There's a bank holiday weekend looming here in merry England, and that means we're off camping. Camping's got a lot more popular now due to people having no disposable income and an exchange rate that makes Europe as expensive to get to as geo-stationary orbit. Despite the fact that it's all over the weekend lifestyle supplements, a lot of people still have misguided notions of what camping involves. They baulk when you tell them you're proposing to spend a couple of nights under the stars. They clearly picture you marooned on a shear cliff face, drinking boiled urine and eating lichen. I suppose there are some hardcore Northerners who spend their downtime like this, but they're definitely in the minority. Yes, there are many shades of camper in New Labour's Britain, and I'm firmly in the airbed, disposable barbecue and plenty of stiff drink category.
We went to see "Oliver" last week. It's effortlessly brilliant. When the opening number of a musical is as good as "Food Glorious Food", you know you're in for a rare treat.
I read somewhere that one of Lionel Bart's teachers recognised his talent and wrote to the boy's parents suggesting that they might have sired a genius. I was initially mightily impressed by this. Then I thought again. How insightful does one need to be to recognise genius, particularly musical genius? Not very is the conclusion I came to.
"Sir, Sir, I've written a song."
(wearily) "Very well, Bart, let's hear it."
Two bars in and the bottom lip would have been trembling and the foot tapping like a good un. You don't need five years at the Royal Academy to recognise genius like that. You just need two good ears with a brain slung between them.
Swine flu update: it's spreading like wild garlic. Between this and the economy imploding, it's not been a vintage year, has it? I'm going to build an ark.
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