Give Me Happywood!

When I was growing up, the little I knew about the movies was gleaned from the first books my parents passed down to me: several copies of F Maurice Speed’s Film Review. The red ones had gold lettering on their covers; the royal blue had pale blue.

I labeled the well-thumbed chronicles 9/- (for some strange reason, I priced everything I ever owned) and, in the one book that had no page numbers, I added those, too.

  

The cinema did not feature strongly in our lives, but these picture books brought alive worlds that seemed breathtakingly glamorous.

Deanna Durbin, Universal star, with Tarantula eyelashes, and lips matching the red roses pinned to her lace dress.

Six year old Margaret O’Brien, star of MGM’s Lost Angel, and who was a role model to those of us the same age who could only dream of stardom.

Bette Davis, posing gracefully, yet still sinister in her white fur, the caption billing her as a Warner star, whose 1947 releases included A Stolen Life and Deception.

Dozens of handsome men, who to me looked 70 but were probably no more than 25.

I feared for Ingrid Bergman, poisoned by Nazi spies and hoping that Cary Grant, leaning over her in the black and white photo, would rescue her.

And, most terrifying of all, Betty Hutton as Pearl White, tied to the railway track with the train inches away in Paramount’s The Perils of Pauline.

The book pointed out, “for the nervous reader”, that the train stopped “in the nick of time”. I remember the feeling of relief. And excitement.

This was another world, far away from Cardiff, the capital of Wales, where I was born.

A world fraught with danger, tears and laughter, the promise of a kiss.

And always, always, the happy ending.

A man who would rescue you, protect you and keep you safe from all the evils of the world that lurked beyond the hills of Hollywood. Those nine letters, high in the hills, that I felt I could touch in the red and blue, scuffed edged books and glossy pictures; the single word that told me no matter what, everything would be all right in the end.

  

And it was - at least, until I started to go to the movies for real.

My parents had always protected from the idea of death, especially when it came to animals. My mother protected me from the death of George the budgerigar by telling me that “He flew away to a hot country” and it took me months to get over the death of Horace the goldfish, who drowned (it’s a long, complicated story). So Ring of Bright Water was never going to be a walk in the park.

I had recently had my tenth birthday when the film opened in the Odeon in Newport, and it was my first cinema visit since Dad had taken me to see the Beatles in Help! when I was six. Five months before that, we had gone as a family to see The Sound of Music in Bournemouth. Then, we were staying in a Bed and Breakfast, where my brother had managed to open a bottle of junior aspirin and devour the sweet, orange tablets. He was rushed to hospital and, as a reward for his swift recovery, we were taken to the cinema.

I was not a naughty child and had too great a terror of authority to deviate, but two days later, back at home, I cut my bedroom curtains, just like Julie Andrews had done to make clothes for the von Trapp children (well, not “just like”; I did a two inch snip and felt like a child of the devil). I then got into trouble for playing the LP of the film eight times when left alone in the house one Saturday. By the time my parents returned, Auntie Muriel next door was at screaming point. My mother still reels with shock at the naughtiness of a child who hardly dared breathe without asking permission.

It says something about our times that (1) a child of ten could be left alone for the length of time it takes to listen to a musical eight times; and (2) that so innocent a film could induce such acts of rebelliousness in a child. After all, Pulp Fiction it was not.

  

Mum took me to see Ring of Bright Water on a wet Saturday afternoon, and it was a jolly enough tale until Mij very foolishly got himself in the way of some workmen who chopped him in two with an axe. I cried. I sobbed. So distressed was I, that Mum decided I was still not ready for the realities of rigor mortis.

So she comforted me by saying that it wasn’t Mij who died in the movie, but another otter: a cousin of Mij. A very, very distant cousin who had not even appeared in the movie. I stopped crying, smiled and ate my sherbet lemons.

In school the next day, Carol Lane said: “No, it was Mij who died.”

   

"Mum," I said, returning home from school, sobbing once more. "Did Mij really die?"

   

Mum thought it was time to come clean. "Yes, I'm afraid he did."

  

"So it wasn't Mij's cousin?"

  

"No, it was Mij."

Mij was dead. It came as a terrible shock.

