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The obsequies of a tortoise are what you make of them.
We made a lot of George's the Blue Peter tortoise who died aged 83 last week and was laid to rest in the Blue Peter Garden on Monday just by John's compound. John did not make much of them to the extent that he was not pleased and that probably explains his subsequent mauling of Ministers: David%20Miliband
and Prime Ministerial envoys: who wandered too close at a bad moment.
It wasn't the obsequies themselves that upset John - they were dignified if a bit garish consisting mainly of a long cortege of Blue Peter staff dressed in Pearly King and Queen garb with Mark Lawson keening theatrically at its head following the plumed "praaahd 'orse" drawing the carriage in which was the shoebox holding George's earthly remains. The Nike logo on the box clashed a bit with the solemnity of the moment when it was lifted from the carriage - rather awkwardly given the relative sizes - by Valerie Singleton and Kris Akabusi on whom George had once embarrassed himself though given the little we know about the social conventions of the tortoise world it might not have been embarrassing to him though it was to us.
Nor was John put out by short ceremony presided over by the saintly Ed in his new Requiem Roman set of vestments which he had ordered off the internet where it was described as exceptional value for the price and which had arrived only the day before and which was lined in white satin and adorned with black brocade, silver metallic orphery banding and imported galoons & piping from France set-off with a minutely embroidered white stole. The conduct of the ceremony was dignified, moving and largely in Latin on the pretext that George was a Mediterranean spur-thigh tortoise and that the language of the Mare Nostrum was therefore appropriate.
No, he was put out mostly by the noisy and worrisomely messy preparations that turned the environs of his compound upside down and this was especially bad because he's not been on air that much this week on account of being awarded what's known in the 91热爆 as a "basking week". This is not the same as annual leave nor as a reading week or a moral renewal week. It is instead a week in which the applicant is supposed only to bask and not go on holiday nor read nor morally renew themselves. Anyway, John was basking at the edge of his compound under a watery sun, his leather restraints falling loosely across his wrists and ankles when a corner of his world was turned into a small building site.
There was a lot to do and in a short time. First the grave had to be dug and for a famous tortoise like George a shallow depression by the lawn with a bit of loose earth brushed over it is quite simply not on and so Sarah had to find the gardening gloves, borrow Jim's herb trowel and turn her shoulder to it while being given shouted advice of the "there..." "no, there..." kind from the programme editors while they finished their tea and growled advice of a different kind from the no-longer basking John.
Sarah also swore a bit - which wasn't very nice - because digging a shoebox-sized hole to the depth of six feet is not as easy as it seems especially when your trowel keeps getting snagged on the odd clavicle etc etc. And she got a lot of clay in her hair and a look of wild unhappiness in her eyes. Then there was that plaque to engrave and mount ... and the roll of false grass to provide a firm footing for the saintly Ed at the graveside as well as the decking walkway borrowed from Charlie Dimmock that had to be laid from the Westway to the garden. We all took the view that Sarah was cutting it fine and even though we shouted more and louder encouragement from the tea table she seemed to be taking an awfully long time over what were, let's face it, really simple tasks but then it's always like that with the washing up as well.
But it all turned out all right and I thought the really moving thing was the Today wind quartet playing their way through your choice of the saddest tunes of all time which you can hear played by real musicians on the website
and even vote for the that makes you sob most.
I think we've got the right list but there were one or two sticky moments when we kept finding the real shortlist crumpled in the bin beneath the escritoire and fake ones written in crayon and the unmistakeable hand of one of the Assistant Editors which was headed by Rolf Harris' "Two Little Boys" and therefore could not be at all genuine.
Clashing cacophonicly with all this sombreness was Tuesday's item on
which was not at all appropriate in a week of mourning but I suppose it was important because this chap Johnny Hurst has won a prize for composing a new chant which can't be genuine either on account of all the multisyllables and key changes in it and the complete lack of words like "ziggerzagger" and "pies".
More in tune with the lowered eyes and hushed concern and occasional "You OK?" across the studio was our discussion on Wednesday about whether you're when you're seventy.
This is obviously not a proper question since, like George, you only know what your full age is when it's too late to do any calculation about the middle bit of it. In George's case middle-aged was a year or two either side of 41 and a half though as I say he cannot have known it at the time unless it is in the gift of tortoises - and let's be honest we do not know this - to know the date of their final hibernation.
Oh.
Kevin
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