Midsomer has been Murdered

Nothing has inspired me to come out of retirement faster than John Nettles managed to retreat into his, than the first in the new series of Midsomer Murders.

The painful and very public execution of tonight's premiere, starring one of its ex-villains in the starring role of Barnaby ll The Revenge, has killed off any hopes I had that the new series might stagger on regardless without Bergerac at the helm.

A brief but tantalising view of one token timbered cottage was thrown in, every so often, to soften the architectural blow. But council flats and high rise tenements dominated this new and sorry tale.

I fear the lids of chocolate boxes in Middle England will never be the same again. Without the cottages, what godforsaken images will our jigsaw puzzles be emblazoned with?

Even more disappointing, the weak but oh so demure and innocent looking, (and therefore obviously the killer) Joyce Barnaby is now missing, presumed sacked...

She, who always managed to be in the right place at the wrong time... And who, with acting skills more wooden than some of the pale stiffs who turned up with frightening regularity around her, got away with murdering the script every week, simply because she was married to the top plod.

But worse is to come.

Not content with tonight's finale where the elderly villain strings Barnaby ll up in the barn, near the library, with the rope, above some sort of unused "yet still sharp enough to cause slight bruising" farm implement (an act which he would never have achieved, nor attempted with Barnaby l) the producers have seen fit to commit a dire and heinous crime of their own.

They've stolen super acting mutt Harvey, from Thinkbox's advertising campaign, casting him in the role of Barnaby ll's Thinking Brain Dog.

Given the recent change in headliners, I wouldn't be at all surprised if by Episode Three, Harvey had himself, seen through Barnaby ll and spotted that he was, in fact, the baddy in Series Two, Episode Five and in Series Six, Episode Two, and had him bumped off, in order to take the role of Top Dog himself.

And not a moment too soon, in my opinion.

Spring Cleaning

If you are like me, the expression "Spring Cleaning" will strike fear into your very soul and have you scrabbling for a place to hide until the Mr Sheen fragranced madness is over.

It is traditionally the time where you turn your mattresses, clear out cupboards and polish things that are no longer shiny, such as Mr P Jones' slightly threadbare cranium, until they gleam like a new pin.

It's also a time which annually reveals crusty, hardened items that usually turn out to be rogue undergarments, belonging to himself, which have slunk unbidden from the wash basket and secreted themselves in dark recesses to fester damply, over Winter.

And for that reason alone, I have decided enough is enough.

No longer will I don industrial rubber gloves, clamber into fisherman's waders and jump into the fray, with grim determination, a will of steel and a stout broom handle designed to ward off surprise attack.

For I have discovered a brand new cleaning system which can sniff out even the feistiest of socks and wrestle them into submission. A system that will take on the evil that lurks in corners, loosely disguised as Mr P Jones used pants.

I am exploring the possibility of door to door sales, to spread the word. The Evangelist of Cleaning.

But before I do, I am offering you a trial of this wonder dust buster. Just a "taster" of what is on offer to the discerning housewife.

In fact, why not start right now? Have your PC cleaned in seconds, while you are still here reading this?

Just click here to experience for yourself the system which will revolutionise Spring Cleaning for good.

The Great Camberley Mosque Planning Pickle

Anyone who is acquainted with me will know how much I love old things. Why, you only have to cast an eye over Mr P Jones to see just how true this is.

Ok, so he may need a little repointing here and there, but to be honest, I've suffered from a wee bit of subsidence over the years too, and until we are condemned or demolished, we'll carry on happily propping each other up, like a couple of slightly damp roofing joists.

Albeit with a little woodworm and flake of dry rot, for company.

And all this is going on, under the sometimes leaky, slightly bowing, clay roof of the small, locally listed residence we call home, in the Victorian town of Camberley.

Locally listed, because at some point in the past, a nice man from the council decided that our little house had historical merit or architectural interest to the neighbourhood, not least because of the two dusty old relics which are knocking around inside it.

