Special Guest Blogger: Timothy West

Ah, hello. Timothy West here. Or rather, Timothy West there, honestly, if this is eternity, they really ought to sort out the heating. And the Wi-Fi. I’ve been trying to check my IMDb page for a full twenty minutes. No signal. Frankly, it’s disgraceful.
So yes. I am, as the youngsters say, dead. D-E-A-D. Pushing up daisies. Six feet under. Kicked the bucket. It’s rather disconcerting, really. One minute you're eating a rather excellent scone at the National Theatre, the next you're being ushered through a celestial security checkpoint by a bloke in a toga who insists his name is Kevin who patiently explains that harps are not a thing.
So i was a furniture salesman first and then an Actor. All Creatures Great and Small. Upstairs Downstairs. Edward & Mrs. Simpson. I’ve had a go at everything, haven’t I? Theatre? Check. Shakespeare with the RSC. Television? Oh, yes — so much television. Radio? You bet, I’ve narrated more audiobooks than the entire cast of The Archers combined. Movies? The Day of the Jackal anyone?
But let’s not pretend I was Olivier. I was more… reliable. The sort of chap they’d call when Olivier was busy being Olivier and needed someone dignified but not too imposing and doesn’t mind wearing a wig.
And the wigs! Good lord, the wigs. I’ve sported so many hairpieces and some of them looked startled badgers had taken up residence on my head.
I married well, Prunella Scales. Yes, that Prunella. Sybil from Fawlty Towers. Tiny, fierce, and capable of silencing a room with one raised eyebrow. We were happy, even when I accidentally called her 'Sybil' during an argument about bin day.
Now, as I drift through this peculiar post-life limbo (still no harp, Kevin, still no harp), I wonder: what did it all mean?
Did my 1978 portrayal of a constipated vicar in Crown Court change the world? Perhaps not.
Did narrating 14 seasons of Great British Railway Journeys teach the public anything useful? Well, they now know how to pronounce Eccles correctly so that’s something.
So here’s to the lot of it, the spotlight, the flop, the wigs, the scones, the snoring, the love, the pratfalls, the CBE for my services to drama and the occasional bout of mistaken identity (no, I am not John Thaw).
I lived. I worked. I tried (mostly) to be kind. I once forgot my lines during a live broadcast and blamed it on 'technical difficulties' which was neither true nor dignified. But I got away with it as us National Treasures can occasionally.
My demise came when first i fell over and damaged something important and months later I’m dead and looking for Kevin to tell him I want that harp. And a better signal. And possibly a cup of tea. I expect eternity to be slightly better organised than this.

Israel Confirms Accuracy Of Death Toll In Gaza

Ever since the Gaza genocide started, Israel and its supporters took every opportunity to disparage and dismiss the death and injured figures in the occupied Palestinians territory, arguing that they were overblown or even fabricated by Hamas to try and encourage everyone to treat the awful death toll with suspicion.
The UN has always stated that the numbers were accurate as the data published by the Hamas health ministry includes the full details of the deceased and confirmed by Gazan hospitals and morgues.
Now that a senior military intelligence official admitted last week that Israel has checked, and accepts the death toll published by Gaza’s health ministry, which currently stands at more than 73,600, those who peddled the line that the death toll was not to be trusted are shifting the goalposts and arguing that while the overall death toll of 73,600 may be accurate, what actually matters is the ratio of civilians to militants among them which is extremely low.
This lie falls apart immediately as details from Israel's own military database which was seen by several media outlets and  being used in it's Genocide prosecution at the ICJ, indicated that 83% of Gaza’s dead were civilians.
One Israeli Officer said: 'People are promoted to the rank of terrorist after their death' including children to bolster the weak Israeli defence that they are killing terrorists or Hamas members  wheres according to data obtained from this database, Israel had killed 8,300 militants, the other 65,300 you are safe to assume were civilian Palestinians slaughtered en masse with impunity and recklessness.
Tragically the health ministry’s figures do not include the grim figure of the 10,000 bodies at least still thought to be under the rubble nor do they include deaths from Israeli caused starvation, disease, hypothermia and treatable health conditions which studies show mean the true total may in fact have gone well beyond 100,000.
We won’t know for certain how high the horror death toll since 7 October really is until Israel stops bombing Gaza and stops preventing the media from being able to report from the strip on the abhorrent genocide Israel has, and continue, to commit.  