I grieved not only for Mij but otters everywhere. With careless workmen like that around, the same plight probably awaited every poor creature who ventured out of the Ring of Bright Water for longer than ten seconds a day.

But how could it happen? This was the cinema, the place where everything turned out all right – wasn’t it?

I decided that I preferred a world in which Mij lived on and budgies had a knack of slipping locks. I didn’t want mysteriously vanishing birds and Carol Lane’s world, in which axes had a strange habit of chopping otters in half.

Now, as then, I want the perils of Pauline – but I need the assurance at the end of the movie that the train will stop, the axe will not fall.

I want the happy ending.

In movies, as in life.

I'd Spit on His Grave - If He Still Had One (Savile update)

When I was 13, I went away with the church youth club to a summer camp. I was crazy about a boy called Brinley in the group, but he liked my friend Wendy. His friend, Chris, was 15, and considered something of a catch because of his staggering advanced years. But I was an innocent in the ways of the world and, when he kissed me, I think they heard my screams as far as Offa’s Dyke, which was at least 50 miles away.

On that trip, we were told that we would be honoured with a “celebrity” from the world of TV, and it was none other than Jimmy Savile. I don’t remember being hugely excited and commented to the course leaders that there were no seat-belts in his van, despite his having been the front face of “Clunk, click, every trip” –  designed to get people to wear seat-belts before they travelled. I asked then why someone who said one thing and acted the opposite should be believed about anything (yes, I was an argumentative teen).

I remember being on the floor in a circle and sitting next to Savile. He gave me the creeps; that much I remember very clearly. I remember telling the staff in charge of us and also my fellow youth club members that I didn’t like him. I was not one of the kids who asked for his autograph afterwards, and I recall asking many questions about why he was so popular when he seemed so unlikeable. I now like to think I had good instincts.

Fast-forward 20 years. A friend of mine is doing an hilarious impression of a conversation he had with the late and brilliant Anthony Burgess in a BBC dressing room, while being made up for a show. “Jimmy Savile, the most evil man in Britain. Goes the length and breadth of Britain in a sinister charabanc, sodomising children. The BBC have it all, have it all, done nothing with it,” Burgess is alleged to have said. Anyone who ever met the wonderful Burgess, knows that the quote just has to be true.

  

I was not surprised. Not only had there been stories circulating about Savile’s proclivity for young girls  - and boys - for years, there had always been rumours of a cover-up amongst those who employed him. Journalists I knew were always trying to pin the story down but, because of Savile’s charity work, they were, reportedly, always warned off.

  

A few years ago, I spoke to someone who was part of Savile’s entourage back in his Top of the Pops heyday and he said: “When he dies, it will all come out.” He went on to tell me that he had witnessed dozens of young girls in Savile’s company over many years, and yes, the relationships had been sexual.

  

You can only ask with wide-eyed incredulity today why no one spoke out sooner. The young people, I can understand: sexual abuse victims can often take decades to be able to speak of their ordeal. But why everyone else?

  

Reputation of a TV “god” at a time when TV was revered in a way it is not today, perhaps? The desire not to want to believe? The mistaken assumption that anyone involved in doing good works could not have a bad bone in their body?  Or, even more frighteningly, that there were people around Savile, including BBC employees, and possibly executives, who colluded in this hideous exploitation and abuse. Lord Patten has this week been vociferous in his determination to find out if this was the case.

I recall telling my mother of the rumours when I first became a journalist and her response was, as was that of so many others: “I don’t believe it; people lie for all sorts of reasons.” There were people who, last week, continued to defend the indefensible, on the grounds that the stories were "hearsay". I don’t think they are in any doubt now that we are not dealing with gossip; we are dealing with facts. And have been for several decades.

  

The jokes that surrounded the phrase “Jim’ll Fix It” ("Jim'll f**k it" was a well-worn take on it in media circles) went on for years in an industry that, yes, I believe, conspired in a cover-up, because this man was a cash cow not only for the Corporation that hired him, but the hospitals that needed the money he raised. How sad that it was raised on the vulnerability of so many others. And how despicable, how utterly despicable, that nobody blew the whistle when the man was alive to be punished for it.

And now he doesn’t even have a grave that we can spit on. 