But the general consensus of opinion in Knoll Towers, headquarters of the great and good at Surrey Heath Borough Council, is that until such time as they change their minds and remove it from said list, or get paid a substantial amount of money in a creased brown envelope, it would be a terrible grand shame to pull it down.

So it's a great pity that the same folk saw fit to approve the demolition of St Gregory's School, the attractive red brick locally listed building, sitting in the RMA conservation area, on the A30, in Yorktown.

You see, at a highly important meeting on Monday 25 January, a bevy of our esteemed councillors (and I really have to ensure I spell that correctly, as I have always been brought up to be polite), voted against the advice given to them by their more experienced colleagues in the planning department, and said it's fine to squash the school as flat as a pancake.

And their decision, however flawed, was final.

Until Tuesday morning.

When they sent a letter to everyone, from their Mum, saying they had to be excused from PE until further notice as they had developed a nasty little rash, and that by the way, when they said "no", they really meant "possibly", or "in principle" or "maybe".

As you can probably imagine, Mr P Jones and I have been all agog at these goings on. You see for a long time now, we have been planning our retirement.

And one of the many options we had come up with, was that we could raze this place to the ground and build a life-size replica of 30 St Mary Axe (better known as the Gherkin in London's docklands), out of used Chinese takeaway containers, on the site.

And then charge folk for a look round. Like they do in America.

Where nothing is older than the last time you sneezed.

And where people will pay good money to see the World's Biggest Ball of String.

As you know, us old folk are nothing but thrifty, and those little rectangular plastic boxes with the snap-off, snap-on lids, will always come in handy. Which, to be honest, is why we have amassed several thousand of them.

Well, we do like the odd battered sweet and sour chicken ball.

And now storage is getting a bit tight.

It was only after a couple of medicinal dry sherries one night, that Mr P Jones stumbled upon the idea of building some sort of money spinning tourist attraction, to see us into our twilight years. But up until now, we had nowhere to put it.

Up until now the locally listed status of our property had deemed this a non-starter.

But as the councillors at Surrey Heath have apparently taken leave of their senses completely, and are allowing previously protected property to be torn down on the whim of a few, it leaves us free to dismantle our listed house too.

London stock brick by London stock brick.

To build ourselves a future. Out of microwaveable food containers.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you.... The Giant Pickle.

Which coincidentally, by all accounts, is also what the councillors of Surrey Heath's latest planning applications committee have got themselves into.

(Admission price negotiable in back-handers. The management refuse the right of entry or appeal)
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BEDTIME READING

Matthelliwell.blogspot.com: Camberley Mosque

Especially interesting is the comment from Anonymous on Matt's blog: "I'm curious to know why Alan Cleverly, the agent for Surrey Heath MP Michael Gove, was at the planning meeting, sitting with the applicants, grinning with delight at the outcome and shaking hands with fellow enthusiasts for this ill-conceived plan!"

Me too Anon, me too!!! Maybe our totally impartial local MP Michael who is supposedly paid to work for the good of the whole community, or his little sidekick Alan would like to elaborate here?

I can feel another sick note coming on, to get 'em out of next week's PE, oops sorry, PR....

BBC Surrey: Surrey Heath says Camberley mosque not yet decided

Get Surrey: New mosque approval 'not yet finalised'

The Annual Christmas Round Robin Letter!

Dear Friends and Family,

Well, it's that time again, and here at Pearly Jones Towers, we are reaching the end of another hectic year. Phew!

It's certainly been a mixed bag in 2009, although we seem to have come through it pretty unscathed!

Having combatted the virulent flatulence we told you about in our last Christmas Round Robin, Mr PJones discovered he had gone down with a quite spectacular case of hemorrhoids early in March, just in time for his birthday.

Having quietly battled on for some time with piles the size of golfballs, and with only the aid of a small inflatable rubber cushion for comfort, he decided to "go public" with them.

And so off we went to see Dr Harvey, who has thankfully recovered from that unfortunate business last summer, and has been given the go-ahead to continue in practice with just a warning from the General Medical Council.

