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Namaste, Shalamar and Shakatak.

It is now the morning of Friday 12^th February, yet as I wake in the cold and the murk, eyes heavy with sleep, the residue of Clinton Baptiste’s performance is still upon me. I endeavour to tap into the glowing embers of the spectral energy and see what I can channel.

As a testament to Mr Baptiste’s extraordinary gift and resonance, spirit pulls back the veil and is upon me like a dog with two dicks. This is the transcript of that remarkable event.

Me: Spirits? Spirits? Who hast thou sent through?

Spirit One: Oh hi, how lovely to be here! It is me, beloved children’s grizzly bear, Gentle Ben.

Me: Spirits? Spirits? Does Ben cometh alone?

Spirit Two: No, he’s here with his spectral companion Dennis Norden, and we nearly didn’t get here at all after a series of hilarious mishaps, that we in the business call bloopers.

Me: Yes, okay, thanks, Dennis. But spirits, if I may – I must ask a question of great import! Did you catch Clinton Baptiste Live last night?

[The wind howls, the window rattles in the casement, and the curtains billow out into the room.]

DN: If you’re asking me if I’m one of those people, who caught Clinton Baptiste last night…

GB (interrupting): Yes, I caught it, and found it to be rather edifying. It reminded of those carefree days when, as a cub, I would roam the forests of the Everglades, gorging on salmon, before Mater would call me back to the den, where I would dive into my books and study Proust.

Me: À la recherche du temps perdu?

GB: Well maybe, but Clinton’s hour did fly by, what do you think Dennis?

DN: I very much liked how Mr Baptiste interacted with his audience during the private readings, I have to say, if you were one of those people…

GB (clapping paws): Oh, weren’t those Top Trumps delightful! A wonderful departure from the more prosaic cards of the arcana tarot! And wasn’t William Regal just divine – in all his bile and venom? Quite delightful! My fur practically stood on end!

DN: I sat down with Frank Muir this morning, and the show was what we would describe as “wonderful times with wonderful people!” And wasn’t it nice to see Shergar coming through?

GB: I could tell you many a story about him, darling! Especially when he’s been on the saucepot with Keith Moon! Once, I was sat there minding my own business, simply devouring Rod Hull’s spare copy of Ulysses when along trots Shergar and Dougal, from the Magic Roundabout, absolutely three-sheets to the wind!

DN: Well, they are those kinds of people…

GB: Quite, Dennis, quite. Well, Shergar takes offence at something, mutters about Parnell and kicks me right in the nose! I swipe out with my great bear paw, only to get a claw full of Dougal’s voluminous fur, as he’s trying to nibble at my feet! I can giggle about it now, but for a while after, I had these two throbbing black eyes! That said, I had the last laugh! The following week, I won first prize at Prince Albert’s fancy dress party by rolling in flour and going as Ching-Ching the Panda.

DN (quipping): Queen Victoria was not amused – have you seen her Prince Albert?

[Silence briefly falls at this structurally compromised bon-mot.]

Me: But would you enjoy the spooky company of Mr Clinton Baptiste again?

DN: I think I am one of those people who would, yes. Could we bring Frank next time?

GB: Oh, I don’t see why not! I’ve seen them all you see, Helena Blavatsky, Edgar Cayce, Mystic Meg, all of them! I think Frank would love it, but he’ll want to bring Arthur Marshall, then things get complicated…

And with that, the spirits swirled back into the realm of shadow, and I was left alone in my bed, with only the memory of an excellent show to ponder.

Clinton Baptiste is a regular purveyor of such internet events, and they have been a lifeline for many over this last year or so. To find out more, check out www.clintonbaptiste.com or follow this spiritual master on Twitter at Clinton Baptiste (@realclintonb) / Twitter

Five stars indeed, but Mr Baptiste already knew that.

Simon Gary is the author of the comic novels “Gone to the Dogs” and “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew” which are both widely available and highly recommended!