Jim Can't Fix This One

When I was 13, I went away with the church youth club to a summer camp. I was crazy about a boy called Brinley in the group, but he liked my friend Wendy. His friend, Chris, was 15, and considered something of a catch because of his staggering advanced years. But I was an innocent in the ways of the world and, when he kissed me, I think they heard my screams as far as Offa’s Dyke, which was at least 50 miles away.

On that trip, we were told that we would be honoured with a “celebrity” from the world of TV, and it was none other than Jimmy Savile. I don’t remember being hugely excited and commented to the course leaders that there were no seat-belts in his van, despite his having been the front face of “Clunk, click, every trip” –  designed to get people to wear seat-belts before they travelled. I asked then why someone who said one thing and acted the opposite should be believed about anything (yes, I was an argumentative teen).

 

I remember being on the floor in a circle and sitting next to Savile. He gave me the creeps; that much I remember very clearly. I remember telling the staff in charge of us and also my fellow youth club members that I didn’t like him. I was not one of the kids who asked for his autograph afterwards, and I recall asking many questions about why he was so popular when he seemed so unlikeable. I now like to think I had good instincts.

Fast-forward 20 years. A friend of mine is doing an hilarious impression of a conversation he overheard by the late and brilliant Anthony Burgess have in a dressing room, while being made up for a show. “Jimmy Savile, the most evil man in Britain. Goes the length and breadth of Britain in a sinister charabanc, sodomising children. The BBC have it all,” Burgess is alleged to have said. Anyone who ever met the wonderful, brilliant Burgess, just knows that it has to be true.

  

I was not surprised. Not only had there been stories circulating about Savile’s proclivity for young girls for years, there had always been rumours of a cover-up amongst those who employed him. Journalists I knew were always trying to pin the story down, but, because of Savile’s charity work, they were, reportedly, always warned off.

  

A few years ago, I spoke to someone who was part of Savile’s entourage back in his Top of the Pops heyday and he said: “When he dies, it will all come out.” He went on to tell me that he had witnessed dozens of young girls in Savile’s company over many years, and yes, the relationships had been sexual.

  

You can only ask with wide-eyed incredulity today why no one spoke out sooner. The girls, I can understand: sexual abuse victims can often take decades to be able to speak of their ordeal. But why everyone else?

  

Reputation of a TV “god” at a time when TV was revered in a way it is not today, perhaps? The desire not to want to believe? The mistaken assumption that anyone involved in doing good works could not have a bad bone in their body? 

 I recall telling my mother of the rumours when I first became a journalist and her response was, as was that of so many others: “I don’t believe it; people lie for all sorts of reasons.” Alas, there are still people who, this week, continue to defend the indefensible, on the grounds that the stories are "hearsay". No, they are not. They are facts. And have been for several decades.

  

The jokes that abounded around the phrase “Jim’ll Fix It” ("Jim'll f**k it" was a well-worn phrase in media circles) went on for years in an industry that, yes, I believe, conspired in a cover-up, because this man was a cash cow not only for the Corporation that hired him, but the hospitals that needed the money he raised. How sad that it was raised on the vulnerability of so many others. And how despicable, how utterly despicable, that nobody blew the whistle when the man was alive to be punished for it.

Megan's Song - for Loved-Up Schoolgirl Megan Stammers

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Megan's Song I was lost in Maths In exams the noughts were singing I was lost in Maths And my calculator was minging As I stood there in the morning sum I had a feeling I can't explain I was lost in France in love I was lost in France And the algebra was singing And the paps all flashed Didn't catch what they were saying When I looked up they were standing there And I knew I shouldn't but I didn't care I was lost in France in love Ooh la la la Ooh la la la France Ooh la la la Francing Ooh la la la Ooh la la la France Ooh la la la Francing Ooh la la la Ooh la la la France Ooh la la la Francing I was lost in France And the Maths was over-flowing I was lost in France And a million sums were glowing And I looked round for a telephone To say 'Dear Mum, I won't be home' I was lost in France in love Ooh la la la Ooh la la la France Ooh la la la Francing Ooh la la la Ooh la la la France Ooh la la la Francing Ooh la la la Ooh la la la France Ooh la la la Francing And I looked round for a telephone To say 'Dear Mum, I won't be home' I was lost in France in love Ooh la la la Ooh la la la Fance Ooh la la la Francing Ooh la la la Ooh la la la France Ooh la la la Francing Ooh la la la Ooh la la la France Ooh la la la Francing Ooh la la la Ooh la la la France Ooh la la la Francing… I was lost in France But then the cops came calling I was lost in France And the world was just there watching And I looked up He was standing there I felt so hopeless I didn’t care I am still so lost In France

More Than a Drop in the Ocean

So many in need. 

