I know I said yesterday that the weather was coming in, but this is ridiculous…. Behold, though, the opening frames of a certain 1980s TV classic, watched in its entirety tonight. Apart from Zaphod Beeblebrox, who adds almost nothing to it, it’s still funny and clever. There’s absolutely no plot, though.
Down the years I have come to the conclusion that if one wants to simply do as one pleases in public space in the UK, there are two foolproof methods for achieving this. First, try pulling on a high-visibility coat of some kind. No one will then question your behaviour. The other is to say, “We’re filming”. You are then permitted to fill any thoroughfare with junk, block rights of way with impunity, and do so on a regular basis for months on end. Whatever forthcoming TV epic has been in production in Hebden Bridge since the summer (and we know what it is: something about a female 70s punk rock band), it had better turn out good.
Following the success of Happy Valley and its evident impact on Hebden Bridge’s tourist trade/appeal to stag and hen parties the BBC have been persudaded to return, having taken over chunks of the town centre and at least two of its pubs over August. Although apparently, this time, HB might be pretending to be Todmorden. Whatever…
Grim weather led to the cancellation of a planned day out and with Bojo the Clown having decreed all other options ‘unsafe’ (while he flaps around in his comedy trousers), we dug out the box set of The Singing Detective and sat and watched its seven hour span through the afternoon and evening. Classic TV, and as it was always a period piece, it hasn’t dated. Joe got through the lot though he seems less than attentive on this shot. It gave the day its main interest, but how I miss other people.
Evening shots have virtually disappeared from the blog since lockdown: this is only the second post-7pm shot since February. But every evening now begins and ends in the same place, doesn’t it?
It’s Joe, and his peers, for whom I feel sorry the most. He’s 17, he shouldn’t be inside day after day, under house arrest in all but name. What will this do to the psychology of his generation, not to mention their prospects? It could be worse for us of course — he’s not a belligerent kid, there have been no tantrums nor lapses into week-long bouts of near-catatonia. Not yet anyway. But like the rest of the country, and the planet — how much longer can he go on like this?
The TV mast on Emley Moor, east of Huddersfield, is well-known to anyone who lives in Yorkshire. Built in 1971 (after the previous version fell down due to ice), at 1,084 feet, or 330.4m, it is still the tallest free-standing structure in the UK and the fourth-highest in Europe. Why did I find myself up close to it on this pleasant evening? Well, you know. I get about.
The bit of this photo that troubles me is in the bottom left — the lines being the guy ropes for the radio mast, almost as tall, which stands just nearby, and which I’m pretty sure is new. But I guess you can ignore them.
The Tour de France belied its name and came through Hebden Bridge (and past my front door) in 2014 if you recall, but here it gets seen in less direct and energetic form. The week comes to an end in the pub, instead. Well, this is what normally happens.
Not an exciting day today I can assure you, but it was never going to be. Except at the end of the match at Hampden, which I guess was pretty exciting, although it’s been a while since I could really raise it for England F. C.
Being 42 