“I always used to think that when I pegged it, all of a sudden people would buy the records, and pretend they liked us all along. But I begin to worry that what if I peg it, and they still don’t buy the records?”   Robert Lloyd, quoted from the film King Rocker, mid curry.

Scuppered by lockdowns, “King Rocker,” a film written by Stewart Lee and directed by Michael Cumming, aired on Sky Arts, on Saturday 6^th February 2021. It proved to be a glorious two-hours of film and television.

As a master of extracting the illusion of structure from any narrative, the warp thread of this film is an 18ft, 1960lb fibreglass replica of the famous movie ape, King Kong.

But the true hero seems to follow the arc of the fibreglass monkeyfication – his name is Robert Lloyd, and people don’t live lives like his anymore.

While reminiscing about bakeries and trudging through ice-glazed and arrogant stone circles, Lee describes Lloyd as “fast-tracked to disillusionment.”

I’m not sure I agree, because to many, disillusionment is the fuel to giving up, or at the very least compromising. Robert Lloyd, I would suggest, is not a man that you could accuse of either failing.

What lies at the centre of this life-affirming piece, is the genuine warmth between Lee, the writer, and Lloyd, the musician.

They could be any pair of fellows, supping away in the mahogany glow of the snug; indeed they often are.

As Lloyd himself remarks, when speaking of those chaps you see in alehouses, “there was a bloke who sat over there, whose name I never knew.”

But know, thanks to this film, I know the name of Robert Lloyd, singer and poet with The Prefects and The Nightingales.

The film also reveals Lloyd’s other guises of video producer, postman and record producer. This latter role allows Lee to nod to another of heroes, the marvellous comedian, Ted Chippington. I was delighted to view this entertaining segue, and it worked well, roughly speaking.

Mr Lloyd also flirted with the possibility of writing a sitcom, before a suitably poptastic ego explosion within the circle of his collaborators. Who knows how successful “Normal” would have been? The script table read, some quarter of a century late was rendered particularly delightful by the superb energy of the actor Kevin Eldon – surely a shoo-in for a role, if ever there was one.

But for me, for all his punk energy, zero-compromise, and giant stage presence, Robert Lloyd comes across as a tremendously top bloke. Just buy him a Guinness, and sit back and enjoy to good times. Mr Lee, while a star and hero in his own right, is able to sit back and allow the warmth of his subject to shine through. It comes across as one interesting mate making a film about another. And that is what makes this piece of art so very engaging.

Well, that bonhomie, aligned with a stuffed weasel, and an eighteen-foot purveyor of form.

I enjoyed this film very much, indeed, and I would urge you to give it a watch. It will make you happy, and you may even rush off and form a band. But more than that, watch it to celebrate what makes you uniquely, as Messrs Lloyd and Lee have shared what makes them uniquely them.

An easy five stars, on my somewhat ad-hoc 5-Star scale.

Simon Gary is the author of the comic novels “Gone to the Dogs” and “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew,” which maybe someone will make an equally good film about one day.

Shared from the novel, “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew,” this essay, compiled for a school competition, was written by the young, Cornelius Thryke.

It tells of a doomed outing involving himself, sister Martha, and older brother, Henry. Fetch a cup of tea, gather biscuits unto yourself and sit back to enjoy.

As a fan of British Comedy, I was eager to tune in to “Mark Kermode’s Secrets of Cinema,” which focused on British Comedy in this first episode.

What viewers received was a well-structured, almost scholarly piece of television. Kermode explored six different branches on the cinematic comedy family tree: The Little Man; Class & Manners; The Sex-Comedy (“neither sexy nor funny”); Criminal Comedy; The Joke’s on Hollywood, and Little Britain.

This diversity, which sought to cover a comedic output of almost a century, was both a delight and the main difficulty with the programme.

At times, it felt like a primer, unable to spend too much time on one thing, but Kermode’s skilful narrative brought things together in a pleasing way.

It was fantastic to see such attention on the Ealing comedies, even if this is a topic upon which an entire series could have been commissioned. The viewer was clearly able to see the almost familial relationships. Ealing begat the Carry On’s; the Carry On’s begat the bawdy sex romps of the ‘70s.

