information, depending on the questions it receives.' Tom Adams: 'I see. Ask it for your telephone number, will you?' Licensed To Kill.

Memorably Daft Lines from Blockbuster War & Espionage Movies of the 1960s and 70s: Number Fifty: Malcolm McDowell: 'How dare you insult a lady, you dirty foreigner.' Oliver Reed: 'I shall remember you.' Malcolm McDowell: 'Well, I shan't trouble to return the compliment!' Royal Flash.

A moment of Paraguayan genius - aided by assists from two Brazilians - was enough to earn this blogger's beloved (and now, thankfully, sold) Magpies a deserved three points on Wednesday and extend their unbeaten home record this season to six matches with a victory over Everton. It was Th' Toon's fourth win of the season; they have lost only once in their eleven Premier League games so far (and that was a controversial last-minute defeat at the Liverpool Alabama Yee-Haws). Miggy Almirón's thirty first minute effort was his fifth strike of the season and was the equal of any of the other four - including his belter at Fulham earlier this month. The winning goal arrived after Kieran Trippier's right-wing centre was headed back across goal by Jacob Murphy towards Callum Wilson. Defender Conor Coady got in a header but that went only as far as Joelinton on the edge of the box and he took a touch before knocking it to Bruno Guimarães. He, in turn, rolled the ball to Almirón, who dispatched a perfect dipping left-footed shot beyond the flailing (small) arms of Jordan Pickford and into the Leazes End net. That sublime strike marked the beginning of a fifteen minute purple patch for the home side; Bruno to the fore, twice working shooting chances only to fire both efforts narrowly off-target. Things were more mundane after the interval, as a starting line-up unchanged from the one that gained a point at Old Trafford the previous Sunday looked increasingly tired and jaded. Everton also played their part in a more even second period, dumping their initial lan of tripping over their own feet in futile and farcical attempts to win free kicks and penalties in favour of actually passing the ball to each other. The end result was no more effective though; Nick Pope's fifth clean sheet in eleven games for the club achieved with the visitors failing get a single shot on target during the entire game. United threatened a second goal through Miggy, Joe Willock and Elliot Anderson but couldn't do so; keeping The Toffees at bay through six minutes of time added on before eventually gaining their just reward.

It's worth reflecting, dear blog reader, that on 6 November 2021, Newcastle United played their eleventh game of last season - a one-all draw at Brighton & Hove Albinos. Coach Graeme Jones was in charge of the team as a caretaker after the sacking of rank journeyman, failure and total embarrassment Steve Brucie (nasty to see him, to see him, nasty) a fortnight earlier. The game was attended, as a guest of the club's new owners, by the former Bournemouth manager Eddie Howe who, a couple of days later, was appointed as Newcastle's manager. At that stage, the club were second bottom of the Premier League with just five points. The following week, after another draw, at home to Brentford, Howe's first game in charge, United sat rock bottom of the league and relegation appeared a virtual certainty. Eleven months on and so much has changed, off and on the pitch - almost all of it, significantly, for the better. Steady Eddie was not, reportedly, the first choice of Amanda Staveley and the club's new owners, the consortium of Public Investment Fund, PCP Capital Partners and RB Sports & Media for the role. But, thank God they did go for him, get him, give him a budget within the confines of Financial Fair Play and let him build a team that the long-suffering supporters of this great, historic, infuriating club can, finally, be proud of. As that famous flag which used to regularly appear at St James Park so eloquently said: We don't demand a team that wins, we demand a club that tries.

