Friday, February 21, 2025

Signal? What Signal?

Oh, the blog signal? Now Keith Telly Topping gets it. This blogger catches the cut of yer actual jib. This must, as a consequence, mean that a further From The North update has occurred, in the area. The third of 2025, following this one and this one. And, also following the last several of 2024. Like this one, this one and this one. Read on. 
Let us, therefore, with joyous abandon begin with a report of what is, clearly, a vastly jolly-important announcement from The Stately Telly Topping Manor which arrived earlier today.
Yes, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, the book project which has absolutely dominated this blogger's very existence since shortly after he got out of hospital has now been completed. That now remains to be done is for this blogger to receive the page-proofs, spend about another week or more going through them with a fine tooth-comb until his brain hurts and then going into a darkened room to contemplate the inherent ludicrousness of existence. So, no change there then.
The cover of Island of Terror, incidentally, has already been extremely sorted by this blogger's epic, world-class publisher, that there David Howe (this blogger said, remembering his manners and who's paying him). Keith Telly Topping wasn't too sure about the green-lettering to begin with but it's started to grow on him. A Vault of Horror had red-lettering, Return to the Vault of Horror, blue so green's as good a colour as any. It was, after all, what the late, great Uncle Terrence believed was the colour of all the bad (and some of the good) monsters. Whom is this blogger to argue with his mentor?
So, with the end-in-sight for this here book project, of course, this blogger's mind has turned towards what he's going to do next to occupy his waking hours. So he purchased a small present (or nine) to-himself from-himself for when he'd finished the final edit of Island of Terror. And, that time is, seemingly, now. Page-proof editing notwithstanding, obviously. 
Although interestingly, this was his immediate first port-of-call as soon as he'd completed the finished rft file and it had gone-off to the publisher via e-mail. How does that feel?
Is it, therefore, time to celebrate yet, Sir Nod?
Fair enough. As to what yer actual Keith Telly Topping intends to pitch next, well, he wants to see this one published first (and, also, to see how the last one has been selling) before he even considers answering that particular question. Although, that said, he does have a couple of ideas, half-formulated and floating about in the backwaters of his spacious braid, ready to be worked-up in the event that he actually needs to put them into action. 
Besides, this blogger reckons it might be quite a nice change, just for a few weeks, for this not to represent 'a typical day at yer actual The Stately Telly Topping Manor.' 
And, for this not to be what his eyesight resembles come the end of a typical day at The Stately Telly Topping Manor.
Because, to be completely truthful dearest bloggerisationism fiends, there have been more than a few occasions over the the last couple of months when it's been one of those sort of days round these very parts.
And, when it hasn't been one of those sort of days at The Stately Telly Topping Manor, on more occasions than this blogger entirely likes to think about, it's been one of these sort of days. A necessary difference of emphasis, one feels.
All of these feeling of rank and disgraceful discombobulation, malarkey and shenanigans, frankly, is never helped when this blogger cracks open a fortune-cookie and receives this piece of, no doubt well meant, sagacious wisdom for whomsoever it is that writes these things.
Which is true, except for the inevitable intervention of torpor, lethargy, exhaustion, general malaise, depression, insomnia or even a big daft man with a big daft gun. All of which (except, possibly, the latter), have an annoying habit of cropping-up occasionally (and, sometimes more than occasionally) in this blogger's life. Mind you, to be scrupulously fair, that was but nothing to the previous time this blogger cracked open a fortune-cookie. Because, on that occasion, this is what greeted him.
Which, as this blogger was quick to note to his dearest Facebook and Bluesky fiends, was less of a 'fortune', per se and more a paraphrase from a lyric by The Rubettes from 1975. One which should be followed by 'you can do it/you can really move/from your head right down to your blue-suede shoes'. Tell 'em all about it, Allan.
Nice Dan-Dares, there. Almost worthy, in fact, of these which are, seemingly, being sported by Disco Mickey. Hot.
And, if you're going to be wearing your dead-choice Dan-Dares, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, then in all likelihood you're also going to need some wicked platforms from Flagg Bros. Skill.
Meanwhile, if you're a dearest bloggersiationism fiend in the UK (it's a small island in the North Atlantic in case you hadn't, previously come across it) or, indeed, in other parts of Northern Europe - and this blogger is aware there are several of you; particular hello to Sven and Olaf - then you'll already be well aware that the, seemingly-never-bloody-ending, winter continues. It continues, that is, to takes its ceaseless and dreadful toll on this blogger's bank account by forcing him to have the heating on far more often than he'd like to.
Oh, will we ever feel the warmth of the sun again, you may be wondering?
Okay, maybe not quite that hot.
