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13 May 14
14:42
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Date Joined:
05 Apr 06
(ironising = use ironically, btw, had to check)
.
http://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/tvandradioblog/2014/may/13/my-favourite-tv-show-dads-army
.
My favourite TV show: Dad's Army
Dad's Army's ironising approach to national identity made me fall for Britain in a way that only Danny Boyle's Olympics opening ceremony has done since
Dad's Army didn't play well with late 1960s' focus groups. When I interviewed the sitcom's co-creator Jimmy Perry a few years ago, he recalled: "One woman said: 'Haven't we had enough of this old wartime rubbish? And the bald-headed idiot [the great Arthur Lowe] doesn't know his lines!'"
Rude, but I can understand her compunctions. When Croft and Perry's portrayal of Walmington-on-Sea's charmingly risible last line of defence against Nazi invasion was first screened on the BBC, Britain was in the throes of Harold Wilson's white-hot technological revolution. It was 1968. Austerity? Sacrifice? Martial heroism? Yawn. Britain was young, swinging, libidinous and off its nut on illicit pharmaceuticals. This was no country for old men in itchy uniforms, bumbling about the south coast, mock-heroically practising for the stormtroopers who, as we know, never dropped in for tea and termination.
That said, any slur on Arthur Lowe makes me, like a latter-day Corporal Jones, want to fix bayonets and set about his critics. They don't like it up 'em, sir. What they didn't realise is that Lowe was a genius at performing pompous English self-delusion (you only have to listen to his audiotape narration of Charles Pooter in The Diary of a Nobody to get that). Such was Lowe's schtick as Captain Mainwaring, the roly-poly small-town Napoleon, the Quixote of the north. Once, