The verdict

How the fuck can Oscar Pestorious not be guilty?
In cases like this, when you think 'He did it, he's fucking going down' and so on, when the verdict, normally of a jury, is given, you think to yourself, well, that's a surprise, but I guess they were there throughout the whole trial, whereas I just saw what got reported, and was trying to judge the body language of guilt based on some, frankly appalling, pastel sketches of the accused.
Not so here.  The South Africans may be recovering racists but when it comes to courtroom drama they are very progressive, meaning they allow the cameras in the courtroom.  Presumably the next move is to have live action commentary.
What it means is that a combination of available footage, celebrity and morbid curiosity led to large swathes of the trial being broadcast on the BBC news channel, because apparently it's news to broadcast hours of some weepy bloke bleating about how he didn't mean to shoot his girlfriend and ruin his en suite.
Any bloke listening realised that these were the honest emotions of a man who really, really, did not want to go to jail.  Any woman listening recognised the sort of sincerity normally associated with the phrase 'It's not you, it's me' prior to a rapid alteration in relationship status.
So normally, we're not in a position to fairly judge others.  Thanks to telly, we were.

Review - Murder on the Nile

Malvern may well be the perfect place to put on an Agatha.  A spa town made up of several villages strung along the shadow of the Hills, it could be said to suffer from something of a split personality, in parts grand, in parts bohemian, in parts just a little eccentric and as a whole, delightful.  

It is the sort of place where, if there were a body in the library, it would have the good manners to be discovered in the ‘true crime’ section.  It is charming and friendly but there is just enough of the history and resort oddness that comes with being a spa town that used to attract a lot of visitors, and just enough of that village sensibility of everyone knowing everyone else's business while simultaneously being a place where secrets are kept, to make it the sort of place where curtains might twitch and they love a good mystery.

Malvern Theatre is a place like no other, with a strong reputation for being the venue that directors take their shows to to perfect them before being unleashed on London, as well as unashamedly providing entertainment for the town.  Here the curtain twitches and then rises, and the people of Malvern do like a good mystery.

And if that entertainment and mystery comes in the form of bloody murder, then so much the better.  Because Malvern is the perfect place for a whodunit, with atmospheric locations, interesting locals, all that grand architecture and plenty of dark corners to hide secrets in.  

The curtain went up on ‘Murder on the Nile’ and we were not in the sleepy, sinister English countryside anymore, rather, we were in Egypt or, to be more precise, the foredeck of a Nile cruiser bathed in glorious sunshine.

Even for an audience of locals who have quite a healthy relationship with water, thank you very much, this vista caused quite a thrill among the audience who, thanks to a constant diet of rain and drizzle over the past months, were overjoyed to see some sunshine, even if it was artificial. Rows A to D were slapping on the factor 40 and spritzing one another with insect repellent, it was that authentic.

What makes a great set?  Well, in my experience gaffa tape and imagination in equal measure but in this case it was the lighting that made the impression.  Instead of a merciless glare we had mellow light, and not just any mellow light but the mellow light of a travel brochure, from a more elegant age.  Because the characters, being English and abroad, decided that the best way to cope with a voyage on a boat riding on a river through the Sahara was to wear as much linen as possible.  This is inspired, if one is going to look uncomfortable and moist, one had better do so elegantly.

As the full house showed, Malvern enjoys an Agatha and this was no exception.  An exceptional cast was in no way outshone by, but without a doubt led by, Kate O’Mara.

There is something about a real star that sets them apart and Miss O’Mara’s performance was flawless.  Looking most of the time like she was trying to ignore an unpleasant smell (insect repellent from the front row?) she was, to the smallest detail and in the widest sense, the grand society lady, travelling.  This was a woman who carried England with her wherever she went and no matter how foreign the land.  So it was here, every phrase clipped and every movement measured.

The plot was a precision instrument and the cast contrived to throw suspicion first one way and then another.  Without a serial Agatha sleuth on board, the audience felt justified in silently speculating about guilt and innocence, not having to worry about second guessing Jane Marple.