But it was also rewarding to see this thread being drawn into more modern films, and I must admit it is perhaps here that the programme will send me away watch some of the films that I have not seen.

It was exciting to hear names like Armando Iannucci and the fantastic Chris Morris being mentioned. Have there been many more important and explosive films than 2010’s “Four Lions?”

The clips were well chosen, though, as with any show of this nature, I would have liked to have relaxed into larger segments. Unfortunately, this could never be possible. It is always joyous to see the great, late Terry Jones proclaiming Brian Cohen to be “a very naughty boy.”

Ultimately, it was a very enjoyable hour of television, fronted by a whisky-toting Mark Kermode who, at one moment, even channelled his inner Finbar Saunders. I would have preferred a series that could have offered greater depth, but this offering will definitely have me scurrying off to watch some of the films that I have not seen.

Mr Kermode remains an authoritative and comforting guide – and I can imagine going to the cinema with him is an endlessly fascinating experience. Catch up with this programme if you can.

Simon Gary is the author of the comedy novels “Gone to the Dogs” and “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew.”

“Gone to the Dogs” is based on a fictional 1970s sitcom and is told via a series of interviews with the cast and writers. “Thryke: The Man That Nobody Knew” is a prequel, which picks up on the earlier life of one of the stars, Cornelius Thryke. Join him on a journey through school, war, and love. Click on the titles to find out more!

Norman Jay MBE is one of those rare people who have one foot in the future. When you have caught up with him, he has already gone.

“Mister Good Times” is the story of how Norman Jay has lived at the cutting edge of culture for five decades, through two constants: love and passion.

Let me be clear from the off. I thoroughly enjoyed this book. It is structured with an almost musical flow and is beautifully written. In his life as a deejay, Jay has developed an innate sense of the rise and fall of an audience mood, which he can match with a carefully selected groove. I would suggest that Norman’s prose bears similar hallmarks of control. It is simply wonderful and so easy to read.

But it is the historical and cultural importance of this book that cannot be understated, as detailed by a truly remarkable person.

If you ever find that you doubt yourself or are struggling to start a project, read this book. Mr Jay’s fierce independence and fearlessness shine through the enthusiasm of his words. As a young black man in the ‘60s and ’70s, the author, experiencing a lack of opportunity, decided to make his own. Norman Jay, MBE, is a testament to what anybody can achieve if their mind remains firm. He is a hero to so, so many.

A triad of constant threads weaves through the book. These are; carnival, family, and an unquenchable thirst for music. Through this triumvirate, Jay skilfully makes transparent a beautifully heritage. “Mister Good Times” is a remarkable celebration of that heritage.

I read the book with a computer open next to me. I looked up the street names, the artists and the songs. I will never fully understand the heritage that Mr Jay so warmly shares, but I am inspired to learn more and build a more rounded appreciation.

I have so much gratitude towards Mister Norman “Good Times” Jay. I like to think that his sound system, the eponymous “Good Times” has transcended the playing of music, however important that is. “Good Times” are what we can all have when we embrace all of the magnificent heritage within the UK. We can learn about one another and celebrate our differences. That way lies the rare groove of “Good Times.”

Please do read this book. I include a link to the hardback version here.

To find out more about the author, head to his website, here.

Or for more great content – head to the Norman Jay MBE YouTube Channel.

The “Keith Moon Look-a-Like” Christmas party always spawned several shoulder injuries, and this year was no different.

Fifteen had started, twelve remained. As the drummers tapped out a gentle, wire-brushed, yuletide beat, a mother and pram-pushed infant came in to speak with Joe, the bar manager, about the lack of facilities for baby-changing.

Meanwhile, at a table in the corner, the three triumphal quiz champions, shared out the last of the super-kings cigarettes, lit from a single flame in the darkness.

At the bar, a geezer tried to gather together his failing herd, anxious for one more round of shots before the shutters came down.

The infant cried, all looked on, as the bingo machine was unplugged.

