Operation Pied Piper

The ancient little bus rumbled on down the lane.  

We peered into the darkness, trying to spot familiar landmarks, while at the front, two little schoolgirls, with luggage labels on their coats and gas masks round their necks, fearfully clutched their tiny suitcases. 

None of us knew what was in store as the bus, its engine angrily growling and gears crunching, pulled into the grounds of Wallington Hall. 

 


We’d arrived in a different world: for the schoolgirls, it was a million miles from their homes in Scotswood; for us grownups, we were suddenly in 1939, transported by a theatrical time machine. 

The North-South divide

 

Izzy looked up at the nice lady who’d spent the previous hour inspecting every nook and cranny of our property, and politely asked her, “Excuse me, are you going to buy our house, then?” 

The poor woman was completely thrown. After a rather too lengthy pause, I let the lady off the hook: “I think it depends on whether you keep your room tidy or not.” 

“Yes, I do like tidy rooms,” the lady confirmed, with a sigh of relief. 

That seemed to satisfy Izzy, who wandered off to organise her mermaid collection.

Winding back the BBC clock

Why did Lucy Adams, the BBC’s confounded and derided HR boss, wear spectacles glued to her scalp whilst being grilled by MPs? Does she have two extra eyes in her head, through which she can seek divine inspiration from the gods of HR? 

She certainly demonstrated something that I’ve always suspected: the pointlessness of her profession.

The first day of school

On Wednesday my daughter aged by about two years. 

It happened right in front of us, in an extraordinary transformation at exactly 8am. One moment Izzy was a fairy princess, dressed in pink and purple pyjamas whose only concern in life was Eric, her handsome prince; the next, she had become a schoolgirl.

It's a hot dog's life

As Murphy and I push open the metal gates of the dog park, a three-legged black labrador nearly wags itself off balance in excitement. 

Murphy waves his grey bushy tail in greeting and sets about his daily examination of the canine message boards. Murphy is half cocker, half English shepherd. He’s my brother-in-law’s mutt and the reason we turned our world upside down by buying our own English shepherd. 

We wanted a dog just like Murphy – friendly with a bushy tail. Unfortunately we miscalculated the relative contributions of spaniel and shepherd to the Murphy mix and ended up with a horse. 

Even on four legs, Boots now stands taller than Izzy. At least he’s stopped eating the chair legs. Now we fear for the ceiling.

Boots meets his match

Benji and Boots

Boots the English shepherd may be adorable, but he is eating us out of house and home. 

It’s not the amount of food he eats, though that’s pretty impressive. Our two spaniels stare in admiration and jealousy as he chomps through shovelfuls of “large puppy” kibble. Large puppy? He’s nine months old, and the size of a pony. 

Our problem is that Boots is rather partial to the kitchen itself.

Why do women love expensive handbags?

So Oprah Winfrey was upset because a shop assistant refused to show her a handbag? She only wanted it to hold her lipstick at Tina Turner’s wedding. 

I guess the fact it cost £24,000, was made of dead crocodile, and was designed by Tom Ford for Jennifer Aniston (hence it’s name, The Jennifer), made it newsworthy. Oh, and the fact that the shop assistant thought she couldn’t afford it. Because she was black, Oprah claims. Now that’s a story.

Vegetable Wars

Courgette surprise

We have a vegetable crisis. 

In the garden I have 15 raised beds, all neatly organised and rotated. They are a thing of wonder. 

Or so I thought. I know, I’m a vegetable bore. I insist that unsuspecting dinner guests take a tour of my vegetable patch before they can enjoy our canapés. 

But the other week, as soon as some friends arrived for supper, the husband asked to see my garden with just a little too much enthusiasm. This was suspicious. 

“How’s it going?” he asked, as we passed the greenhouse, aubergines fighting cucumbers and peppers for space. 

I sensed a dangerous smugness in his voice. I showed him my bulging peas and beans, calmly growing towards their moment of destiny. He moved on, feigning as much interest as a member of the royal family. But I knew he wasn’t really looking. He was comparing.

The Performance

The moment I saw the venue, my hands went clammy and a cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. 

