Tim Atkinson's Blog, page 17

Ready to Play?

What's the day?



Well, Saturday.



So, not words that would ever opened that classic of children's TV Play School, which first aired on this day (a Tuesday) back in 1964.









It was much loved, much missed (it morphed into Playbus, then Playdays and ultimately Tikkabilla). There was a Saturday spin-off called Play Away hosted by the long-serving Brian Cant (and featuring, among others nascent thespians Jeremy Irons and Tony Robinson).



But there was never anything quite like the weekday regular, Play School. And what a roll-call of stella names graced its studio: Eric Thompson (father of Emma, 'father' of The Magic Roundabout), Derek Griffiths, Johnny Ball, (Dame) Floella Benjamin and many, many more).



But the real stars, of course, were the toys. Two Teds (big and little), Jemima the rag-doll and a rather scary doll called Hamble, and Humpty. Who didn't love Humpty?



Unfortunately all was not sweetness and light backstage, and if you want to find out more, have a listen to this excellent documentary (covering, in addition, Captain Pugwash, Mr Benn, Trumpton, Chigley and Camberwick Green). But beware. It involves a knitting needle inserted into a rather unfortunate location.



No wonder poor Hamble always looked so disapproving!

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

My rating: 5 of 5 stars



I wanted to be able to listen, to digest the bloody images, to paint them flat and unremarkable on to the vase of posterity. To release him from it, and make him Achilles again.



So says Patroculus in Madeline Miller's magnificent debut novel. Make him Achilles again. Make the man a myth and legend, make the man-killing monster with a male lover, make the half-divine son of a goddess mother human again. That’s what this book does. And does well.



It also does something else well - it breaks all the rules. Mix past and present-tense? Why not? Kill the first-person narrator of the previous thirty chapters before the story finishes? Watch me! Perhaps only the audacity of a debut novelist can do this. Either that or some of the hero’s near-invincibility and unshakable confidence has rubbed off like gold leaf on the author.



Either way the book is little short of a masterpiece, bringing an ancient story to life, adding new and precious insights, deepening one's understanding and spinning the oldest and greatest of tales out of glistening new thread.




View all my reviews

Here is the news...

... There isn't any.



Or, more precisely, there wasn't any on this day (which was Good Friday) back in 1930. Instead, listeners to BBC Radio were treated to some piano music instead.



I'd like to resurrect the tradition. Here's Gabriela Montero playing the first movement of Mozart's c major sonata K330.







And now the weather...

Your starter for ten...

It's not been a good week for the Paxman.



First, he comes off second or perhaps third best as guest host of Have I Got News for You? on Friday night. He's even left speechless when the BBC's business correspondent Steph McGovern calls him 'a patronising git'.



But worse - much worse - was the gaffe revealed tonight on Twitter that caused a furore during the University Challenge semi-final between Newcastle and Merton, Oxford.



Here's what happened...



Newcastle - about to answer their third bonus music question - are surprised when Paxman does it for them. Apparently, in reading the question, Paxman gave away the answer.



'And finally, for five points, name the composer of this piece by Aaron Cope... oh s**t!'



But what happened next was, if anything, even worse and I'm indebted to Paul Carey Jones on Twitter (who was in the audience at the recording) for the full story...











Well, dear reader, the producers may have been unmoved but the audience (it would seem) certainly weren't. And neither, too, were the question setters who ultimately rode to the rescue with a new bonus (requiring, of course, another piece of music). Cameras once more rolled, Paxman managed to read the question (without giving away the answer) and all was well.




And I challenge you. Take a look at the broadcast. Don't even watch it all if you aren't that way inclined. (A quick skip to 14:43 will take you to the moment of truth.)




But can you see the join?!

Smut: Two Unseemly Stories by Alan Bennett

Smut: Two Unseemly Stories by Alan Bennett

My rating: 5 of 5 stars



‘It was an ancient battleground... what she called it, what he called it and whether he was allowed to call it anything at all.’



Bennett calls it (this book, that is) ‘Smut’ and someone (possibly an editor) adds the subtitle ‘Two Unseemly Stories’. But they’re anything but. They’re witty, funny, forensically observed and structurally near-perfect tales and the subject happens to be sex. Not smut. There’s nothing smutty about them other than in a ‘shocking-my-maiden-aunt-just-mentioning-it’ way. And that, somehow, is the only slight problem. The sense that this is being packaged as taboo (the cover - cleverly - has a keyhole to peep through!) when it’s really anything but. But what it is is well worth reading.




