Saturday, April 19, 2008

Bafta Is The Best Medicine

Really, I can't hide my disappointment that the British Academy of Film and Television Arts have yet again eschewed my suggestion that they hold the TV Baftas at our Granville Theatre and Cinem here in the Millionaires' Playground.

Still, I suppose a weekend in the Smoke will make a nice change. And it'll be good to see my old TV chum Harry Hill, who's up for a gong. I'm going to be accompanying him to the Awards and then we're off to one of those media parties. Moreover, being the splendidly generous chap he is, he's said I can do anything I like with the Bentley during the ceremony, and keep the cap and uniform afterwards!

5 comments:

Lucy Mail said...

If you want to be invited again, I'd suggest that you use your free time polishing and valeting it until it's owner remarks "Shiny, isn't it! Like the lining, like the lining.".

Rick said...

We sat in the car park till twenty past one

I toodled the pip of Miss J Hunter Dunne

And I think it was toodle pip RIP for Miss JHD and without a mention from our local blogging aesthete.

Something to address after the BAFTAs ECR ?

Justin Brown said...

Gracious me, Rick. I do hope you weren't taking those mind warping drugs while you were feeding that poor baby!
Or is 'making sense' your second ethos?

Anonymous said...

Rick......wibble.

Rick said...

A Subaltern's Love Song

Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,
Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament - you against me!

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.

Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.

The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.

On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing's the light on your hair.

By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!

Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.

And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

-- John Betjeman


Joan Hunter Dunn, unrequited love of the later poet laureate, died aged 92 in a London Nursing Home.