Between ourselves, we do rather suspect his accompanying alcohol problem is not yet completely under control, but he is back at the helm, with his caring, if slightly shaky hands.

The good Doctor was most impressed and said Mr PJones' lower protrusions were some of the finest he'd ever seen, and he's apparently seen a fair few in his time, which immediately put Mr PJones at ease.

In fact, he became rather wistful on the subject, saying they reminded him of the sun ripened vines in his local vineyard in Beaune, near Burgundy in France, where he has a small Gite.

He assured us that they make the most superb red wine there and has promised a bottle or two when he returns from his next visit.

Well, as you can imagine, Mr PJones was practically walking on air (after sitting on it for weeks) having been buoyed up by all this unexpected attention to his problem "down below".

We left the surgery in a much better frame of mind, armed with a large tube of Anusol and some latex gloves, which I have found invaluable, when rubbing in Mr PJones' cream every night, with a new found vigour!

Of course, some of you may remember my own little medical emergency back in June, when I accidentally gave an elderly Greek gentleman a heart attack during my triennial cervical smear test.

Well, I'm pleased to tell you that dear Mr Phillipoussis has made a full recovery and although he feels he can't yet return to his flat, as he is still mentally too fragile, he is making good progress in the nursing home.

The downside of the whole tragic affair is that apparently he can't bear to eat scrambled eggs now, which the home says can make breakfast tricky as the other residents tend to kick up a terrible fuss when they see he has been given a preferential poached egg.

I believe the staff are trying an experimental technique to wean him back onto scrambled via coddled, by tapping into his subconscious using pictorial flash cards with his cocoa at bedtime.

I'm sure you all join us in wishing him a speedy return to full health.

Oh yes, and before I forget, if any of you are given unwanted Christmas gifts again this year, I'm happy to announce that I will be doing my usual "Taking Christmas to the Homeless" run, day after Boxing Day.

Last year my heart was touched deeply when one of my destitute friends who live outside our local Waitrose, was overcome with gratitude for his gift.

Having offered him a polka dot Cafetiere and Expresso Cup set, which was sadly surplus to requirements in the PearlyJones household, I was absolutely delighted to be told, with gusto, that "This was all he fucking well needed!" Bless him (even if his language was a little fruity for that time of the morning!)

Now I know what some of you may think about the homeless, but it was just lovely to be met with such an unselfish attitude, from someone who genuinely has so little. Apart from a large piece of damp cardboard and a rather phlegmmy cough.

But it did mean that I could take the unwanted box of notelets printed with six different seasonal pictures of Basingstoke, around to Mrs Undercracker (I'm not convinced that's her real name but Alvin says that's what all the children at school call her).

Some of you will recollect seeing her hovering on the periphery of our Summer Musical Soirees in the Park. She was the lovely old lady with the flowing silvery beard and asymmetric wart, who liked to swig from the discarded champagne bottles she found in the bin.

Well, she was sadly evicted from the bandstand earlier this year, after being given some sort of long service community award called an asbo.

She's now living in a glorious little spot, on the iron bench next to the Gentlemen's lavatories, which she says is a step up, as she now has warm running water. Such a dear!

And yes, I am aware that she spits at the occasional passer-by but it's all in jest I'm sure. I'm utterly convinced she appreciated being able to write a little note or two to her friends and relatives after the seasons festivities had ended, whatever she shouted at me at the time.

With my sack of unwanted gifts tied to the handlbars of my bicycle, little bell jingling wildly for effect, pedalling past the poor, downtrodden and needy, I felt just like a little Christmas elf!

There is nothing like spreading some seasonal joy to get you into the Yuletide spirit!

And of course, if any of you want to join me on my rounds this year, give me a tinkle. Hopefully, you will get through, although we do seem to have developed a fault on our telephone line.

I have tried calling most of you in the last couple of weeks to see if you have your new addresses for me yet, since you all moved houses so suddenly. We haven't heard a peep out of any of you since August. Busy unpacking I expect.

Anyway, we can get a dialling tone, and hear the other end pick up but would you believe, no sooner than I say who it is, the line goes completely dead!