And then, on Sunday, this blogger's beloved (and now, thnakfully, sold) Magpies' impressive early season form continued with a superb win at Stotingtot Hotshots which lifted Th' Toon to fourth in the Premier League. They went ahead in contentious circumstances, Callum Wilson finding the net with an excellent lob from outside the box after colliding with Hugo Lloris. The goal was awarded after a lengthy video assistant referee check for a foul and handball, but there was nothing controversial about the second goal before half-time. A poor clearance by Lloris was intercepted by Sean Longstaff before Miguel Almirón beat one opponent, went around another and fired under the Spurs keeper for his fifth goal in five league games. 'No one is laughing at him, now' the Sky Sports commentator said, a reference to sneering comments made by that over-rated full-of-his-own-importance fancy-dan wanker-scum Jack Grealish about Almirón last season. Interestingly, Miggy has now scored more goals in the last five games than over-rated full-of-his-own-importance fancy-dan wanker-scum Grealish has in over forty appearances for Sheikh Yer Man City. Spurs pulled a goal back through Harry Kane's low header from close range, awarded after another lengthy VAR check, but Newcastle held on quite comfortably to secure the three points. While The Magpies extended their unbeaten league run to seven games, Hotshots have now lost their last two. With thunderbolt and lightning (very very frightening) in the air, Spurs struggled to carve out chances as the weather deteriorated and in the end could have few complaints about the outcome. There were joyous scenes after the final whistle as Newcastle's players and staff celebrated on the pitch in front of their jubilant travelling fans. It is hard to believe that just six month ago Eddie Howe's side crumbled to a five-one defeat at Spurs, but they are a different proposition this season and their campaign continues to go from strength to strength. Newcastle have not played in Europe since 2012-13, while it's not since 2002-03 that they have appeared in the group stage of the Champions League. But Howe and his players have their fans dreaming of a return to the continent after another efficient performance whilst still stressing that this is only the beginning of a long-term project and we should all keep our feet on the ground. Once again Newcastle were well organised and continue to pick up points despite missing record signing Alexander Isak, who has been out since September with a thigh injury. Even after Kane gave Spurs hope with his tenth league goal of the season, The Magpies did not panic, with Fabian Schär and Sven Botman frustrating the hosts when they piled forward in search of an equaliser. And, wasn't The Gaffer pleased at the end?

Meanwhile, somewhere in the West Midlands ...

Followed. within seconds of Steven Gerrard getting the old tin-lack, by ...

England's bowlers set up a five-wicket victory over Afghanistan as Jos Buttler's side made a winning start to the T20 World Cup in Perth. Sam Curran took five for ten - England's first five-wicket haul in men's T20 internationals - in a complete bowling performance, which was backed up by a phenomenal display of catching. Curran claimed four wickets in six balls at the death after Mark Wood and Ben Stokes had taken two wickets apiece as Afghanistan were bowled out for one hundred and twelve two balls shy of twenty overs. As notable, though, was England's fielding - fine towering catches from Adil Rashid, Moeen Ali and Liam Livingstone and a leaping one-handed grab by wicketkeeper Jos Buttler being the highlights. England's batting order stuttered during the chase, slipping to ninety seven for five against Afghanistan's spin-heavy attack, but the target was never likely to be defendable. Livingstone ended twenty nine not out as England, semi-finalists in the 2021 World Cup and among the favourites again, won with eleven balls remaining. Earlier in the day, New Zealand stunned hosts and defending champions Australia in the same group. Some sloppiness with the bat will take a bit of the shine off the win but, after a week of shocks in the first group stage, England will simply be happy to have avoided a similar fate against a dangerous Afghan side. The batting lacked a ruthless edge but their performance in the field was as good as any in recent memory. Wood began a spell of ferocious pace bowling - the fastest ever recorded at a T20 World Cup - by having Rahmanullah Gurbaz caught behind with his first ball to start the third over. After that, a catching masterclass began. First, Livingstone sprinted round from deep cover before diving to cling on to see off Rahmanullah Gurbaz. Then Moeen Ali ran back to take one dropping over his shoulder from extra cover as Ibrahim Zadran - Afghanistan's highest scorer - was dismissed for a run-a-ball thirty two. The pick was Rashid's take. He ran back from mid-wicket to catch a shot from Najibullah Zadran out of the night's sky before captain Mohammad Nabi gloved one to the diving Buttler down the leg side off Wood. 'We caught absolutely everything bar one speccy from Hales,' Woakes told Test Match Special. 'That really helps us as bowlers and there was some great ground fielding as well. In the first half of the game, we couldn't have asked for much more.' Playing in his first World Cup, Curran had one wicket for eight runs when he began the eighteenth over, with Afghanistan still holding some hope of boosting their total from one hundred and six for five. Ten balls later he had bettered England's previous best figures - Adil Rashid's four for two against West Indies in 2021. The twenty four-year-old all-rounder has quickly become England's go-to death bowler. Again, he impressively closed out the innings with slower-ball bouncers. 'At the start of the game, I didn't expect to be walking off like that but it was a great performance by the boys,' Curran said. Impressive too was Stokes, these days an only occasional bowler, who bowled the first over and deserved his two wickets. Crucially, if the all-rounder performs with the ball it allows England to continue to play all seven of their big-hitting batters. At the start of the chase England would have hoped to win by a significant margin. In doing so they would have boosted their net run-rate, which could be important if they end up level on points with any other team at the end of this group stage. Instead they lost openers Jos Buttler and Alex Hales - both caught in the deep in the leg side - for eighteen and nineteen respectively. Hales had already been dropped twice by that point. The spinners then took hold and England were unable to hit their free-flowing form. Stokes was bowled for two by Mohammed Nabi, who then caught Dawid Malan for a stodgy eighteen from thirty balls off Mujeeb ur Rahman. Had Afghanistan taken those chances the game could have been different but, realistically, they never had enough runs. Livingstone hit three fours, showing glimpses of form on his return from injury which could prove crucial as England head to Melbourne to continue their quest for a second men's T20 World Cup title.