As we swept up the wide staircase, my brain had already spun into a spiral that matched the brown swirly carpets, and by the time we entered the cavernous hall, with its rows of white-covered chairs facing the window, I felt sick to the core.

Memories are made of this

Mel Smith RIP

Tyne - picture from Side Gallery

It’s been a week of stirred memories. 

Live Theatre’s production of Tyne was a treat. Michael Chaplin had encased this compilation of Tynerabilia within a loose-fitting narrative about an ex-pat Geordie who returns for his father’s funeral. It was undisguised sentimental indulgence – a perfect show for the theatre and the region. I’m rather glad Jo didn’t go: my American wife wouldn’t have understood a single reference. 

As I spent my own childhood in Tynemouth, in a house that looked out over the two piers, the play was two hours of nostalgia-inducing pleasure.

Howzat! The village cricket match.

What a thriller. On a hot summer’s day, the match ebbed and flowed; the capacity crowd was at fever pitch to the very last ball. 

I’m not talking about the Ashes. That was humdrum stuff compared to the cricket match I witnessed yesterday afternoon. This was an even more fiercely fought fixture, one that pitched neighbour against neighbour, farmer against land agent, furniture salesman against vicar. 

The Middleton versus Hartburn village match is a highlight of our community’s year.

A new Mrs Gutteridge

Another Mrs Gutteridge entered the world on Saturday. 

This time I wasn’t responsible – my eldest son, a film director, has finally tied the knot. 

The wedding took place at the home of an ex-Mrs Gutteridge, Jilly, my first wife and mother of the groom. It’s always nice to see the by-product of one of my divorce settlements: in this case, it's a picture-book beautiful farmhouse in Sussex, a perfect setting for any wedding.

Proud mums and pushy parents

 
This afternoon a 19-year-old girl will take hold of Britain’s nerves and torment them for a couple of hours until she either makes history or goes back into the big box of British sport’s near-achievers. 

Laura Robson, this season’s tennis darling, has already managed to demonstrate both aspects of British sporting prowess – flashes of brilliance interspersed with nervous unreliability.

The road to a very expensive bill

Thirty five years ago I was in India, driving in a campervan on a dusty road, which had been confidently marked on the map as a motorway. It was called National Highway 7 and ran for 1300 miles to Calcutta. 

The campervan literally bounced its way for five days on the worst road surface I’ve ever experienced. By the end of the journey, my back was wrecked and my head sore from hitting the ceiling every time we encountered a bump. The car survived – I have a picture of it, covered in dust, beside a smart government road sign that reads: Roads Reflect The Culture Of A Nation. 

That was in 1979, so I imagine the Indian Government will have improved National Highway 7 since then. It’s almost certainly the smooth 6-lane highway the map promised. Unfortunately we’ve had no such luck in Northumberland.

Some days it's good to be a father - or a 4-year-old

It was exactly 8am, and I was fast asleep in bed on a silent Sunday, when the body of a small child landed directly on my head. 

“Happy Father’s Day,” Izzy screamed in my ear, and started bouncing on my tummy. 

She was wearing a bright blue and green princess dress, bedecked with pink daffodils and sequins. Behind her, Jo carried a tray. 

“Uh-oh,” I thought.

Izzy's pretty house

Izzy is a little confused about the process of moving house. 

“Please can we take this house with us to Nana’s, but not the sky?” 

This took a little while to sink in. You want us to take the house to America? 

“Yes, because it’s so pretty and all my toys are in it.” 

“But why not the sky?” 

“Because the sky is nicer at Nana’s.”

Woolwich: the backlash begins

The murder of Drummer Lee Rigby has cast a pall of sadness across the nation. 

Whereas every person with an ounce of humanity has expressed utter disgust at the act, including the leaders of all the major British Muslim groups, other more sinister forces are already exploiting it. There’s evidence that far-right organisations are using the murder to provoke racially motivated unrest and an anti-Muslim backlash.

Parenting Skills 1: The Sleepover

It was well past 1am when we heard the kerfuffle. There was a patter of little feet, and a lot of giggling and shushing. Then a thump and more shushing. 

I crept onto the landing. The light was on in Izzy’s room, so I silently pushed the door ajar and peeked inside.

After the holiday

Jo nudged me awake. “Are you awake?” she whispered. 