We'll report it to BT in the New Year, but for now, we haven't forgotten you! Rest assured we'll see you in 2010 for more fun and frolics, minus the piles I hope!

Well, must dash. It's time for Mr PJones' cream and you know what a stickler he is for time keeping.

Have a very Merry Christmas and we'll see you all in the New Year!

Toodle pip!

From all at Pearly Jones Towers.

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FOR MORE ON THE HORROR THAT IS THE CHRISTMAS ROUND ROBIN, SEE BELOW:

Radio 4 - Womans Hour: Do you love them or loathe them?

Glad Tidings We Bring: By Simon Hoggart in The Guardian

Up, up and away!

“Is this anyone’s first time” asks Doug cheerfully, as we assemble in the centre of the field.

I shoot my hand up and hop excitedly from foot to foot, nodding my head, while my new Nikon swings on its neck strap like a giant pendulum.

“You’ll love it” he assures me, as he helps the others into the basket. I grin back at him somewhat dementedly.

“I think love might be too strong a word, Douggie Baby” I think, but he seems so enthusiastic on my behalf, bless him, that I’m not going to tell him I’m so nervous I’ve already had five wee’s in the last half an hour.

Or that I need another one now, meaning the hopping is only partly down to the adrenalin.

He takes my hand and helps me clamber, cross legged, into the wicker container, which feels only slightly sturdier than the Fortnum’s hamper we got last Christmas.

I take my place in the giant cat basket (or gondola, as Doug apparently prefers to call it) and unhook my camera from around my neck. With its nice shiny, new long-distance lens, it’s beginning to feel quite heavy.

I shut my eyes tightly ready for blast off or whatever balloonists like to call it, as he pulls the handle to inflate the envelope to bursting point with hot air.

The feeling of floating gently away from the ground is odd but less frightening than I thought it would be, which is a blessing for my bladder.

I experience a great sense of weightlessness as we soar skywards.

“Did you see Stephen Fry in America, on TV?" someone asks. “He got to pick a leaf from the treetops when he was in a balloon!”

An admiring gasp goes round and Doug chuckles. “Well, if any of you guys want to…” he starts.

I need no second bidding. I jump up from the crouched position I had adopted in case of emergency on take-off, open my up-until-now tight shut eyes (well, one of them anyway) and grasping the basket edge, lean out as far as I dare.

I peruse the seasonal beauty of the red, orange and gold foliage laid out before me.

With fingertips outstretched and on my tippymost toes, I can ju-ssss-t rea-cchh one. There!

I haul myself back in beaming, my golden prize in hand. Everyone stares at me in amazement. I swear I hear a snigger from someone at the back.

“Er, I really meant once we had taken off” Doug says, with a smirk.

“What?” I’m astonished. Surely as the bloody pilot he should know when we are airborne. “Didn’t we just take off?” I peer over the side to prove to myself that I’m right.

And so am somewhat surprised to see I’m not. And that he does appear to have a point.

We are floating a few feet off the ground, above a low hawthorn hedge.

“Afraid not” he says, to another round of giggling from someone who is looking for a black eye.

“We are still tethered while I do my final checks.”

“But I’ll make sure you are first to have a go at pulling a leaf off a tree as soon as we are high enough and in position”.

“Don’t bother” I retort, a little petulantly it has to be said.

“I’m actually perfectly happy with the one I have already picked” I add, patting my pocket for added emphasis. The pocket where I have put my beautiful autumnal golden leaf (or discarded Twix wrapper as it later turns out to be) for safe keeping.

I settle back down in my corner, glare at the idiots I have been forced to share this experience with, and shut my eyes, resigned to my fate.

The handful of tranquillisers I’d taken after wee three and before wee four kicked in around now and I must have fallen asleep, because by the time I open them again we are well and truly flying.

High above the land, with only the occasional Victorian farmstead and meandering river breaking up the vista.

The golden ploughed fields look like silk below and I’m bewitched by the shadows from the clouds scudding across the rolling hills.