There is a properly splendid piece by Mark Savage of the BBC News website concerning the forthcoming Revolver box-set by The Be-Atles (a popular beat combo of the 1960s, you might've heard of them). Which you can have a right good gander at here. Perhaps, whilst listening to this fine example of what the package will contain. Or, indeed, checking out Apple's splendid official video for the terrifyingly loud new mix of 'Taxman' directed by Danny Sangra. Of course, the pedant in this blogger feels it necessary to point out that the pennies used to illustrate George's line 'declare the pennies on your eyes' are post, rather than pre-decimal (1971). What can this blogger say, dear blog readers? He worries about this sort of thing so you don't have to.

Felicitations are also considerably due to the legend that is From The North favourite Glenn Matlock who posted this very photo of him oot-on-the-lash as it were with From The North favourite The Goddamn Modfather his very self, Paul Weller, From The North favourite, the great Clem Burke and a rather tired-and-emotional-looking Merton Mick Talbot. The photo is captioned Ligging With The Lads! And, therefore, cannot be done under the Trades Description Act.

It was sixty two years ago this very week, that the last photo of the five Marx Brothers together (from left to right - Harpo, Zeppo, Chico, Groucho and Gummo) was taken following an appearance on The Tonight Show in October 1960. Karl, seemingly, was otherwise occupied. Hands up whose first reaction to seeing this remarkable moment of history was: 'Oh, so that's what Gummo looked like'? Okay, dear blog readers, you can all put your hands down now.

A hacker who stole two unreleased songs from Ed Sheeran and sold them on The Dark Web has been jailed for eighteen months. Adrian Kwiatkowski traded the music by Sheeran and twelve songs by Lil Uzi Vert (he's a rapper m'lud, very popular with Young People, apparently) in exchange for crypto currency. The twenty three-year-old scallywag, from Ipswich, managed to get hold of them after hacking the performers' digital accounts, the Crown Prosecution Service said. Kwiatkowski admitted nineteen charges, including copyright infringement and possessing criminally poor pop songs and was sent directly to The Slammer. Sheeran, meanwhile, has been charged with impersonating a singer and being distinctly average. He is banged-to-rights and is expected to receive a significant stretch as His Majesty's Pleasure. 

And so, with the awful inevitability of the awfully terribly, we come to the part of From The North dedicated to this blogger's on-going medical doings. For those dear blog readers who haven't been following this on-going fiasco which appears to have been on-going longer than someone saying 'Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis', it goes like this: Keith Telly Topping spent some weeks around New Year feeling rotten; experienced five days in hospital; was discharged; received B12 injections; then more injections; somewhat recovered his missing appetite; got a diagnosis; had a consultant's meeting; continued to suffer fatigue and insomnia; endured a second endoscopy; had another consultation; got (unrelated) toothache; had an extraction; which took ages to heal; had another consultation; spent a week where nothing remotely health-related occurred; was given further - painful - B-12 injections; had an echocardiogram; received more blood extractions; did another hospital visit; saw the insomnia and torpor continue; returned to the hospital for more blood-letting; had a rearranged appointment to get a sick note from his doctor; suffered probably his worst period yet of the fatigue. Until the following week. And, the one after that. Oh, the fatigue. The depressing, ceaseless fatigue. Then, this blogger returned to hospital to have a go on the Blood-Letting Machine; was back at the doctor's for another sickie, had an assessment and received his fourth Covid jab.

What a really very queer day last Friday was, dear blog reader. Not bad. Not bad at all, in fact. Just ... very odd. For all sorts of reasons. To begin at the beginning - which is always a good place to start any tale of oddness - insomnia drove this blogger from his pit at some obscure hour of the AM (as usual). Keith Telly Topping then did a bit of napping on the sofa whilst catching up with the breakfast TV news (as usual). This blogger then caught the bus to Byker to get some money from his bank and purchase the weekly shopping at Morrisons (as occasional). So far, so fairly atypical you could say. And, indeed, it was. This blogger got back to The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House exhausted (as usual) and spent an hour lying on the bed pulling himself together until he was feeling slightly less discombobulated (again, nothing unusual in this after he has needed to leave the house for any reason). This blogger then checked his e-mail and there was something from Universal Credit. And this is where it all starts to get into the oddness column. As some dear blog readers may know, if you've been on sickness and/or disability benefit for a few months (as this blogger has - since February, in fact), the DWP start to get a bit twitchy and, eventually, send you along to a local assessment clinic to be assessed. By an assessor. This is to make sure, one supposes, that you (and your various doctors) are, actually, telling the truth and that you really have some condition which affects your daily life and makes you eligible for support. This blogger did all that a couple of weeks ago (that was the previously mentioned occasion when he saw the lovely Nurse Jennifer with whom, you may recall, this blogger ended up swapping recipes for fluffy mushroom omelettes!)

