Hairstory

Let’s face it recent postings have been a bit of a snore-fest with me droning on about my emotions, favourite scraps of culture (who cares really?) or about my antagonism with Government Ministers over their handling of the coronavirus situation. Now I know people care intensely about the situation but my opinion? People couldn’t give a monkey’s and rightly so. But one thing always seems to provoke a nice reaction from my little band of readers; any story where I expose my foibles, shortcomings, or highly embarrassing life experiences. And having compiled 3 volumes of the moments by now (which I’m seriously thinking of publishing) you’d think there’d be nothing left to lay bear. But you’d be wrong…

syrups, it’s a pity!

Well I guess that as I was critical of SJP and all that chick-com fashion schmaltz embodied in Sex and the City, I thought that I ought to redress the balance and have a pop at the least enviable vanity trait of the male of the species. I’m talking about hairpieces, you know those ridiculous bits of rug that male media personalities of a certain age  take to wearing or weaving into their increasingly thinning scalps in the mistaken belief that a) it preserves their youthful looks and b) it’s so lifelike  it’s impossible to detect. D’ya think?

to see you…painful

I’ve just been listening to Jimmy Tarbuck on Richard Bacon’s late night radio 2 show, praising BBC’s major star Bruce Forsyth and celebrating his 80th birthday tomorrow. Apparently he’s famous for something like 15 catch-phrases which the BBC regard as worthy of particular tribute.

Wow 15!! in 60 years of performance. It’s a staggering canon of work to rival Richard Dimbleby, Sir David Attenborough and Kenneth Clarke. Sigh.