Gather ye round and read my Nog-Blog...

“In the lands of the North, where the black rocks stand guard against the cold sea, in the dark night that is very long the men of the Northlands sit by their great log fires and they tell a tale...”
As I read those words, reproduced in Seeing Things: A Memoir, Oliver Postgate’s sparkling autobiography, the past came rushing back. It was the 1960’s once again, and my siblings and I were seated around a winter fire following a day at school, watching the wonderful Noggin the Nog on television. I quote Postgate: “nobody who has watched those films...will ever hear those words without remembering the slow icy chords with which Vernon Elliot (bassoon) and his daughter Bridget (clarinet) heralded and accompanied that opening speech.” Well, even if they have, I haven’t.
The genius of that Noggin the Nog opener was that it pulled the viewer/listener right into the narrative. You could actually feel the heat from those great log fires that the Northmen sat around – or maybe it was coming from the coals hissing in our domestic grate? And those bassoon and clarinet chords were indeed like icy motes troubling our backs and necks as we watched and listened – or maybe it was actual cold air creeping through our home window fittings – a not unusual occurrence in those days before ubiquitous double glazing? But it matters not.
Noggin was storytelling at its best and as I continued reading Postgate’s narrative, I cried and laughed aloud as he recounted - and I recalled - characters and episodes from the long-running Saga. Nogbad the Bad, for instance, and the Ice Dragon, and a steampunky longship with mechanical wings, built by Olaf the Lofty – I had forgotten him! In his earlier years, Postgate himself had been the inventor of a host of failed devices, and I have no doubt that he derived a measure of glee from channelling his experiences into the cartoon features, created with the equally talented Peter Firmin. Whatever, this Nog-blog is nearly done, and I have had a lot of fun recounting other creations of the Postgate/Firmin duo, Ivor, Clangers, Pingwings, all, characters that will live in the memory of grown-up kids, like you and me...

Board game, never boring.....

Christmas is a time for families, so they say, and during the season, every family finds its inner board game, and suffers the attendant yawns. This year proved to be a game changer for me, when Younger Niece introduced me to the most deranged activity since It's a Royal Knockout; I am talking about Bugs in the Kitchen. No arena for the slow and meditative types this, the chief characters of this game by Ravensburger are a pair of electronic bugs, ingenious little gadgets that when switched on, charge head-on through a morph-able labyrinth of knives, spoons and forks. The aim of the game is to capture the little buggers into one of four "dens" each presided over by an individual player. In turn, each player rolls a die to determine what part of the labyrinth to gain permission to alter, thus modifying the progress of the charging bugs and increasing his or her chances of netting a bug in his or her den. Each entry by either of the bugs into whatever den wins the player a token, and the player with the most tokens at the end of each game is the winner. Sounds daft? It is, and gloriously so, affording Christmas revelers, weary with food, booze and seasonal bonhomie a post-seasonal rush of adrenalin. Believe me, this innocuous game reduces otherwise sane and hungover adults to nearly-hysterical ciphers begging and pleading the little plastic pests to move in their direction. Friend, these electronic amis will light your fire and ring your bell and fill you with such conviviality towards the insect world that you will never again swat away a fly or try to murder a wasp. Somewhere, out there in the wider universe, I'll bet that BITK groups are forming leagues and holding heats and championships, alight with joy as the bugs charge about the labyrinth. Sadly, I won't be joining them. Come 2019, I'll be returning to sober normality - well, normal for me. A happy New Year to all.

Crumpets, Kermit and A Christmas Carol

One day, a few short weeks ago – possibly because of the newly-fledged bite of the colder weather - visions of hot, buttered crumpets danced in my head. That night, to my delight, I witnessed an advertisement for Warburton’s version of the same, presented by the finest bunch of troupers that twentieth-century puppeteers ever spawned. Friend, I hesitate not to inform you that I LOVE the Muppets. I have always had a soft spot for Miss Piggy and Fozzy and above all, Kermit the frog – and there they were, my favourite puppets – Fuppets? – extolling the virtues of my bonne bouche of choice. Needless to say, I went out the next day and added liberally to the pensions of the Warburton shareholders, and have been doing so since. It is impossible to mention the Muppets at this time of year, of course, without throwing in a credit for their movie interpretation of that Christmas story by Charles Dickens. Ah, how the Inimitable would have approved of the Muppet's A Christmas Carol! How he would laughed at Gonzo masquerading as himself, the author of the tale, alongside of Rizzo Rat, and to see popular actors and cartoon characters bring home the story of redeemed greed to today’s audiences. And how he would have lauded the understated performance of the unassuming Kermit in the role of the beaten-down Bob Cratchit. And I’ve no doubt that Dickens would rage to discover that, 160 years following its publication, the message of A Christmas Carol is at least as relevant as in the Victorian environment of inequality and exploitation. On that note, I’ll finish this frog-blog and wish all readers a happy Christmas and in the words of the immortal Tiny Tim, say “bless us, everyone”.