Now, this blogger has been involved in this sort of malarkey before, a couple of times in previous years when Keith Telly Topping's sciatica was playing up something fierce or that occasion when he was diagnosed with depression; normally what happens is, one sends in as much supporting evidence concerning ones medical condition as possible (in the current case several letters from this blogger's consultant and doctor, a list of all his various medications, symptoms and the details of his diagnoses), fill in a lengthy questionnaire, then have ones assessment. And then, about two or three weeks later - usually on a Friday afternoon because they seem to enjoy dramatic irony - one gets a phone-call or a letter from the Work Capacity Assessment section of the DWP, informing one of their decision. Which - despite being made by someone who is not a qualified medical professional - nine-times-out-of-ten states that you haven't got enough 'points' to qualify for continued sickness-based Universal Credit (like you're a Premier League team and you're getting relegated on goal difference). Thus, it tends to go on, you are now considered fit for work - even if your doctor, your consultant and, indeed, someone like Nurse Jennifer or one of her colleagues says you are not - and will you kindly piss off somewhere else and stop bothering them, they've got work to do. This blogger had been fully expecting to receive that sort of thing this time around and was prepared to go a full ten rounds on the phone with some hapless 'I'm only doing my job, sir' advisor and then start the lengthy, time-consuming and usually very frustrating appeals process. That's sort of standard form with this particular department. As noted, this blogger has been down that route before on a couple of occasions and it is always, frankly, a right bleedin' pain in the dong.

But, this time, no. It was all very different. The letter said that this blogger had been assessed as having 'limited' (for which read, 'no') capacity for work at the present time due to his on-going anaemia (no shit?) and that he does not need to continue supplying sick notes to them until such times as his condition changes or until they tell this blogger otherwise. That was, this blogger must admit, a real surprise - a jolly nice surprise, admittedly. As it happens this blogger did find it necessary to ring the department that afternoon, not to have a ding-dong with them, merely to request they send out a copy of his assessment report for his own records. This blogger spoke to a very nice lady - called Antoinette - who said that she would sort that out for this blogger. Keith Telly Topping also, for his own peace of mind, wished to double check the bit about future sick notes, which she, kindly, confirmed. So, that's one less thing that this blogger needs to worry about each six weeks or so. By the time he got off the phone Keith Telly Topping was ... a bit non-plussed by what a queer day this had turned into, frankly. And, again, was exhausted and needed a rest (as usual). Some things never change.

It's always highly amusing whenever this blogger get a telephone call from the DWP (for any reason - even them telling this blogger something nice, like they owe him some money due to his changed circumstances) that they start off the call by asking a couple of standard security questions. One imagines they do that with all calls. Mostly these quite straightforward things (date of birth, name of the street one grew up on, mother's maiden name, secret word, that sort of thing) and this blogger always bites his lip and resists the temptation to note 'you're ringing me, remember!' However, one of the questions they always ask is 'what was the name of the first film you went to see at the cinema?' And, as a consequence, this blogger has to trot out a well-practiced reply: 'It was The Aristocats, Pilgrim Street Odeon, Christmas 1970. I was six!' by way of explanation. Actually, this blogger would have been seven but six sounds much more believable. We then usually have a two minute conversation where the chap or lady Keith Telly Topping is speaking to informs him of their first movie which is, invariably, much cooler than his. Just such a call took place on Friday of this week, the chap this blogger was talking to being extremely proud that his first movie was Raiders Of The Lost Ark. This blogger feigned interest. Personally, for what it's worth, this blogger still stands by The Aristocats!

This week also saw the first couple of about half-a-dozen further medical appointments which this blogger will be attending over the next two or three weeks; these being his annual diabetes check-up (on Tuesday) and his annual winter flu vaccination (on Saturday). The former went fine, apart from this blogger's weight - artificially low the last time it was measured, in March shortly after this blogger got out of hospital - having shot-up to pre-anaemia diagnosis levels in the last six months (and, indeed, a bit more).