View all my reviews

The Testament of Mary by Colm Tóibín

The Testament of Mary by Colm Tóibín

My rating: 4 of 5 stars



Everyone speaks in this book in the thoughtful, measured tones of the twenty-first century. There is an introspection, a psychological awareness that falls short of educated, distanced understanding but which nevertheless appears impossible in pre-Freudian terms. And then He speaks, and He speaks in the words of the Authorised Version, and Pilate speaks and he, too, utters the old words even if not in Latin. And that strangeness, more than anything else, that juxtaposition jolts the consciousness into action and the Marian testament takes on a meaning more profound than one can possibly imagine, assumes the status even of a Gospel - gospel truth. This is a mysterious book; more so for being a straightforwardly honest account by a mother of the murder of her son. ‘Woman, what have I to do with thee?’ asks Jesus, a Judas kiss of betrayal made of words. And at that moment, the world changed. Or did it?




View all my reviews

Testament of Mary Colm Tóibín

The Testament of Mary by Colm Tóibín

My rating: 4 of 5 stars



Everyone speaks in this book in the thoughtful, measured tones of the twenty-first century. There is an introspection, a psychological awareness that falls short of educated, distanced understanding but which nevertheless appears impossible in pre-Freudian terms. And then He speaks, and He speaks in the words of the Authorised Version, and Pilate speaks and he, too, utters the old words even if not in Latin. And that strangeness, more than anything else, that juxtaposition jolts the consciousness into action and the Marian testament takes on a meaning more profound than one can possibly imagine, assumes the status even of a Gospel - gospel truth. This is a mysterious book; more so for being a straightforwardly honest account by a mother of the murder of her son. ‘Woman, what have I to do with thee?’ asks Jesus, a Judas kiss of betrayal made of words. And at that moment, the world changed. Or did it?




View all my reviews

At The Deep end...

It's about ten years since we last visited The Deep and it's fair to say it's changed quite a bit. In the fifteen years since it first opened it has undergone a £5 million extension and is now bigger, and better, than ever.



Oh, and deeper. Although it wasn't originally going to be called 'The Deep' (an early suggestion was The Evolving Sea Centre) The Deep boasts Europe's deepest viewing tunnel at 9 metres (30 ft) - something you can experience 'Chocolate Factory' style riding in a glass elevator through a tank which is home to sharks, sting rays, turtles and Europe's only pair of green sawfish.



It's amazing. See for yourself...








We were invited to take a look and report back. Sometimes, attractions like this can be a little disappointing. They don't always live up to their own hype.



Rarely, very rarely, they exceed it. But I think that was pretty much the case with our visit to The Deep.



We hardly need to tell you anything about it or publicise it in any way. They're not short of visitors. (Seven million since they opened, including record numbers on their 15th birthday last March!) And although it was busy on the day we went, there was so much to see and the displays so well laid out that it didn't ever seem too crowded. (The queues for the lift were the worst.)



If I had one criticism it's that the (highly informative) live commentary provided by staff is extremely difficult to hear. But that may have been due to the noise of excited visitors oo-ing and ahh-ing (literally!) at the penguins, or clownfish, or turtles or sawfish or any of the other 5000 fish and other creatures on display.



And it's not just for display, either. Far from it. The Deep is a major centre for marine research. Since opening it has mentored 38 BSc degree students and 8 MSc students from universities across the UK. Marine biologists both care for The Deep's collection and carry out important research into the marine environment (discovering a new hybrid species of Manta ray in the Red Sea among other things). And the 'Big Fish' campaign works with pet shops to try and ensure that 'tank buster' species (fish that outgrow home aquariums) aren't sold.



It's clearly a happy place to work, too. So far three couples who met while working at The Deep have gone on to get married. And you can, too! Get married, that is - at The Deep. Yes, the venue is licensed for weddings as well as a host of other events. You can eat in their restaurant and even (in some cases) sleep next to the exhibits.



It really is much, much more than even the best aquarium!



The Deep, Tower Street, Hull (01482 3810000) is open daily from 10am-6pm (exc. Christmas Day and Boxing Day) and a family ticket (two adults, three children) costs £49.05 if booked online. Parking is available (£3 for six hours) on site. 

O, to be in England...

... Now that April's there.



So said Robert Browning. But given the weather forecast this Bank Holiday weekend you'd probably rather be anywhere BUT England. Still, despite what Eliot reckoned, April is often one of this country's best months, poetically at least.



Years ago, in the interval of concerts broadcast by BBC Radio 3, one of their announcers used to read a selection of poems chosen according to the season. They were delightful pieces, never too long, not too difficult and always beautifully, understatedly read by Robin Holmes. Timeless classics, definitively read. They really were small gems in the station's output.



But alas! no more. Because they no longer exist, except in brief recordings 'off-air' like the one below. This is the April offering. If only there were others somewhere and we could complete the set...