So many charities. 

How do you decide which to help?

    

How do you separate the ones who, according to reports, have people stealing money behind the scenes? How do you decide between supporting a charity that raises money for research into heart disease, because it stole your dad, or breast cancer, because the gene might be inherent in your family?

    

There are some charities that receive a huge amount of money, simply because they are the most prominent names in the headlines. Of course, they are worthy, but there are many others out there in need of funds, and how do you choose which to support? There are millions the world over who need aid from those of us who have so much more, and the efforts of Comic Relief, Sports Relief et al, have brought the tragedies taking place on a daily basis to the public’s attention – and raised huge amounts of money for them – in a way that they might not otherwise have done.

    

Many of these charities raise money for countries that have no food: where babies are dying of starvation and dehydration every minute of every day. There are millions who do not know the joy of turning on a tap and receiving fresh, clean water every day, and, while this has always struck me as something of a luxury, this week it hit me with a blinding disbelief that others do not share what we take for granted.

    

We take it for granted in our baths, showers and sanitised swimming pools; we boil our vegetables in it, sure in the knowledge that we will not be contaminated by what lurks within; it pours forth from our taps to counter a stomach upset, thirst after exercise, a hangover. 

With a one second twist of our hand, we have the greatest luxury the world has to offer, and, for the most part, we don’t even acknowledge it.

   

I have not spoken to anyone at wateraid.org, but I am urging you to spread the word and to offer help in any way you can. In particular, check out the daily life of women, on whom the onus is to collect water from miles away – and not very sanitised water, at that.

    

There are so many ways in which it is possible to become involved. Never did the Rime of the Ancient Mariner have any more poignancy than now: “Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink.”

   

Like I said, I have not spoken to anyone at this organisation, but let’s not take that turning on of our taps and having the miracle of water our forth so effortlessly into our lives, for granted.

    

Let’s make water not only a blessing, but the right, of everyone the world over.

  

    

  

  

Dallas, Dallas, Wherefore Art Thou, Dallas?

You know you’re old when the oil barons are getting younger. 

The remake of Dallas has brought us a new breed of Texan magnates who look barely out of their Lego and I don’t like them one little bit.

    

At best, Bobby’s son Christopher is Thunderbirds’ Scott Tracy after a day at the spa; at worst, Norman Bates after a week of bad bookings. JR’s son John Ross has a walrus sitting on his face and is about as sexy as . . . well, a walrus sitting on your face.

   

John Ross’s and Christopher’s fathers, who were once such magnetic personalities, are no longer appealing, either. JR’s eyebrows look as if they need their own Visa to enter the country, and Bobby looks as if he has had the kind of eye-lift that turns people Chinese overnight; in fact, his eyes appear to have been eaten by his forehead. Lucy looks as if she has spent 20 years eating all the pies she never got to consume when the wind swept the food away every morning on the breakfast terrace, and all the allegedly glamorous women make a Stepford Wife look like Personality of the Millennium.

    

I so, so wanted to like it; but it is bad. So, so bad. Lame writing, lame acting, and a lame Bobby, who keeps clutching his leg in pain, as the cancer he is trying to keep secret takes hold. Sue Ellen appears to be the only character who has survived the fallout. And Linda Gray still brilliantly plays it for the laugh it always was.

  

I first watched Dallas when it was broadcast in the UK on BBC2 in the afternoon; I think I was probably its first UK fan. Although I did not know the term soap opera when growing up, I knew it must be something very, very naughty, because my parents always sent me to my room when Peyton Place was on.

    

Never having watched Coronation Street, I took to Dallas because of the shoulder pads, the pools, the glamour. It was a world so far removed from my own in South Wales, I could fantasise about riches, fine clothes, magnificent dinners, and take joy in the knowledge that for every material wealth these people had, they were still miserable as hell. That made me happy. Being poor. With no fine clothes. And, in a bad week, rather hungry.