This blogger then had his annual 'flu jab on Saturday morning so, in theory, that means Keith Telly Topping should make it through another winter in more or less one piece. In theory. This blogger then popped into the supermarket on the way back to The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House and picked up a nice warm jumper for just a tenner. The sticker (a bit out of focus on this photo) says 'new improved fit.' As a descriptor of this blogger's state of being, it's somewhat inadequate. 'New, improved [and] not fit', this blogger would have gladly taken.

From The North's daily traffic of page-hits traffic the last six months continues, uncannily, to resemble a visual representation of an electrocardiogram of this blogger's heart rhythms. Regularly irregular.

Recently, dear blog reader, From The North has highlighted media stories concerning Scots Mum 'All Shook Up' After Discovering The Face Of Elvis In A McDonald's Ketchup Pot and Mum Sees Face Of Shrek In Takeaway Green Curry. Because, seemingly, nothing sells newspapers like some glake claiming to have spotted the face of someone in food. Metro - not a real newspaper, admittedly - certainly appears to have taken this on-board. Man Thinks He's Spotted The Face Of Boris Johnson In His Chicken Korma. Sometimes, dear blog reader, Keith Telly Topping simply has no words.

There are some things that you really don't want to reveal on live television, dear blog reader. This would very much appear to be one of them.

Some wipe of no importance at Metro (so, again, not a real newspaper), seemingly spends their time trawling social media to find things like this. Unfortunate Caption For BBC News Guest Is Really Cracking Everyone Up. That's everyone, dear blog reader and you can be absolutely certain that they did, indeed, ask everyone because they wouldn't have printed it otherwise.

Poor Claire. Mind you, it’s not the first time some hapless member of the public have found themselves subject to some unfortunate news captioning.

The Hull Daily Mail's Laura Cross, meanwhile, has her byline on what is, apparently, the most important story of the week. Hull Woman Furious Over Twenty One Crisps. The fact that the sub-heading alleges 'She couldn't believe how empty the packet was' isn't the most jaw-droppingly staggering aspect of this case. It's that she counted them and then rang the local newspaper that makes it art.

And finally, dear blog reader, the sad news of the death this week of Robbie Coltrane brought about a fascinating discussion amongst several of this blogger's fine fiends on Facebook regarding how obituaries of actors are usually headlined. More than one of this blogger's fiends said they were rather surprised that Robbie's long career appeared to have been reduced to 'that big bloke in the Harry Potter movies' in the vast majority of the media headlines reporting his demise. See, for example, the Sky News website's Robbie Coltrane: Tributes Paid To Harry Potter's Hagrid and Cracker Actor Following His Death. This blogger felt it necessary to note that, in this particular case, Keith Telly Topping's various fiends' ire appeared to be a bit misdirected. Let it be noted, that sort of reducing an actor's life to one or two roles does somewhat annoy this blogger too, especially when it's clear that a journalist has simply looked through a deceased actor's CV, found the couple of series or movies that he or she thinks the readership will have heard of and used them as the actor's 'defining' roles. So, when From The North favourite David Warner died earlier this year, for example, we had lots of headlines which described David as 'the star of Star Trek and Doctor Who' or 'the star of The Omen' rather than 'the star of Morgan: A Suitable Case For Treatment, Perfect Friday, Time After Time, Straw Dogs, The Company Of Wolves, numerous films and TV series and one of the great stage actors of his generation' as it should have been. But, in Robbie Coltrane's case, he did appear in all of the eight Harry Potter movies. Which, whether one likes them or not (and this blogger does not, particularly for a number of reasons), were a massively successful franchise. And, he was BAFTA nominated for his performance in one of them; to be brutally honest, it's probably fair to say that to anyone under the age of forty Harry Potter is what they'll know Robbie Coltrane for. Of the examples that some of this blogger's fiends suggested as alternatives to Potter, Robbie was in but two episodes of The Young Ones and one episode of Blackadder III. He was very good in both, of course, just as he was in A Kick Up The Eighties, Laugh? I Nearly Paid My License Fee, Alfresco, The Comic Strip Presents ..., Mona Lisa, GoldenEye, The World Is Not Enough, Nuns On The Run, From Hell and dozens of other movies and TV shows. To this blogger, Robbie will always be 'the star of Tutti Fruiti, Cracker and The Bogie Man' but this blogger doesn't imagine any of those (with the exception of Cracker) would look all that good in a headline. And nor would 'the star of Robbie Coltrane - B Road Britain or Robbie Coltrane's Critical Evidence' either. It's a question of degree, this blogger feels. And, of course, this sort of thing can cut both ways. When, for instance, From The North favourite Rik Mayall died in 2014 he was described in most newspaper headlines as 'the star of The Young Ones and Blackadder' even though, in the case of the latter, he only appeared in two episodes.