“I’ve been awake for the past five days,” I growled. Another hour of sleeplessness wasn’t going to make any difference. 

Next door we could hear Izzy singing. She makes up the lyrics as she goes along. She’s singing about mermaids on sunny beaches and Truffle our dog marrying Boots, the monkey from Dora the Explorer. 

It’s 4am. Five days after our return from Los Angeles, Izzy still has jetlag. As a result, so do we.

Letter from America

Happiness is a warm beach

As we drove over the hill, white smoke was billowing out to sea. Or rather ocean. 

Our American friends laugh when I describe the Pacific Ocean as the sea. They scoff when I mispronounce their streets: Sunset Boo-le-vard, rather than buller-vard. I even mispronounce their city: Los Angelees, to rhyme with peas. 

“It’s Los Angeliss, to rhyme with hiss,” says Jo.

A milestone

In case anyone was curious about how my new diet has helped me lose a stone in just 16 days, I've now shared some of the recipes on www.BringingMeDownToSize.com. 

Though I must admit that a cheeseburger would be rather welcome right now.

Thatcher's legacy could be Cameron's downfall

In two days Mrs Thatcher will be buried and we can all get on with our lives. The headlines writers will move on; the television news pundits will find something else to talk about. 

But I for one seriously fear the consequences of the past week – the cans of worms that have been opened, which threaten to spread bitter conflict through our nation.

Diet update

For those who may be interested in the progress of my diet, I'm ever so slightly proud that I have managed to lose 12 pounds in the last 11 days. 

By comparison, The Dukan diet, which made its creator a fortune, was half as effective and turned me both green and grumpy. 

See my other blog: Bringing Me Down To Size.

It's All Your Fault

People of Jesmond: you’ve let me down. 

You’ve allowed your most valuable asset to slip through your fingers. You have failed to protect a tiny jewel in your community’s collection of treasures, and soon it will vanish. 

Residents sitting in trendy cafés with your flat whites; students munching takeaways in your bedsits; rich folk at smart dinner parties in the villas at the top end of Osborne Road: I blame the lot of you. All except a very few loyal supporters. Like Dominic Parker.

A Perfect Night Out

I’ve never been to Tup Tup Palace, that nightclub of dreams in the centre of Newcastle. 

Not just because the bouncers wouldn’t let me in – no amount of “don’t you know who I am?” could squeeze me through those doors – but I honestly can’t think of a more horrendous way to spend a Friday night. I’m sure the hundreds of young people who swagger in and stagger out again at 3am into urine-sodden streets have a wonderful time; I’d rather endure an evening with Nigel Farage at a UKIP rally.

The Space Precinct Legacy

The cinema billed it as “the story of the most ambitious television series ever made”. Outside, the hoarding lit up the night sky: Space Precinct Legacy. 

I can’t believe that anyone actually remembers Space Precinct, the 1994 sci-fi series I co-produced with Gerry Anderson, let alone that it has any legacy, other than grey hairs on my head and a big red loss on the books of our backers.

Mothers' Day

More people have a mother than a lover, observed the consumer research analyst from Kantar Worldpanel, explaining why we spend twice as much on Mother’s Day as we do on Valentine’s Day. 

Apparently this year’s sales are likely to have dipped because Mother’s Day came early. With the two events so close, and Christmas just a few crumpled-wrapping-paper weeks before, it’s not surprising that our wallets have been feeling a little jaded. Apparently we’re all suffering from “gifting fatigue”.

Boots Goes To School

“Here, Poppy!” called out a female voice, more in hope than anticipation. 

Instantly three little dogs dashed across the room, wagging their tails in excitement. 

“Good girl,” said three owners simultaneously. 

Poppy is clearly the in-vogue name for dogs – there appeared to be several of them in Central Bark, our local dog training school (or maybe “Puppy” sounds like “Poppy” in a Geordie accent?). I guess the teachers in Izzy’s school have the same problem with the multiple Olivers and Charlies. 

“Boots!” I called out, confident in the knowledge that only one dog would react. My puppy, who was pretending to eat a small spaniel, immediately turned and looked at me and I felt a flush of pride. That’s my boy. 

“Here Boots!” I called, and he replied by bounding off in the opposite direction.

