Pointless celebrities

I did not get a chance to mention it yesterday, but after getting back to the house after the rugby on Saturday, I turned on the TV and was confronted by a programme called Pointless Celebrities. Now call me old fashioned but is that the best UK TV can offer? Surely when I was young TV was not this bad? We had loads of terrible stuff like Benny Hill and Crossroads, but Pointless Celebrities?

I reckon that Nagasaki must be Japanese for nag city. This was my conclusion after I was subjected yesterday morning to a stream of “correctional briefings” which ranged in subject from drinking too much beer, eating too much cheese and drinking too much wine.  It also encompassed putting my clothes in the wrong place, placing my shoes incorrectly and of course, that most cardinal of sins, wearing a jacket over my sweaters causing them to bobble.  I am not nagging she said, when challenged, I am just telling you (very forcefully) what you are doing wrong. This was after I complained that her torrent of complaints, or suggested incremental guidelines, as she would be more likely to describe the stream of nagging yesterday, amounted to nagging. I pointed out that I did not nag her when she used my razor to shave off the bobbles on my new woolly sweather, despite my face looking like a baby’s bottom covered in nappy rash as a result of trying to shave with it, nor did I take major issue with her when the devil dog, Banjo, chewed a hole in the cupboard to get at the dog food.

The watery wastes of Arundel

With rain promised later in the day, we had taken a trip over to Graffham in the South Downs after I had stupidly said that it was too flat locally for a proper walk and I needed some hills to get the red corpuscles moving.  She found me a hill. Heart attack hill. It was very however beautiful in a steep wintery way and walking up it had the effect of generating an enormous thirst. It seemed to be too much of an opportunity not to try out the local pubs in the village in a vain search for potential Currencies Direct clients.

The Foresters Arms is a charming pub, beams and an open fire and Doom Bar on draft made for a happy experience and I had settled in with a pint before a roaring log fire, but that Nice Lady Decorator was determined to try the other pub in the village, the White Horse, which although cozy was a far less enthralling prospect. At first look it is a lovely old building but as soon as you get through the door I knew it was not for me. The entrance was ruined by being confronted almost immediately by a fruit machine and a pool table. Not my idea of what to expect from a traditional English pub.

Returning to Arundel in time to see Italy beat France in the 6 Nations rugby was a delight but that is it, the weekend is over and a bleak week lies ahead. I even have to venture north as far north as Milton Keynes this week, for some meetings designed to further the development of the music industry. Yes, work. A four letter word ending in k. I shall need bull bars fitted to the Merc, to lay in provisions,  blankets and a shovel to dig my way out of snowdrifts. I imagine that at midday we may get some twilight to light up the tundra but as long as the roads are open palm an escape the same day back down to the relative civilisation of West Sussex.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News