Night and Day

If you have ever fantasised about spending an afternoon in a 1930’s pastel paradise, with guys in dapper suits and gals in flapper dresses partying to the strains of the saxophone, then the Night and Day: 1930’s Fashion and Photographs exhibition, current at the Fashion and Textile Museum (83 Bermondsey Street) is for you. The items of clothing are organised into themed tableaux bearing sumptuous names like “Happy Days are Here Again” and “Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries”, followed up by “Thirty from the 1930’s”, that is, thirty photos of Cecil Beaton’s fashion creations. Really, your eyes will pop and your mouth water at the line-up of frothy, frilly day dresses and luxuriant evening gowns in the understated styles of the 1930’s. And the curators haven’t shied away from showing the darker side of life back then. In the Smaller Gallery, Brother Can You Spare a Dime is a rolling film montage showing the rise of fascism and revealing the shocking social inequality of the time. But hurry: you have only got till January 20, 2019, to see this exhibition.

To 100 and Beyond – with Rachel’s Greek Yoghurt

Crunchy, creamy, munchy, dreamy, mouth-watering – it is difficult to describe Rachel’s Greek Yoghurt without descending into clichés. Yet, this product has compelled me to contribute sound bites that express satisfaction with this - confection? – dessert? – treat? – truly, Rachel’s Greek Yoghurt defies classification. My only awareness is that when my upper oral part cries for a snack that is NOT laden with excess fat, salt or sugar, yet is a delight on the tongue and in the tum, then Rachel’s is the one. From start to finish, I thrill to the entire gastronomic experience, peeling aside the metal foil of the top tier to reveal the semi-sweet granules of granola, and then mixing these munchy bits gently with the softer, creamier stuff that lies beneath, followed by the indescribable pleasure of eating the crunchy, creamy, munchy, dreamy, mouth-watering, tongue-licky but never icky-sticky sensation that is Rachel’s Greek Yoghurt. Not being a clinician, I cannot verify the health benefits. But I do say that if healthy food always tasted as good as this, then – ye gods! We’d all live to 100 – and beyond. Single pots of Rachel’s Greek Yoghurt retail for about £1 – hurry, while stocks last….

The Vanguard of Feminine Footwear

Readers of this column will be aware of my high regard for feminine shoes with low heels. Just the same, to remind those of you in the know and to inform those of you who are not, I am in constant notional warfare with a manufacturing base that has failed to recognize that the feminine foot does not differ greatly in structure from that of the male ped. And that the working day of the average female runs – mostly - in parallel to that of her male counterpart. Yet, instead of wearing similar, comfortable and high-quality shoes as the boys, those of us in possession of the XX chromosome are bound to attach bizarre, ornamental appendages to our lower extremities, all in the name of fashion. Worse again, us double-exers who refuse to toe the line stand in danger of being excluded from polite and professional society – we haven’t forgotten you, Nicola Thorp. With this in mind, it was a nice surprise to stumble upon these bright, wearable foot vehicles. Retailing at £59.99 and bearing the Van label, available colours include pink and black. The soft, suede effect uppers are in endearing contrast with the white, chunky sole. Said heels are finished appropriately with the red-lip Van logo, and tied up with Van signature laces. Teaming perfectly with skirts and leggings, shorts and full-length trousers – even peeping cutely from underneath evening dresses - what is not to love?

Why life is a beach...

On the afternoon of THAT day, I filled the bath with warm water, bathed and towelled up. But I did not unplug the bath; no, I left the scented pool in situ, and I spent the evening dipping in and out, refreshing and relaxing as the fancy took me, between taskes on the settee, sipping iced water and contemplating pages of print. I had dissed off other options - beaches, parks, squares - as involving merciless sun and murderous public transport. With the kitchen nearby, and a ready supply of teabags and milk, bread and salad, drinks and snacks were ever at hand. Take one couch, a tower fan and jug of warer - why, life is a beach, and I love to lie upon it....