That's a bit better. Moving swift on, this blogger was greatly saddened earlier this week, to learn of the death of Rick Buckler. That's another part of this blogger's misspent youth gone, never to return. This blogger took an evening off from editing Island of Terror to spend some time in contemplation listening to Rick's finest three minutes, 'Little Boy Soldiers' in tribute to a great drummer in the band that will always mean more to this blogger than any other. 
According to a report on the BBC News website, there are currently a record number of patients in hospital with Norovirus in England. As someone who suffered from a very nasty dose of said 'horrible bug' (or, if not it, then something very like it) and spent five days in hospital last October after three weeks of increasingly awful symptoms this blogger extends his sympathies to anyone affected. 'Data from NHS England showed eleven hundred and sixty patients a day on average were in hospital with the vomiting bug last week - double the level at the same period last year,' the report adds. It's to be hoped that this country's magnificent, world-envied NHS, which did this blogger proud last year, are able to cope with the present influx.
Mysteries about Uranus which have baffled scientists for decades may have been the result of an unusually powerful solar-storm that happened to occur as a spacecraft visited the planet, a new study involving UCL researchers has found. NASA's Voyager 2, which flew by Uranus in 1986, provided scientists' first (and, so far only) close glimpse of the planet, shaping their understanding of it in the decades since. The mission found oddities, though. The planet's radiation belts - areas of charged particles trapped on magnetic field lines - were incredibly intense, second only to Jupiter's. Yet the rest of Uranus's magnetosphere was nearly empty of plasma, meaning no apparent source of charged particles to feed those belts. The new study, published in Nature Astronomy, found that a 'hurricane' of extreme solar weather at the time of the 1986 flyby likely 'squashed' the planet's magnetic bubble, pushing plasma out of it and intensified radiation belts by feeding electrons into them.
Uranus and its five biggest moons may not be the dead sterile worlds that scientists have long thought. Instead, they may have oceans and the moons may even be capable of supporting life, scientists say. And, they're scientists so they should know about this sort of thing. 
Scientists have long been trying to find signs of life on other planets and this new discovery could bring them one step closer to achieving that aim. A new study suggests that one of the Uranus moons - Miranda - may be hiding an ocean of water beneath its surface. Miranda is the smallest and innermost of Uranus's five ellipsoidal, spherical moons (it has twenty three others but they're all oddly-shaped) and orbits the planet around once every 1.4 Earth days. If true, it would make the distant moon one of only a few places in our solar system which experts think could, potentially, support life.
The Gruniad Morning Star, apparently, think it's worth going there to find out. If the Middle-Class hippy Communist, vegan quiche-eaters see a need for it then, frankly, who are NASA, or indeed any of us, to argue? 
For a brief moment at the end of February, every planet will appear in the night sky simultaneously in a rare celestial spectacle. This so-called 'planetary parade', which will occur shortly after sunset on 28 February, will be the last time the phenomenon occurs until 2040. The full planetary alignment will see Mars, Jupiter, Uranus, Venus, Neptune, Mercury and Saturn line-up, though not all the planets will be visible to the naked eye.
A handy guide suggests the best places and times to see this rare heavenly phenomena. And, From The North has its own suggestion on how to achieve the full maximum effect. Dear bloggerisationism fiends are advised to put on Shiekback at full volume as the soundtrack when they are busy watching the skies. Tune. 
Meanwhile, Sky News reports that Upturned campervan stuns police in Brittany. A definite case of 'you can't park there, mate' one would suggest.
According to the Metro (so, not a real newspaper), Gordon Ramsay reveals thieves have stolen hundreds of strange £4.50 item from restaurant. This blogger wouldn't normally consider bringing you this positively Earth-shattering piece of abject trivia, dear blog fiends. But, on this one occasion he will for but two reasons. Firstly, this story was written by one Pierra Willix who has, like, The Greatest Name That Ever There Was, Ever, Bar-None. And, secondly, because it's Gordon Ramsey.
Turning, now, to From The North's Headline Of The Week awards, the Sheffield Star feels it worth trees dying to bring their readers Crumbling Weston Tower at West Bar set to be replaced by Seventy Million Pound 'Not Student' Flats. If you're wondering what a 'Not Student Flat' is dearest blog fiends this blogger, on your behalf, contacted the newspaper in question by telephone and asked that very question. He was informed ... 'What? Who is this? Why do you want to know? If you ring this number again, I'll call the police.' So, there you have it (this blogger is guessing a 'Non Student Flat' is the same as a 'Student Flat' only without students. Makes sense if you think about it. They do smell.
The Metro (so, not a real newspaper, then) are actually having a good week, it would seem. Their nominee for the award is 'I have had a public toilet outside my house for years. It stinks and I want to move but I am trapped here'. Which, to be honest, even spanks the previously-mentioned, sad tale of Gordon Ramsay's theft-losses hollow in terms of thigh-slapping journalistic brilliance. No, not brilliance - whatever the opposite of brilliance is. Take that, Gordon. 