   

I specially liked Dallas’s annual Oil Barons Ball, where the oil magnates would gather to celebrate the industry but end up fighting and/or murdering each other. WestStar oil head honcho Jeremy Wendell always featured heavily on these occasions, though I swear he never washed his shirt from one year to the next.

    

Dallas lost its credibility with the “death” of Bobby, quickly resurrected and made the subject of wife Pam’s dream, when the ratings plummeted following the departure of Patrick Duffy, who played him.

   

The biggest problem was that the sister show, Knot’s Landing, was still in production and had a lot of episodes in the can; so Bobby’s brother Gary continued to grieve on one channel, telling everyone how momma had never been the same since Bobby’s death, and nobody ever bothered to tell him that an entire year had all been in his head.

    

But it was the ludicrousness – the complete lack of believability – that, strangely, made it work. The new mob are playing it as if they have landed parts in Henry V, and they are about as menacing as a dead mouse in a Camembert.

    

After two episodes, I’ve already wiped it from my “series record”; life really is too short. 

And I really, really don’t want to watch Bobby dying from cancer – well, not unless he emerges wet and glistening and we discover that it was Christopher’s dream after all.   

     

They'll Never Walk Alone

The desire for justice in the face of others’ wrongdoing is intense. Having recently sued an ex-landlord in LA – and won – I know. It takes it out of you, but being in the right and, most importantly, being seen to be in the right, is worth everything, in the end.

My own struggle is but a grain of sand alongside the families of the Hillsborough victims; it is not even worthy to be in the same sentence, and I mention it only because I know how all consuming my own fights for justice have always been and cannot begin to imagine what these poor people have been through in their 23 year fight to get to the truth.

    

Not only did they lose their loved ones; they had to suffer the indignity of being told that the dead were to blame for the tragic events of that day.

    

The evidence that has come to light is another heartbreak: not just the lies and deceit, but the knowledge that 41 of the victims might have been saved. Everyone who lost a relative or friend that day will spend the rest of their lives asking: Was he/she one of that 41? 

Injustice upon injustice upon injustice. 

You can only weep.

    

I have been remembering another football stadium tragedy four years before Hillsboorugh in May 1985: the fire at Bradford City, that claimed the lives of 56 fans and injured well over 200. I arrived home from shopping in Bristol, where my parents were living. I was working in London and had gone home for a weekend visit. I walked into the living room to find my father crying in his usual armchair. My brother and I are sport crazy, but Dad never watched it; nevertheless, he was visibly stunned as he watched the disaster unfold on the screen.

    

My father who, died in 1990, was a desperately sensitive man. He could not talk to me for five minutes without crying, as if he never got over the fact that I learned to speak, let alone grew up. I would always be his little girl. We were a family that cried at everything, including Lassie when we sat down to watch it after dinner on Sunday afternoons. Dad cried every time he mentioned his parents, long dead, and he had never felt able to visit their graves.

    

After the Bradford fire, new safety standards were put in place at football grounds, including the banning of new wooden grandstands. Yet what we have heard this week was that not only was Hillsborough unsafe, the authorities had known it to be unsafe for some time.

    

Also after Bradford, many police officers received commendations, bravery awards and medals; yet at the heart of the Hillsborough inquiry is the accusation that the police falsified information, following complaints about their handling of the tragedy.

    

What the hell happened? Four years apart, the tragedies could not be more different (although the subsequent Popplewell inquiry at Bradford found that the club had been warned about the accumulation of rubbish – that fuelled the fire - under the stand).

    

Twenty-three years is a long time to wait for justice – and for the Hillsborough families it’s far from over, with the likelihood of those who falsified evidence or made crucial, devastatingly bad judgments, being prosecuted. Somebody, surely, has to be accountable.

   

 It is a cliché that nothing can bring back the 96 who perished on that day; but the living hell and the fight for truth by the brave people who have fought tirelessly on their behalf must bring about a small measure of peace. 

Truth will out, they say. 

It’s just damned disgraceful that sometimes it has to take so sodding long.