Rain, Rain Go Away

It was explained to me once that the difference between Drizzle and Rain is that if you can see the drops landing in a puddle it's rain, if not it's drizzle but Great Britain has far to much stuff falling from the clouds to have just two names for it, so we have 188 apparently.
As Meteorologists are saying that it has rained somewhere in Britain every day since January 1st then i imagine over the last 40 days every name has been used and as we have another week at least of the wet stuff, i imagine a few more could be added by the time we have a day when we don't need an umbrella but why has it been such a wet start to 2026?
Usually we can blame being on the cold and wet side of the Jet Stream and that is true but we also have to look at Scandinavia, or rather the High Pressure system which has taken up residence there and not allowing the low pressures systems to whizz across the UK and soak the pavements of anyone else on the other side of the North Sea.
The Jet Stream has been buckled down towards Spain and North Africa due to the extreme cold air sinking down from the Arctic over North America so the Low Pressure systems have been  having a rare old time crossing the North Atlantic and unhindered by the Jet Stream deflecting them up towards Iceland and away from us, they have been steering a path for  our shores bringing frequent rain but whereas generally they throw themselves across us within a day, they have been stopped by the Scandinavian High which has been sat over Sweden and Norway and caused blocked weather patterns so the rain system stalls, slow down and gets stuck over England because the High Pressure doesn't let it continue.
By the time that Low has dumped all its rain on us and starts to fizzles out another one has come along and takes it place which is why so many places have has record amounts of rain so far this year.
The Met Office is saying that there are signs that the High Pressure is shifting slightly or enough at least to let the Low Pressure systems continue on their trek over the UK and into the North Sea but they were keen to emphasis that there are only hints of this and to not leave the brolly at home just yet.
Getting your hair wet everyday isn't fun but at least it gives you the chance to impress people with your knowledge of when it is raining, drizzling or just plain old chucking it down again.

Special Guest Blogger: The Vivienne

First things first, the obituary must lead with the important stuff. I was the nation’s first-ever Drag Race UK champion and fabulous. My exit was reportedly more stylish than Posh Spice’s entire 1998 tour wardrobe, and caused significantly less international incident.
Yes, that’s the stuff. I want my legacy to be cemented in the facts, darling. I won. The first one. A small, humble achievement, you might have heard of it. Before me, there was just… well, there was Drag Race, but it was all a bit… American, wasn't it?
I brought a certain Scouse grit, a specific brand of polished bitchiness, that the world just didn't know it needed. I turned the UK from a charming little novelty act into a global powerhouse of drag and I did it all on a diet of fags, gin, and a relentless, borderline pathological desire to be the shiniest thing in the room.
What else will they remember? The looks, my God, the looks. I’ve corseted my ribcage into shapes that would make an architect weep. I’ve glued down more eyebrows than I’ve had hot dinners. My body was a roadmap of pain with aching feet from stilettos that could double as murder weapons, a back held together by sheer force of will and the occasional dose of ibuprofen.
But was it worth it? Listen, when you can walk into a room looking like a divine, otherworldly creature who has just beamed down from Planet Fierce to inform the mortals that their hair is, frankly, a bloody mess… yes. It’s always worth it.
Of course, The Vivienne doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Behind the sequins and the attitude is a fella. A lad from Liverpool called James who pays the council tax and occasionally forgets to take the bins out. This is where the self-deprecation comes in, you see. The Vivienne is a legend. James is… fine. He’s the one who has to deal with the aftermath. The one who scrubs the glitter out of the sink.
James is the sensible one. The one who tells The Vivienne, 'No, we can’t afford that custom-made crystal-encrusted gown, we’ve got rent to pay.” And The Vivienne, bless her, looks back from the mirror and says, 'Bollocks to that, get the credit card babe'.
He was the yin to my yang. The calm to my storm. The one who remembers to buy milk. And while you all came for the queen with the sharp tongue and the even sharper cheekbones, a little part of my legacy is the quiet fella who just wanted to make people laugh. He’s the engine in this ridiculously over-decorated, high-maintenance sports car. And he was absolutely knackered which is why we both pegged out at the age of 32, dead after a cardiac arrest bought on by a Ketamine overdose.
Let’s be frank. In 100 years, will anyone really remember my season 9 snatch game? Probably not. Will they recall the exact shade of lipstick I wore for the final? Unlikely. My legacy isn’t in the trophies or the TV appearances. It’s not in the brand endorsements or the sold-out tours.
My legacy is the permission to be a bit of a bastard. To be witty, and sharp, and maybe a little bit too much for some people. To wear the absurdly high heels even though you might break your ankle. To tell someone their outfit is a disaster with a wink and a smile, because life’s too short for bad fashion and long faces.
So I say stay Vivacious. Or don’t. See if I care.
 