The Nottingham Post continues with the lavatorial theme, Troubled Arnold public toilets closed down as residents label them 'disgusting'. Well, you know, sometimes when you got to go, you've got to go.
The Ipswich Star, meanwhile, is sad to bring its readers a tragic update on the story that's had them all gripped for days; Pig Ornament Stolen From The Ark In Felixstowe Still Missing. If you have any information concerning the whereabouts of the Pig Ornament stolen from The Ark in Felixstowe, dear blog readers, please, for the love of God, contact the relevant authorities so that the people of Suffolk may sleep safely in their beds.
That was a Public Service Announcement. With guitars.
Next, well done to the BBC News website (which,, like the Radio Times, used to be run by adults) for Prankster Sends Glasgow Runners on Lengthy Detour. This blogger thinks it's the use of the word 'prankster' that makes it art.
But, the winner of the most utterly frigging pointless waste-of-newsprint (and, indeed, bandwidth) goes to the Brighton Argus for Holidaymakers Spot Coleen Rooney Lookalike at Bognor Regis Butlin's. Yes, dear blog fiends, one Holly Brencher got paid to write this trivial, nonsense horseshit. Well done Holly. Jolly well done. One is sure your parents are really proud of you.
Did you know, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, that if you look up the word 'perfect' in the Oxford English Dictoinary, it gives the definition as 'Matter of Life and Death, A (1946).' True story. Well, except for the bits that isn't. Which is pretty much all of it. But, it would be nice if it were.
And, on that there bombshell, dearest fiends, Keith Telly Topping will now be going for a long lie down. As with those occasions when he eats out, he really deserves it. From The North will return in March. Unless, you know, something jolly unlikely happens like this blogger spontaneously combusting. Stranger things have happened.

Saturday, February 01, 2025

Give Us Tomorrow!

It's the what signal, now? Any-road-up, right welcome ys'all are, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, to the latest From The North-type immersive experience in bloggerising from The Stately Telly Topping Manor. And that.
Important Island of Terror Update: Since last he did blog, yer actual Keith Telly Topping his very self has been engaged in what promises to be a month-long (at least) trawl through this book about British Science-Fiction films what he has just completed to first-draft level. It's the usual editing procedure, looking for mistakes, corrections and stuff he can cut until his brain hurts (the potential cutting, since the word-count is way higher than he assumed it was going to be when pitching the damned thing to his marvellously-lovely publishers back in November).
To date, Island of Terror: 60 Great(*) British Science-Fiction and Fantasy Movies 1936-1984 ... (* and not so great) is progressing satisfactorily. Though, as previously noted it is, indeed, geet-lush even if this blogger does say so his very self. Especially considering that, as this blogger observed when talking to a fiend over a (very civilised and extremely deserved) dinner out in Th' Toon this week (see below), it is the second book this blogger has completed in less than nine months after near-enough a decade of, let's be charitable and say 'limited' activity. Which, when one acknowledges that yer actual Keith Telly Topping remains 'not a well man' is, he reckons, pretty effing impressive. You should probably take this blogger's word for it, he is - after all - a 'highly-respected author, journalist and broadcaster.' When he puts his mind to it, anyway. 
Though the long, slow days of editing can often be more a little bit tedious, it's also worth remembering that this is the job this blogger only went and asked for.
And then, on Day Three of the edit, he got to Devil Girl from Mars and remembered exactly why he loves this job so much, Pathetic Earthlings.
Something which his arrival at the legend that was/is Fire Maidens from Outer Space only but two days later merely reinforced.
So, with the majority of all that nonsense and malarkey out of the way, let us begin this latest From The North bloggerisationism update shenanigans with what is, clearly, the most important news story to break since last this blogger blogged to y'all. This truly epic and Earth-shattering piece from the Daily Record, in fact.
To be fair, though, it was only marginally more Earth-shattering than this. Is it possible, one wonders, to fart 'non-aggressively' or even 'passively'? We really need a legal judgement on this vital issue. Over to you Judge-Fudge. 
The Metro - so, not a real newspaper, then - seem to have become somewhat obsessed with that particular bodily function over the last few years, dear bloggerisationism fiends. Take this story from May 2023, for instance.
Or, indeed, this one from September 2019. One supposes that the author of the peice, one Richard Hartley-Parkinson, gave himself the rest of the afternoon off after coming up with his opening paragraph: 'A man has been given a community sentence after farting in the general direction of police during a strip search. A judge let rip at Stuart Cook, twenty eight, when he appeared in court for drugs offences after he was stopped by police. Officers got wind that something was amiss when they saw him at the side of the road following a crash at the Lang Stract in Aberdeen. As they approached, their nostrils were filled with a strong whiff of cannabis, so took him into custody.' One imagines you felt pretty damned smug and self-satisfied after rushing that from your PC to the copy-desk, Richard? Did your mother never tell you, pal, that it's not big and it's not clever?