Vive Le Toon

On Saturday I read Jo a news report, which claimed that Tynemouth not only boasted one of the ten best beaches in Britain, but was also at that very moment the warmest place in England at 2° Centigrade. 

“See,” I said, “Who needs California when we’ve got the Geordie Shore Riviera?” The flying hot water bottle missed my head by millimetres.

Miliband Blows It

We’re putting our house in London on the market this week. 

Ever since we moved to the North East, it’s been rented out to a very nice American family with two children. It’s suited them well and given us some extra income. But now it’s got to go. Ed Miliband’s to blame.

Horse Meat Scandal: Mum Speaks Out

[Following the discovery that packets of Findus Beef Lasagne, together with beefburgers and other products from numerous supermarkets, contained up to 100% horsemeat, there's an outcry across Europe]

If there’s one thing my Mum knows quite a bit about, it’s processed food. 

At a time when women were expected to stay quietly at home cooking for their husbands, in the forties Mum was general manager of a large factory making potted meats. Yes, potted meats – remember them? Little jars of pork, chicken and beef. 

Trouble At The Beeb's New HQ

Further to my earlier post about the meeting rooms and other facilities at the BBC’s new headquarters building, I note with interest this article in today’s edition of Broadcast magazine: 

More microwaves and meeting rooms: BBC reacts to NBH complaints 

8 February, 2013 

By Balihar Khalsa 

Additional meeting rooms are being installed on the sixth floor of the BBC’s New Broadcasting House, as part of a number of changes that have been made to the corporation’s new building. 

The new meeting rooms as intended to provide extra private space for BBC Vision management, and are one of a range of changes being made following feedback from BBC staff now based at New Broadcasting House. Complaints have included difficulties around hot desking and poor quality catering, plus overcrowded lifts and an insufficient number of microwaves. 

RIP Mr Etch-A-Sketch

Boots the new puppy has now added chairs to his diet. The one I’m sitting on has scores of little teeth marks down the leg. 

Jo says it improves them because they now look old and worn. She says everything looks better with a little wear and tear, including me.

Boots Settles In

This morning, before I’d even finished my first double espresso, I had another pan of Irish stew bubbling on the hob. 

That’s the third batch this week. Jo reckons if she sees another lamb chop, she’ll start baa-ing. It’s not because we have a freezer full of dead sheep: it’s down to the new puppy.

Four hours at Terminal 5

I can imagine what it’s like for travellers with cancelled flights at Heathrow. Actually, I can more than imagine – I was in a dress rehearsal there last week.

Inside the BBC's New Broadcasting House

When he becomes director-general in March, I wonder if Tony Hall will have his own desk, or just a filing cabinet to store his stuff. 

Think I’m joking? I’ve just been to the BBC’s new headquarters, and I’m afraid Tony is in for a bit of a shock.

Les Misunderstanding

A version of my previous post “How Was It For You? - The Worst New Year Ever” was published on Monday in the Newcastle Journal. On Wednesday the Editor received this letter from a concerned reader: 

Hello Mr Aitken, 

I was quite alarmed to read Tom Gutteridge's New Year article in yesterday's Journal where he openly admitted to watching a video of the new Les Miz film. Alarmed as it is not released in cinemas until Friday so it cannot be a legal copy, and surprised that such a reputable newspaper has published the crime!

How Was It For You? - The Worst New Year Ever!

Well, that wasn’t a very good start to the New Year. 

“How was it for you?” people ask politely. 

“Lovely, thanks, and for you?” I’m supposed to reply. 

But that would be a lie. So far it’s been a miserable 2013.

The Best Christmas Present Ever

Well, that wasn’t too bad. I can’t believe I’ve reached Christmas Eve without completely tearing my hair out. 

I put it down to two factors: first, our wonderful and generous neighbours Dick and Linda have invited us (and Mum) for lunch on Christmas Day, so for once I’m not panicking about whether the turkey is the right size, or whether I’ve remembered the goose fat, because now we don’t need either. Thank you so much, Linda. I just hope we’re still friends after the charades. 

Oh, didn’t I tell you about that? Mum, who’s nearly 92, has to play charades on Christmas afternoon.