I grab my camera, remembering to remove the lens cap this time and start taking what will no doubt be Country File’s calendar shots of the year.

My fellow passengers are all crowded round Doug as he shows off the gizmos he uses to keep this thing in the air.

They are all quite obviously a bunch of total balloon geeks, as they are listening in rapture, hanging off his every word.

“Then there was the time we got caught in a strong cross wind and were being blown towards live power cables…” he’s saying. They gasp.

I laugh pityingly to myself and turn back to my uninterrupted view of the world.

The basket sways and jolts a little. Probably one of those oh-so-terrifying cross winds, the old gas bag is going on about.

I take the opportunity to lift my camera higher, unencumbered by the strap, or the backs of people’s heads.

The basket jolts again, and I steady myself with one hand.

Oops.

I glance round at the group but they are still mesmerised by our pilot.

For the second time today I peer over the side.

Only this time, it’s in the hope I will see my new camera, caught on the wicker, dangling by the nylon neck strap I should have been wearing.

I don’t see anything but air, and below me, a field of cows, grazing contentedly in the warm sun.

I nonchalantly edge towards the back of the group, pretending to be paying attention, whistling as I go. I even manage a little casual saunter, although this is more tricky to achieve given the dimensions of the woven capsule we are in.

“Tell me Doug, old boy” I begin jovially, “What would happen if something went over the side?”

“Nothing would” he replies, a bit too smugly I feel, under the circumstances.

“Everyone on board has been given the safety briefing and must keep their hands and personal belongings inside the basket at all times”.

“But say something, quite by accident you understand, just happened to fall over the edge?” I continue.

“Something, for sake of argument, I don’t know…. um, like a camera?” I point accusingly at the person who was cruising for a bruising earlier and who is clutching a pathetic little snappy snaps digital affair.

And something which being much smaller, older and far less impressive than mine, must also weigh considerably less too.

“Well, if that went over” he indicates with a nod of his head towards the camera and then the side of the gondola. Black Eyes Man shrinks visibly and clutches the ridiculously small silver box to his chest. I note he has threaded his wrist through its carrying strap.

‘It could kill someone!” Doug announces dramatically. The occupants of the giant wicker basket look shocked. “If it reached terminal velocity, it would be lights out for anyone it hit."

“But don’t worry, folks” he continues brightly. “It’s never happened to me yet. Everyone still got their cameras on them, haven’t they?”

“Oh yes, Doug” we chorus (some of us more truthfully than others).

We all take it in turns to look relieved, while some wave their cameras in the air to prove it.

I pat my camera bag, making comedy huffy puffy noises and wiggling my eyebrows, to suggest it is far too heavy to wave, now my camera and assorted lenses have been safely packed back into it.

“Great, now has everyone got all the shots they want?” he asks the assembled throng, who are all now giggling at the shared joke - I mean, can you imagine being stupid enough to drop your camera overboard?

The general consensus is that yes, thank you, we have, although I privately think I might have got one shot too many.

“Good job” he says. “I’ll start to take her down now, as it looks like it might rain soon”.

We gaze upwards at the clear blue, cloudless sky.

“That’s clever’, says the bloke who I’m still itching to slap a tiny bit. “How do you know that?”

“Well’ starts Doug, stretching and leaning back, enjoying this moment where he shows off his knowledge of the countryside. “It’s an old wives tale, but there’s some truth in it.”

“If you look down there, you’ll see one the cows in that field has just laid down. The rest will follow, you mark my words. And that’s a sure sign it’s going to rain.”

We all lean over the side to get a better view of the herd.

He’s right, one of the cows is lying down.

But with all four of its feet in the air.

And a throbbing, pink Nikon shaped lump on the top of its head…

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N.B. Pearly Jones would just like to state that no cows, real or imaginary, were harmed during the writing of this blog.

Cervix with a smile

"I'm very distracted today", the nurse giggles as she snaps on her latex gloves. "My daughter is about to give birth to my second grandchild. She's been in hospital since early this morning".