Anyway, this blogger's effusive thanks go to his old mucka The Godlike Genius that is Jefferson Hart for discovering the single greatest photograph of John Waters and David Lynch shaking hands outside a Big Boy Burger Restaurant captured in the history of the world. Ever. Bar none. Unless, of course, you know different and have a greater photograph of John Waters and David Lynch shaking hands outside a Big Boy Burger Restaurant. 
Now, here's a pretty sight, dearest bloggersiationism fiends. 
Keep watching the skies. In Bolton, anyway.
On Wednesday, dearest blog reader, yer actual that there Keith Telly Topping was a-waiting in Th' Toon for to meet a fiend outside Haymarket Metro (for reasons which will be explained anon). It was at this juncture that a young lass (really young - like fourteen or something) sat down beside this blogger on a bench outside the station and declared 'I love you!' Assuming this to be some sort of Operation Yewtree-type sting scenario, yer actual replied, not unkindly but with as much humour as he could manage in the circumstances (bearing in mind that it was, really cold): 'You're young enough to be my granddaughter, sweetheart, I don't think so, do you?' 'Maybe I am your granddaughter!' she replied, furtively with a sly - somewhat disturbing - chuckle. Which made this blogger go somewhat faint. 'What's your grandma's name?' he asked, nervously. Well anything's possible.
Anyway, the purpose of this mid-evening jaunt into Th' Bonny Toon was for this blogger to meet up with his old mate Mick The Mod Snowden who was on his way back to Teesside following a few days working in Germany. It was all arranged somewhat hastily and a bit last-minute and Mick had a baggage delay at the airport which meant this blogger (and his bad back and his general ill-demeanour) was standing around in the cold for forty minutes more than he'd've liked (particularly as this included that getting propositioned by a teenager with too much time on her hands, seemingly). But, eventually (and, I do mean eventually) Mick arrived and the pair of us hot-limped along to Stowell Street and The Little Asia (happily now reopened after it was shut the last time this blogger and Young Malcolm wished to eat there).
Starter.
Second course (stock-photo, unfortunately, as that was very moment that this blogger's phone chose to, momentarily, die on him).
Main.
Followed by a nice steaming-hot cup of Sweet Joe and much civilised conversation. About, you know, stuff
Then, having walked Mick part-of-the-way back to the Central Station to catch the last train to Stockton (doesn't quite have the same ring as Clarksville, does it?) this blogger made it to the bus stop just in time for the penultimate 12 of the evening. And, then only went and fund himsen' on the bus gannin' yerm with a geet-bunch of bladdered-ladgeful-glakes makin' a right unholy-palaver on the top-deck. Which was a good-laugh as this blogger is sure you can all appreciate, dearest bloggersationism fiends. Particularly the lass that was passed-out on the back seat. 
It was aal kicking-off (big-style) half-a-dozen seats behind yer actual who chose to keep his heed doon, study his phone closely and try not to let his mind wander to what was actually going on back there. Which, frankly, sounded like a a combination of bacchanalia, vomiting and at least one bar-room brawl. Whatever it was, dear blog fiends, it was effin' loud.
No, siree, someone else's problem.
All that said, mind, this was what was contained in the fortune cookie which this blogger finally opened when he got home. I mean, uncanny. So uncanny, in fact, that it should really have been a plotline in the 1977 Milton Subotsky scripted UK/Canadian co-production The Uncanny. That's how uncanny it was. Which is, in and of itself, uncanny.
On a somewhat marginally-related theme, the following day, these four Proud Walkers rocked-up in, well, Walker as it happens. This blogger is nothing if not a lover of yer actual dramatic irony. Plus, a bucket of blood and a packet of giblets, obviously.
Next - what a great pity, this blogger was rather looking forward to watching this on a triple-bill all-nighter along with Zombie Spank Inferno and Vampire Lavatory Lust
Moving on, at speed, to the From The North Headline Of The Week award nominees and, sad to report, this effort from Cornwall Live is writing a cheque the accompanying article could not possibly hope to cash.
Err ... ditto.
It has, admittedly, been a while since there's been a nice juicy 'banned-from-Weatherspoons and not happy about it' story for people to get their teeth into. So, here's one. 
Typical, innit? You wait ages for a nice juicy 'banned-from-Weatherspoons and not happy about it' story to turn up and then two come along at once.
This one wins the title, though. I mean, not by a little bit, either. 
Finally, dearest blog fiends, here's the 1980 NME poll-winners page; from a time when the world was just that little bit better and saner. Although, that said, Bloody Sting still won Bloody Best Bloody Vocalist Bloody Award. So it clearly wasn't all bloody prefect, even back then.
And, on that bombshell ...