April's Charms, by W.H.Davies



When April scatters charms of primrose gold

Among the copper leaves in thickets old,

And singing skylarks from the meadows rise,

To twinkle like black stars in sunny skies;



When I can hear the small woodpecker ring

Time on a tree for all the birds that sing;

And hear the pleasant cuckoo, loud and long –

The simple bird that thinks two notes a song;



When I can hear the woodland brook, that could

Not drown a babe, with all his threatening mood;

Upon whose banks the violets make their home,

And let a few small strawberry blossoms come:



When I go forth on such a pleasant day,

One breath outdoors takes all my care away;

It goes like heavy smoke, when flames take hold

Of wood that’s green and fill a grate with gold.





April Showers, by John Clare





Delightful weather for all sorts of moods,

And most for him, grey morn and swarthy eve,

Found rambling up the little narrow lane

Where primrose banks amid the hazel woods

Peep most delightfully on passers-by.

While April's little clouds about the sky

Mottle and freak and under fancy lie 

Idling and ending travel for the day,

Til darker clouds sail up with cumbrous heave

south o-er the woods, and scare them all away.

Then comes the rain, pelting with pearly drops 

The primrose crowds, until they stoop,

And lie all fragranced to his mind

that musing, stops beneath the hawthorn, 

Til the shower is by.








Proud Songsters, by Thomas Hardy





The thrushes sing as the sun is going,

And the finches whistle in ones and pairs,

And as it gets dark loud nightingales

                    In bushes

Pipe, as they can when April wears,

As if all Time were theirs.



These are brand new birds of twelvemonths' growing,

Which a year ago, or less than twain,

No finches were, nor nightingales,

                    Nor thrushes,

But only particles of grain,

And earth, and air, and rain.





Lines Written in Early Spring, by William Wordsworth





I heard a thousand blended notes, 

While in a grove I sat reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 

Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 




To her fair works did Nature link 

The human soul that through me ran; 

And much it grieved my heart to think 

What man has made of man. 




Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, 

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 

And ’tis my faith that every flower 

Enjoys the air it breathes. 




The birds around me hopped and played, 

Their thoughts I cannot measure:— 

But the least motion which they made 

It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 




The budding twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air; 

And I must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there. 




If this belief from heaven be sent, 

If such be Nature’s holy plan, 

Have I not reason to lament 

What man has made of man?

April's Charms W.H.Davies

Years ago, in the interval of concerts broadcast by BBC Radio 3, one of their announcers used to read a selection of poems chosen according to the season. They were delightful pieces, never too long, not too difficult and always beautifully, understatedly read by Robin Holmes. Timeless classics, definitively read. They really were small gems in the station's output.



But alas! no more. Because they no longer exist, except in brief recordings 'off-air' like the one below. If only there were others and we could complete the set...








April's Charms, by W.H.Davies



When April scatters charms of primrose gold

Among the copper leaves in thickets old,

And singing skylarks from the meadows rise,

To twinkle like black stars in sunny skies;



When I can hear the small woodpecker ring

Time on a tree for all the birds that sing;

And hear the pleasant cuckoo, loud and long –

The simple bird that thinks two notes a song;



When I can hear the woodland brook, that could

Not drown a babe, with all his threatening mood;

Upon whose banks the violets make their home,

And let a few small strawberry blossoms come:



When I go forth on such a pleasant day,

One breath outdoors takes all my care away;

It goes like heavy smoke, when flames take hold

Of wood that’s green and fill a grate with gold.





April Showers, by John Clare





Delightful weather for all sorts of moods,

And most for him, grey morn and swarthy eve,

Found rambling up the little narrow lane

Where primrose banks amid the hazel woods

Peep most delightfully on passers-by.

While April's little clouds about the sky

Mottle and freak and under fancy lie 

Idling and ending travel for the day,

Til darker clouds sail up with cumbrous heave

south o-er the woods, and scare them all away.

Then comes the rain, pelting with pearly drops 

The primrose crowds, until they stoop,

And lie all fragranced to his mind

that musing, stops beneath the hawthorn, 

Til the shower is by.








Proud Songsters, by Thomas Hardy





The thrushes sing as the sun is going,

And the finches whistle in ones and pairs,

And as it gets dark loud nightingales

                    In bushes

Pipe, as they can when April wears,

As if all Time were theirs.



These are brand new birds of twelvemonths' growing,

Which a year ago, or less than twain,

No finches were, nor nightingales,

                    Nor thrushes,

But only particles of grain,

And earth, and air, and rain.





Lines Written in Early Spring, by William Wordsworth





I heard a thousand blended notes, 

While in a grove I sat reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 

Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 




To her fair works did Nature link 

The human soul that through me ran; 

And much it grieved my heart to think 

What man has made of man. 




Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, 

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 

And ’tis my faith that every flower 

Enjoys the air it breathes. 




The birds around me hopped and played, 

Their thoughts I cannot measure:— 

But the least motion which they made 

It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 




The budding twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air; 

And I must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there. 




If this belief from heaven be sent, 

If such be Nature’s holy plan, 

Have I not reason to lament 

What man has made of man?