A Merry Christmas to one and all!

Simon Gary is the author of the novels “Gone to the Dogs” and “Thyrke: The Man That Nobody Knew.”

The first is about a fictional 1970s sit-com, told through a series of interviews with the cast and writers. The second is about Cornelius Thryke, one of the stars of “Gone to the Dogs,” and concerns his wondrous early life and escapades.

Buy both now through this site!

“All assembled, sir!” he barked, resplendent in his uniform.

“Very good.”

The second man, short, rotund, and violet of hue, began to amble, up and down the line of the assembled eleven, fat thumbs stuffed into the pockets of his yellow, checked waistcoat, between which swayed a thick gold watch chain.

“Here, at Corinthian Thatch Bakery, we are a family firm,” he began. “We have been serving the towns, villages and hamlets of these environs for many generations; all without hint of complaint nor scandal.

He reached the end of the line and began to walk back, closely studying each face in turn.

“So, when one of my bakery family, who I each consider as a distant cousin, brings shame upon my business, I am incandescent! Incandescent, I tell you!

On the hard “c” of the word, small globules of saliva sprayed forth, soaking the poor individual in the third position. Mr Fisher, the source of the spray, withdrew a small slip of paper from his trouser pocket.

“So, I will ask this only once. Would the person,” he folded the slip of paper. “Would the person who piped ‘Jizz Box Monkey Balls” onto the birthday cake of our local M.P., please take on step forward.”

There was some shuffling and exchanged glances between the pipers. Then, all eleven stepped forward.

“Welcome to our hotel, my Lord.”

Lord Peregrine Apalachian-Racket climbed from his vintage sports car, nodded and handed the keys to the waiting attendant.

Walter, eighteen if but a day, climbed in, closed the door and inhaled the aroma of polished leather and cigar smoke. He ran his fingers over the ridges and valleys of the polished wood-rimmed steering wheel, that glowed amber in the wintry sun.

Walter watched as the peer disappeared into the lobby with the know-towing concierge. He gently released the handbrake, rolling the car serenely across the gravel.

It was with some puzzlement that he found himself passing the parking garages.

The Little-Sodbury-on-the-Wode Senior Citizens Tea Dance, Muriel explained, was losing its sheen of exclusivity and culture.

“I’m not one to gossip, as you know Vicar, but one cannot help trace the slide back to the arrival of our newest member.”

The vicar placed the delicate china vessel back into its saucer and reached for a biscuit. He knew that Muriel, without further prompting, was bound to continue.

“I always knew it was a mistake admitting the younger element,” she said, with a sigh.

“How old is Hilary?” queried the vicar.

“Sixty-two.”

“Ah.” Now in his forties, he had learned to nod sagely. “A difficult age.”

“Well, quite. It’s the choices of tune that stump me. Why not a light waltz, or a gentle foxtrot?”

“Indeed,” said the vicar, with faux sympathy. “I mean, which of you has even heard of The Prodigy?”

“What was that?” he exclaimed gruffly, smashing a cigarette into the ashtray.

She watched as tiny embers sprang up and slowly glowed themselves to death-grey. He didn’t seem pleased.

“An hour?” she replied, more in hope.

“Listen, love; you know the mantra. Get ‘em in, get ‘em done and get ‘em gone. That was eighty minutes. Rooms five and eight have done three in that time!”

“I’m sorry, Ray, we just got talking. He was a lover of the arts.”

Ray threw his hands into the air. “What the chuff has that got to do with anything?”

He was a neanderthal. He wouldn’t understand. “You know I am studying fine art,” she said. “You don’t get much chance to have a conversation like that, especially around here.”

She glanced around at the lurid décor and posters of flowers and Parisienne rail stations. Where could you even buy puce paint?

“Look,” Ray stood. His tone changed to conciliatory and fatherly. Inside she cringed. “You’re a good masseuse. You’re a great earner. You could even get your picture up there, one day!”

She turned and looked along the line of images. In the ashtray, the last of the embers died.