Booing At Opening Ceremony

Prior to the Opening Ceremony of the Winter Olympics, The International Olympic Committee President made a plea for respect and to not boo any of the competitors carrying their flags, and just in case the San Siro Stadiums Music was turned up and the crowd noise dimmed on TV but at the first glimpse of the Israeli and the American flag, it was obvious that the music still wasn't loud, or the crowed noise dimmed enough, to disguise the crowd of 75,000 making their feelings known .    
As the games are spread out across Northern Italy at five Games Clusters, each Cluster also reported jeering, booing and whistling as the Stars and Stripes and Star of David showed itself.
The IOC faced pressure to ban Israel from competing over the genocide in Gaza but they rejected those calls, saying the usual thing about it not being political although that falls apart when you consider Russian and Belarus athletes are only allowed to compete under a neutral flag if they haven't openly backed the war in Ukraine so that's a nonsense excuse.
Ukraine and Venezuela received enthusiastic roars though and I am assuming many of the 232 American Athletes will be wandering Italy saying 'American? Nah mate, Canadian'. 

History Of Computing Words

Usually whenever i get email and it is whanging on about Computers i send it winging its way straight into the Junk Folder but i had a great one from The Museum of Computing regarding the history of everyday computer terms.
Interestingly, some words from our online vocabularies have been with us a lot longer than their modern meanings apparently.
People were talking about Streaming in 1368 but they meant a beam of unbroken light and not  the playback of an online video or listening to 80s songs on Spotify.
If you asked about Hardware in 1450 you would be shown tools, utensils, nails and even arrowheads because it was what they called metal items back then because there wasn't much call for Hard drives or Motherboards back then.
A Firewall today may keep your computer safe from viruses but in 1578 it was literally a barrier-like wall of flames although it later became a thick partition wall inside a building before the computer nerds made it mean keeping your computer safe.
Surf has been used since the 1600's to mean the foamy crash of the sea on the shore before dudes with surf boards stuck an -ing on the end and then dudes with an internet connection in the 90's took it to mean surfing the net.
The first broadband was the name of a technique for drying corn way back in the early 1600s and Upload and Download is from 1870 and was what farmers did to their carts, meaning putting on and taking off large bales of hay.
Bandwidth was a word uttered by Meteorologists in 1885 to mean measuring how large a band of rain was to help their forecasting and it was Offline and Online was a phrase you would hear from railway workers in 1918 and meant something that was transported by rail, or not.
We have the 2nd World War to thanks for Spam, as fresh meat was in short supply in 1937 so the army servicemen were sent tinned 'spiced ham' which was less perishable and we’ve been dealing with unwanted spam in our inboxes ever since.
When Richard Dawkins wanted a word to mean a unit of cultural transmission in his 1976 book, The Selfish Gene, he came up with Mimeme which was edited down to Meme as it rhymed better with Gene.

Thank you The Museum of Computing although i can't promise i wont still junk the next one you send me.

Special Guest Blogger: Denis Law

If you’re reading this, one of two things is true: either you’re still alive and scrolling aimlessly, or you’ve finally tracked down the ghost of a 70s footballer so let me cut to the chase, you’re here because you want to know about my life, my career, and how I tragically exited this earthly pitch. Spoiler: it involved pancreatic cancer, not a tackle.
But hey, let’s not dwell on the how, let’s celebrate the why. Buckle up and listen to how I went from kicking tins to kicking goals.
I was born in Scotland but even as a kid, I knew I was destined for greatness because while other boys were playing keepy-uppy with their socks, I was dribbling a tin can around.
My move to Manchester United in 1962? Well, that was the real 'I told you I was special' moment. So good was that team that even the other team supporters started tipping their hats.
In 1968, we won the European Cup. I scored 238 goals for United. I was the first British player to earn a FIFA World Player of the Year nomination but off the field I was a husband, a father, and the master of the 'I’ll do the dishes later' excuse. My wife, Evelyn, put up with me for 63 years.
They put up a statue of me at Old Trafford. It’s me in my prime mid-sprint, muscles flexed an plenty of hair gel and i always envisioned i would go by maybe a heart attack mid-fight with a linesman, or a sudden burst of glory in my 90s, sprinting through a shopping mall like it’s the Champions League.
Instead, I got pain, forgetfulness from the Alzheimer's disease and vascular dementia and the ref blew the final whistle.

