I recently learned that The Lion Foundation is involved with an initiative to recycle the aluminium screw caps on wine bottles. This pleases me greatly, and appeals to my wombling mentality.
I like recycling. I like the feeling that I can contribute something to someone else. When we were kids the Scouts used to collect newspapers. It was my job to bundle them up in orderly piles, tie them up with string and leave them out on the front doorstep.
At school there was a collection of ‘silver paper’ which went to the guide dogs (not the blind dogs as I used to call them), although what they did with it I couldn’t imagine. There was one particular type of chocolate (was it a Penguin or a Kit-Kat?) that had silver paper backed with a greaseproof layer. You could waste hours in the warm kitchen peeling these wrappers apart rather than doing your homework upstairs.
The earnest presenters on Blue Peter were always collecting keys or stamps or foreign coins for various appeals. I can’t remember (if I ever knew) why or where they went – probably to the starving children in Africa; we were all very concerned about them in the early 80s I seem to recall. The motives were less important than the actions themselves. It was and is fun to collect things, and it’s even better that this aimless hoarding has a purpose, even if that purpose is obscure.
After all, we all like to do good deeds; it makes us feel better, and what’s wrong with that? No charity is entirely altruistic. If I can do good by eating chocolate or drinking wine, then so much the better. There’ll be a big box of wine bottle tops turning up at the Lion Foundation soon, and I’m sure we’ll both appreciate it!
It’s been a tough time for the arts as three great proponents of culture have died recently. Elisabeth Beresford (August 1929 – December 2010) wrote an enchanting ‘Magic’ series, but is best known for her wonderful Wombles who made recycling and environmental concerns the norm for children decades before Al Gore got in on the act. I have already raved about these cuddly conservationists before so will leave it at that.
I was also sad to hear of the death of Dick King-Smith (1922-2011). When I worked at a book shop in Manchester, I knew that if children had already read Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl and Michael Bond, then Jill Murphy, Michael Morpurgo, Morris Gleitzman or Dick King-Smith would be my next recommendation. Well-written stories with solid, memorable characters and cheerfully direct narration; I like them so I’m sure that the little people must have!
Bad news comes in threes, apparently, and the death of Pete Postlethwaite (1946-2011) rounds out the triumvirate. He was an amazing and versatile actor whom I admired in everything I saw. From early appearances in Coronation Street; Victoria Wood on TV; Minder; The Professionals; Lovejoy; Boon and Casualty to later roles in sci-fi rehashes, he always portrayed complete commitment and belief in his character. He achieved greatness through hard work and self-belief, taking a job in a sheet-metal factory to pay his way through Bristol Old Vic theatre school, before starting his career at the Liverpool Everyman theatre.
Unfortunately I never got to see him on stage, although his list of theatre credits is impressive: Scaramouche Jones; King Lear; Coriolanus; Duchess of Malfi (Antonio); Titus Andronicus (Aaron); Henry V (Exeter); Richard III (Hastings); Macbeth (Macbeth and Banquo – in different productions); Cyrano de Bergerac (Baker); A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Bottom); Every Man in His Humour; The Tempest (Prospero); The Rise and Fall of Little Voice (Ray Say). He worked with some of the best theatre directors around – Adrian Noble; Trevor Swann; Peter Brook; Trevor Nunn; Bill Alexander; Terry Hands; George Costigan; Greg Hersov; Sam Mendes – which only adds to his impressive CV.
Descriptions of his physical appearance are none-too complimentary – including a face like ‘a stone archway’ and ‘a bag of spanners’ – but no-one can doubt his acting ability (Steven Spielberg called him ‘the best actor in the world’) or his popularity (he was awarded an OBE in 2004). He is probably best-know for his film work; he appeared in over 100 films including The Usual Suspects (one of my favourite films), The Constant Gardener (a wonderful film despite the dreary title), Amistad (Spielberg’s well-meaning but glib abolition drama) and Among Giants (the only film I’ve ever seen about painting pylons, also starring Rachel Griffiths, with whom he gets a love interest).