The only thing lacking was the unavailability of 'pink fizz' on tap for the audience.  This is what the cast were constantly ordering from the ship's bar, drinking enough of the stuff to float the ship itself, it's a wonder anyone could shoot straight.

It's always impressive to see a great cast enjoying performing a good play, and enjoying the 'sunshine' too.

Life (and death) in the fast lane

Travel in the modern world is, with a few exceptions, a pretty dreadful experience. Away from magazines whose pages have a glossy petrochemical sheen that makes you doubt their recyclability (unless its into other glossy magazines) and who link travel with first class air tickets or expensive cars, your average journey is usually just the dull bit between setting out and getting there.

Even the most luxurious modes of travel try hard to convince you that you are not actually travelling. Seats on aeroplanes now fold into beds to fool you that you are in a very small dorm room and allow you to studiously ignore the couple having sex in the next bunk, while cruise liners do their very best to pretend they are not ships at all but merely hotels with hulls. Why else would a ship have a pool? You’re in the ocean! The ‘this way to swimming’ signs should be pointing over the side.

Even if you’ve got an incredibly posh car, it’s unlikely that you’ve got a private motorway and so you are likely, at some point, to be stuck in roadworks, counting cones and watching the family in the car in front squabble. Luxury cars are not designed to make driving a pleasure, they are designed to make driving that bit more bearable.

The only way to really enjoy travelling is to be on a boating holiday where the whole objective is to get from A to B as slowly as possible, punctuated by many visits to waterside pubs, or get a push bike. The bicycle is the best travelling device ever - something that allows you to move swiftly from location to location while feeling gratified that you are getting their under your own steam. It also means that, unlike car drivers, you can have a flexible attitude to the interpretation of the Highway Code with especial reference to mounting pavements, haring across green spaces and being able to go up and down stairs.

The mode of transport I’ve never been able to understand is the motorbike. The motorbike seems to combine all that is worst about a bike - exposure to the elements, lack of a glove compartment, vulnerability in traffic - with all that is crap about a car - can only go on roads, costs lots to run. As I see it, the only reasons for owning a bike are: you have a beard and need an excuse for it, you are a man over 40 and as such the only leather you are now allowed to wear is a biker outfit or a gimp mask; or you have just turned 40 period.

Bikers have always annoyed the hell out of me - either as couriers in town or, worse of all, the way in which they thread between slow or stationary traffic on motorways. Maybe there was a time when a bike could do that and not be a nuisance but today, with bikes roughly the same size as an overstuffed sofa, it means that you have to move your car to let them through.

I recently learned the secret of surviving traffic - snacks! The last time I was in a traffic jam I had a cool box stuffed with crisps, chocolate and cold drinks. 45 minutes sitting in the fast lane? No problem, just listened to some tunes on the iPod and consumed about 40,000 calories. If I had not been thus occupied and, it’s true, reduced to a dazed state by all the fat and flavourings I was getting down my throat, I would probably have been able to register annoyance at the behaviour of the occasional biker shooting left and right of me.

This then, is the most probable explanation for the murder of a biker on the M40 last weekend. A biker was shot and the whole motorway was closed for a few hours. Inconvenient for those in the traffic, very inconvenient for the biker. Police think he may have been shot as the result of a biker feud after attending a biker rally. Me, I think that the guy spent a weekend with his biker mates and, on a high and considering himself king of the road, undertook and overtook and pulled all sorts of cheeky manoeuvres on the way down the motorway until he pulled that shit on somebody with a short temper and a long barrel on their illegal firearm.

Police intend to spend the summer visiting biker rallies and will probably complete the investigation short of suspects but with plenty of new gear for the cycle cops. As a line of enquiry it’s a pretty good one, certainly better than working on who has a grudge against bikers - they can start with pretty much the entire DVLA database. Me, I’d look for the car with the sticker on the side in the shape of a silhouette of a biker’s helmet.