I smile politely and make all the right sort of congratulatory noises that one does in these circumstances. "Ooh how lovely.... does she know what it is yet... you must be so proud, etc" She beams excitedly and drops the lid of the tube of lubricant she is brandishing, "Oops, I'm all fingers and thumbs today!"

Not exactly the news I want to hear at this precise moment while lying on the surgery couch, knees under my chin, dignity in tatters, awaiting my long overdue cervical smear test.

She ducks under the bed and rummages around until she retrieves the lid. "Just as well I found it, as it has that pointy bit on the end". I wince and try hard to think about the large glass of Sauvignon Blanc I'm due, for getting through this.

She adjusts her bendy lamp to illuminate parts of me that were never designed to be on show under a spotlight. The view doesn't seem to put her off, as she's in full flow now, telling me how far her daughter's cervix was dilated when they last spoke on the phone. (4 cms in case you were wondering).

"Now, just relax" she twitters, waving a large perspex implement in the direction of my nether regions. It looks as if it would be better placed under the counter in one of Soho's more "open minded" sales establishments, than in a doctors surgery but she appears to know what she's doing.

"Easy for you to say", I mutter under my breath, trying hard to distract myself by gazing out of the window into the upstairs flat opposite. I concentrate on the oversized, overstuffed beige sofa that dominates the sitting room and wonder at what passes for the occupant's idea of interior design.

Three large 70's prints of sailing ships hang from the wall above the sofa in a slightly skewed fashion, and a pink tassled lampshade which has seen better days, dangles dejectedly from the ceiling. A couple of dying pot plants in clumsy blue and white ceramic pots finish the look.

As I lie there, feet pointing skyward, thinking Laurence Llewellyn Bowen would have kittens if he saw the decor, it occurs to me I have a very good view of this room.

In fact, too good a view.....

Oh bloody hell, the distracted, over-excited grandma to be, has left the blinds open! It's too late now, she's brandishing the biggest cotton bud I've ever seen, still chattering about the imminent arrival, completely unaware of the growing panic happening up at the other end of the couch.

A sudden movement drags my eyes back to the window of the flat. An elderly gentleman has entered the room carrying a tray of scrambled eggs on toast and a cup of tea.

I know it is scrambled eggs on toast because I am practically in the room with him. He has a small pepper pot at the side of the plate with "A gift from Crete" written on it in italics.

He takes his time, sinking back into the sofa and adjusting his postition to make sure the tray is balanced on his lap. Once seated comfortably, he carefully cuts through his toast using a butter knife, before scooping up the first forkful, ready to enjoy his breakfast.

He raises his head, mouth open, ready for the first bite.

Our eyes meet, and his mouth opens a damn sight wider.... this time, in complete horror at the spectacle before him. His meal slides off the tray onto the floor, the toast landing buttery side down. Isn't that always the way?

I smile politely, and raise my eyebrows in what is supposed to be a nonchalant manner. And when that doesn't work (he seems to be choking) I try a cheery wave and a casual roll of my eyes, as if to say, "well, here we are again, would you believe?"

But he's not waving back. He's clutching at the Warden Assisted Emergency Button which is hanging round his neck. It flashes red as he presses it. "Ah, calling someone to help pick up the toast," I summise.

I give him a thumbs up sign with both hands and a knowing wink, which is more tricky than you think from my horizontal position, legs akimbo.

He stops pressing the button and starts holding his chest, sinking to the floor as he does so, until he is out of view under the windowsill (presumably making a start on clearing up the butter that landed on the carpet, before the warden arrives.)

"All done" cries an upbeat voice from Down South. I hop off the couch and adjust my dress before leaving.

"Ooh" she says, " I am a pickle today aren't I? I clean forgot to shut the blinds! I'm so sorry."

She peers through the surgery window towards the flat opposite.

"It's a good job old Mr Phillipoussis over the road is out today. He's got a weak heart. Seeing something like that first thing in the morning could finish him off!"

Find out more about the cervical smear test - with the blinds closed....