Bye Bye Keir

I had such high hopes for Keir Starmer and the Labour Government but it seems that they have done all they can to make sure they only one serve on term and the Peter Mandelson scandal has pretty much rubber stamped that Starmer will be lucky to see May out with the keys to Number 10 jingling in his pocket.
Bringing someone who had already been sacked twice was a strange choice but the feeling was that as Mandelson and Trump moved in the same Epstein circles, he would be a good choice as our diplomat to deal with the capricious  American Leader even if it meant, as Starmer admitted, he knew about the links with the now dead pedophile when he appointed him.
Now that it has all blown up in his face, it is hard to see how Starmer can carry on as the Prime Minister but even more worrying for Labour is, there is no natural choice to step into his Hush Puppies.
I was backing Angela Raynor before her tax scandal was exposed so I have cooled on her and Andy Burnham has been blocked  from becoming an MP so he can't do it and the only other alternative is Wes Streeting and he is as popular as a fart in a lift with the other Labour members so successors are thin on the ground.
My suspicison is that he will hobble on until the May 7th Local Elections and then be toppled because nobody will want to take over before then, especially as Labour is expected to be giving a right royal walloping by the general public so heads will be kept low until then so he can be blamed for the poor results.    
The Cabinet seem to be pinning the blame on Morgan McSweeny who was the man who persuaded Starmer that Mandelson would be a good choice and it is he that they are hoping will be the sacrificial lamb but ultimately it was Starmer who had the final say and his excuse that he asked Mandelson about his links with Epstein, and Mandleson lied to him, seem at best extremely weak but in all honesty i wouldn't mind seeing him go, i'm just worried who we will get in his place.  
Unless someone rises unexpectedly out of the pack, i would have to hold my nose and say Raynor but being the least worst option is not a ringing endorsement. 

Winter Olympic Penisgate

The 2026 Winter Olympics are upon us and for the next 16 days we will be watching people slip and slide their way onto the podium and Britain, the land of on average 13 days of snow per year, are confident that we can beat our best medal haul from a Winter Games of five this time around and are optimistic that they will be loading 7 or even 8 onto the flight back home from Italy.
The  Skeleton, Figure Skating, Freestyle Skiing, Snowboarding, Bobsleigh and Curling are the disciplines which UK Sport have put circles around to finish in the top 3 but our grand total of 34 medals is not great compared to Norway who top the all time medal table with 405 but then they do have the advantage of lots of snow which is a bit of an advantage.
What we do seem to hear of at every Olympics are drug cheats and this year there has already been claims that some ski jumpers are trying to gain an advantage by injecting illicit substances and as the potential scandal is being called 'Penisgate', have a guess where the injections are going.  
Last year two of Norway’s Olympic medallists, were given three-month suspensions after the team was found to have secretly adjusted the seams of their suits in the crotch area at the 2025 World Ski Championships which made the jumpers suits larger and therefore reduced their descent rate due to the increased wingspan but now that gig is up, apparently some ski-jumpers have been reportedly injecting their penises with paraffin or hyaluronic acid in order to enlarge their penis's and fly further.
I have no idea what it does or how it works but the World Anti Doping Agency President, Witold ­Banka, has said he will take a look at it which shouldn't be too hard because those suits are pretty tight so it shouldn't be that difficult to see a skier who has injected his penis, the tears in his eyes should be a tell tale sign even if the first thing to cross the line isn't the tip of the ski's.

Special Guest Blogger: James Earl Jones

Yes, I died. It happened. My voice, once described as a thunderstorm whispering sweet nothings into your soul, finally took a permanent break.
But let’s be honest, folks, I didn’t die so much as fade out dramatically with a voiceover. I mean, if you’re going to exit this mortal coil, do it with gravitas. Do it like the final scene of a Shakespearean tragedy, except you’re not, your Darth Vader.
Let’s take a stroll down memory lane and its a funny thing about being the voice of God, Mufasa, and the soul of every public service announcement about deforestation, I didn’t talk until I was five. That’s right. My voice took a leisurely detour through selective mutism and my parents just said i would speak when i was ready, and boy was I ready but I never meant to become the voice of evil space emperors although I didn’t get royalties on the voice for decades because I signed away the rights for $7,500. Seven thousand. Five hundred. For the voice of Darth Vader.
But hey, I’ve got a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, a couple of Tonys, an Oscar (lifetime achievement, but still no small feat when your face isn’t usually visible). And let’s not forget The Lion King. I played Mufasa. A lion. A majestic, noble lion.
I lent my voice to everything, commercials for cereal, car insurance, mobile phones. I once narrated a commercial for toilet paper but you got to earn a dollar, even if it does smells faintly of aloe vera and lavender.
I finally lost my battle with diabetes aged 93 but don’t want to be remembered only for the voice, I want people to remember that I was an actor but your voice matters,even if you don’t use it for decades. Even if it sounds like a mountain clearing its throat. Speak up. Tell your story. Recite Shakespeare. Narrate your grocery list and order a chicken sandwich in Gregg's as if you are about to start a World War.