Daniel Day Lewis generally receives all the credit for In the Name of the Father; a terribly flawed film which nonetheless captures a time and feeling in history, due in no small part to the stoic heroism of Pete Postlethwaite’s Giuseppe Conlon. He is indubitably the best thing in Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo & Juliet for the ADHD generation, and I most recently saw him playing a cameo as the dying father who is behind the whole plot in Christopher Nolan’s mind-bending Inception.
I shall remember him best, however, for his depiction of Danny the band leader of a miners’ band in the brilliant Brassed Off. With the perfect blend of pride, humility, and sensitivity, he delivers one of the best screen-monologues ever. Take it away, Pete!
While watching the Tour de France the other day I was impressed with the beautiful town of Cholet which hosted day four (the individual time trial) and was the start of day five. Apparently the town probably takes its name from the Latin ‘cauletum’, meaning cabbage, and owes the rise of its prosperity to the settlement of weavers; the chief industry is still the manufacture of linen and linen handkerchiefs.
I got to wondering whether this is where Madame Cholet from The Wombles got her name. And then I went into a merry meandering reminiscence about ‘70s children’s TV in general and The Wombles in particular. I used to love these furry little creatures who toddled about Wimbledon Common making good use of the things that they found from the things that the everyday folk left behind.
These days they have been appropriated by the eco-Nazis who like to think that they were the original recyclers, but really they were little scally scavengers. I liked the way Orinoco was a lazy fat womble who was inordinately fond of food and forty winks, always trying to shirk the work in favour of a nap. I felt an affiliation with him. I never really liked Wellington who I thought was a bit pompous and self-important. I’m saying no more.
I read the books too by Elizabeth Beresford and I thought they were great, but it was the TV series that really held my attention. The stop motion animation was very appealing to that age group and I was particularly taken by the way their noses wiggled up and down when they ate – much like Paddington Bear’s (another favourite, but I’ll save him for another day). Bernard Cribbins' narration was a highlight and made it the great show it was. The song passed into my childhood memory, and I mean the ‘Underground overground wombling free; the wombles of Wimbledon Common are we’ one. We once sang it in a school inter-form choir competition – that line in the middle; ‘Pick up the papers and take them to Tobermory’ was incredibly high, even then. I was never a fan of that other thing – ‘Remember you’re a womble’ – although the video of people old enough to know better (you in the mustard polo neck; have you no shame?) dancing along on Top of the Pops is quite amusing.
There was a new series in the ‘90s which I never watched, being far too grown up – but this was also hijacked by political correctness and there was an annoying girl called Alderney with dungarees and pigtails, and a Rastafarian womble called Stepney with dark fur and short dreadlocks. It’s just not the same. My favourites though were Tobermory and Tomsk – apparently they all chose their names from Great Uncle Bulgaria’s atlas – which explained their exotic sounds. My great aunt made me a Tobermory who was my very favourite soft toy for a while and I would fall asleep cuddling him. I guess this proves that I always liked the athletic, caring type who was strong and could fix things, even if he was a womble.
While watching the Tour de France the other day I was impressed with the beautiful town of Cholet which hosted day four (the individual time trial) and was the start of day five. Apparently the town probably takes its name from the Latin ‘cauletum’, meaning cabbage, and owes the rise of its prosperity to the settlement of weavers; the chief industry is still the manufacture of linen and linen handkerchiefs.
Bernard Cribbins' narration was a highlight and made it the great show it was. The song passed into my childhood memory, and I mean the ‘Underground overground wombling free; the wombles of Wimbledon Common are we’ one. We once sang it in a school inter-form choir competition – that line in the middle; ‘Pick up the papers and take them to Tobermory’ was incredibly high, even then. I was never a fan of that other thing – ‘Remember you’re a womble’ – although the video of people old enough to know better (you in the mustard polo neck; have you no shame?) dancing along on Top of the Pops is quite amusing.
My favourites though were Tobermory and Tomsk – apparently they all chose their names from Great Uncle Bulgaria’s atlas – which explained their exotic sounds. My great aunt made me a Tobermory who was my very favourite soft toy for a while and I would fall asleep cuddling him. I guess this proves that I always liked the athletic, caring type who was strong and could fix things, even if he was a womble.