I will get there, eventually...

The mid-'90s film, Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe, popped up on one of the Freeview channels this weekend. Now, can anyone give me a sensible explanation of just how and why this was the first time that I'd watched it, rather than the fourth or fifth? Nor can I. Sheeeesh. How could I not like a film that opens by creating a great, sympathetic character, fleshing out his bones into a third dimension and, immediately, killing him stone dead? Fine, fine motion picture, as its creators would insist on calling it.

Happy anniversary to me...

At 06:50 GMT today, I entered my second year as a non-smoker. I'd celebrate, but I rarely drink and, in any case, those of my chums who might be up and about at such an ungodly hour would be preoccupied, no doubt, with such trivial distractions as commuting and the daily toil.

Another one goes...

Yesterday, I was exchanging musical banter with old mate and (from 20 years ago) former colleague Gordon Blackwell, for the first time in a while. Today, I awoke to the sad news that Reg Presley had died. Life is full of coincidences. Coincidence? Do I sense a few quizzically raised eyebrows? I suspect so - but perhaps not upon the faces of other aged Datanews/TRM alumni. I shall explain.

The late Reg Presley, of The Troggs, was best known for many years for 'Wild Thing,' subsequently recorded by everyone from Jimi Hendrix to the Goodies. From '94 onwards, Reg's career received a second wind, through the global re-success of his '67 composition, 'Love Is All Around,' as covered by Wet Wet Wet. Anyone over 30 will instantly recall that the song featured in 'Four Weddings and a Funeral,' the monstrously successful Hugh Grant comedy.

So, Wet Wet Wet sang a Reg Presley song in a box office smash... Except that, of course, they didn't. Wet Wet Wet were on the soundtrack album, yes, and they had the worldwide hit single, certainly - but they weren't in the movie at all. In 'Four Weddings and a Funeral,' the song is one of four performed in a marquee, during the first wedding reception, by an unnamed band.

That unnamed band, stepping outside of their normal repertoire somewhat to meet the script requirements ('Walking Back To Happiness,' anyone?), was a fine semi-pro outfit from the Herts/Beds/Bucks area: The Wright Brothers Band.

So, let me introduce to you the act you've known for all these years: at the back, pounding away on the drums, Mr. David Wright... at stage left, on lead guitar, Mr. Ray Uren... at stage right, on the bass guitar, the last surviving member of the original 'Come And Get It' Badfinger line-up, Mr. Ron Griffiths... and, front and centre, playing rhythm guitar, singing lead through gritted teeth as their street cred drained away and thinking of the hundreds (!) of pounds they were being paid for three days' work, Mr. Gordon Blackwell.

Yup, the voice on the hit record might have been Marti Pellow, but the version actually shown worldwide on the big screen featured my clearly recognisable old mucker, Gordon.

So, here's your chance to score. You already have 'Love Is All Around' and 'Walking Back To Happiness,' and I'll also give you, 'Crocodile Rock' - so, for one giant Anorak Point, what was that fourth song that Mr. Blackwell and the chaps performed at the reception...?

Five colourful rings...

Everyone else seems to be talking about the UK's first Olympiad since 1948, so one more comment will make little difference to the cacophony. It won't be long before the world's media, junketing politicians and hospitality-soaking businessfolks descend upon us, along with - well, maybe - a few sports enthusiasts.

If your teeth are now grinding in frustation, as you fretfully wish that you were to be among the attending hordes, console yourself with the reminder that the very best vantage point from which to view any Olympic event is one's own armchair.

Having said that, let me really annoy any of you who yearned to attend but were unlucky in the ticket lottery. I may have only minimal interest in most of the imminent goings-on, but that didn't stop me putting in my application. Consequently, I am now awaiting the arrival of my allocated tickets for the Ladies' Football Final and subsequent doling out of gongs. In addition, when the spectacle of the Closing Ceremony enthralls the global audience, look carefully among the spectators within the stadium and you may well see me, as I have forked out a paltry £20.12 apiece for a pair of seats.

Envy me my good fortune. Scowl at my lack of appreciation of it. Be very jealous and very irritated.

If it's any consolation, this is England and it will all be taking place during the very height of summer, so it will probably rain.

London's burning

Shock, horror. Nobody learns from history.

OK, let's go through it again, one more time. This is not rocket science...

If a Labour prime minister upsets conservatives, an informal but organised opposition writes stern letters to The Times.

If a Conservative prime minister upsets socialists, an informal but organised opposition riots in the streets, burning down buildings and attacking the police.

Toxteth, Brixton, Marsh Farm, now London and beyond.

It was ever thus.

I'm not dead

I've just been quiet.

Since my last ramblings, we've had Christmas, New Year, Easter, assorted birthdays, anniversaries and so forth. Something significant must have happened in my life, surely?

Er, no, not that I can bring to mind.

I've lost a pound or ten during recent weeks, with consequent fall in blood pressure, if anyone's interested. And, as of 10:28 this morning, BST, I've managed a whole seven days without smoking.

That's it.

Whaddya want, excitement?

I wish that I could do that

I gather from news published by the BBC that Mr. Wayne Rooney, a professional football player, has signed a new and more lucrative contract with his employer, Manchester United Football Club. For the uninitiated, this comes swiftly in the wake of his highly publicised insistance that he wished to leave the club, accompanied by equally public and unequivocal criticism of how his employer conducts its business.

It was only for the briefest of moments that I mused upon this, before the reluctant recognition that my own talents in a different sphere are hardly of a similar magnitude to Mr. Rooney's footballing skills. That being so, I shall not be trying a similar ploy in the hope of realising a salary increase.

My forbearance does not arise solely from my lack of bargaining power, but also takes account of the difficulty of implementing an equivalent strategy. Any such attempt upon my part would be doomed to failure, due to my inability to think of any area in which criticism could reasonably be levelled at my employer.