A Dog Is Not Just For Christmas

One good thing about the world coming to an end this Friday is that we needn’t worry about last-minute Christmas presents.

Warming up the Hot Seat

On my desk are three folders. 

A red one contains notes from briefings with broadcasters. “Different, exciting, edgy and out-of-the-box” – that’s what they all want. Of course, some of you who watch a bit of television may have detected a disconnect between this and what actually appears on our screens. “Dull, derivative, predictable, safe,” I hear you scream, “if I see another property show or a cookery programme, or a documentary about children with two heads, I’m going to throw my TV away.” 

I can’t possibly comment. You judge the effectiveness of our current commissioning system in delivering cutting-edge television to your homes; I just write down what they say they need on a piece of paper and pop it in the red folder.

Texts, Lies and Videotape

"gr8". 

There, I’ve done it. I know I’m “20 yrs 2 L8”, but, as today is the birthday of texting, I thought I should at least celebrate (or, to be less precise, celbr8) its existence; particularly as I have largely ignored the wretched practice for its entire, annoying lifetime. So: hpy bday 2 txting.

The King-Maker

[Why Tony Hall was always going to become the BBC’s director general] 

Eric Stadlen, our tutor, was adamant. 

“Vun of you vill be director-general,” he told us in his deep, thick Austrian accent.

Bah Humbuggery!

Oh no – Izzy has found out about Hanukkah gifts. 

As my daughter is half-Jewish, we couldn’t really expect to keep it from her. But, seriously: 8 nights of presents? Whereas Santa’s flying visit happens just once a year, the Jewish equivalent takes eight whole evenings, on each of which a child is supposed to receive a little gift. Izzy can’t wait.

The BBC: Turning A Crisis Into A Catastrophe

[The director-general of the BBC, George Entwistle, has resigned after a chaotic 54 days.]

Poor George. Such a charming, gentle man. 

I met him a few times, when he was head of Current Affairs at the BBC and I was pitching a television series about how to improve the rate of prisoner reoffending. What I proposed was so radical and dangerous (I wanted to move young prisoners to a “half-way house”, set them up in business, then film how they got on) that I doubted he would consider it. 

George heard the pitch, then said, in quiet, measured tones: “It’s exactly the sort of series the BBC should be doing right now”.

Tomato Blush

I'm most grateful to Mary Yeoman for offering this simple solution to my heirloom/heritage tomato problem (see previous post).  

She wrote: Put them in a brown paper bag with a few banana skins and one or two ripe bananas and I can assure you they will ripen in a few days.

Don't Quit While You're Behind

Some say the secret of true success is to quit while you’re behind. Sadly it’s not something I’m very good at. 

Take my tomato plants, for example.

Bags of Bother In Bogota

[Last night, at the beginning of Greenwich Mean Time, our clocks went back by one hour] 

GMT arrived noisily on Sunday morning. 

The clock on the front of our bedroom phone had reached 2.21 am, which meant it was 3.21 am in my head. I had been so looking forward to an extra hour of sleep, but the loud ringing of the phone had other ideas. 

Woken with a start, Jo grabbed the handset from its cradle. A deep intake of breath, then: “Rocca – oh no”. 

Rocca is the eldest of my three daughters. On Saturday night she was supposed to be arriving in Bogota, capital of Colombia.

Plants Prefer Geordie - It's Official

If Cheryl Cole ever gives up singing, she could certainly become a gardener. So too, if they fall from TV favour, could Ant and Dec. 

I don’t know if our local heroes realise they have the power to make plants grow, but a gentleman from Essex called Chris Bonnett does. He owns a garden centre in Chelmsford and has just announced the result of a very important, if not entirely scientific, experiment.

Ouch!

One of the great levellers between kings and commoners, between millionaires and mortals, is the dentist’s drill. The mere sound of one can cause brave men to crumble into cowards. We all encounter it at some time; in my case, we’re old acquaintances. 

Last week a piece of tooth came away when it encountered an obstacle in a cheese sandwich. I carried the fragment around in my wallet for three days, hoping the dentist could somehow cement it back into its home at the back of my mouth. 

“Gross!” was Jo’s horrified comment when I showed it to her over breakfast. Americans see teeth differently to us.