A Fry Up For The Luvvies

Much as I like award ceremonies, I watched only small bits of the BAFTAs last night. This was partly because I rarely watch films, so it would be like someone with no interest in dogs sitting through the final of Crufts. But it was also because the ubiquitous Stephen Fry is beginning to seriously get on my tits.
He seemed a little more restrained last night, contenting himself with an extended - nay, interminable - metaphor based on the notion that the ceremony was a long haul flight, the airline was BAFTA and he was Chief Steward. Anyone in the audience who thought this was dazzling wit probably also thought Eric Cantona was the leading French philosopher of the 20th century.
It might have been worth it if the climax had been a comedy terrorist dressed as a hijacker jumping onto the stage and punching his lights out. As it was, it ended with some line about 'thank you for flying with us' and he ambled off into the wings to place his tongue - which had spent the evening caressing the prostate of assorted Hollywood folk - in a glass of Listerine.

John Major was always mocked for running away from the circus to become an accountant. But did you know that Stephen Fry was the only boy to run away from school to go to Swindon? He was arrested there in a Thistle hotel for cheque fraud.
Why he went there is a mystery. Perhaps he thought he was going to Sweden, a slightly more attractive destination for a gay teenager. But it's an easy mistake to make, as John Major knows. He once stood up in the House of Commons and compared the U.K.'s Gross National Product with that of Swindon. But maybe that was just the old Tory trick of making the economy look better than it was.

I also noticed last night that nobody has told BAFTA that the term 'actress' has been consigned to the linguistic dustbin. They're still dishing out Best Actress awards instead of 'Best Actor (Female)'. This is odd because Dickie Attenborough is a pioneer of sexual equality, calling everyone 'Darling' whether male, female, animal, vegetable or mineral.
But I thought he was a bit off-form and off-message last night. He didn't cry or even almost cry. And he didn't say "It was in 1927 that David Lean introduced me to a remarkable man called [insert name of actor, director, cameraman, lighting engineer, best boy, gaffer, boy who holds the gaffer tape]".
In fact, I'm glad now that I didn't watch the programme. It wouldn't have given me much to blog about.

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Two favourites from the coverage of the forthcoming royal wedding:

A reporter on BBC News 24 said: 'although Charles is marrying Camilla, she will not be clean..........er, Queen.'

This reminded me that someone who knew Camilla told a journalist many years ago "you wouldn't want to be standing downwind of her."

Secondly, it seems that the curious pecking order associated with royal titles means that Anne will have to curtsey to Her Royal Pheromone.

Bet that will get right up Anne's nose.

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I'm sure I can't be the first person to mention this so apologies if it's old hat. But the other day I discovered that the Blogger spell check doesn't recognise the word 'blogger'. It suggested I put 'flogger'.

I think I should point out to them that

a) I am not a Conservative MP and

b) I only took up blogging because I thought it was more becoming for a man at my time of life than dubious sexual fetishes.

It's true that blogging can sometimes seem like flogging a dead horse. But it's better than shagging a dead horse.

That could almost be a link back to my previous item. No, come on Willie. Break the habit of a lifetime. Show some respect.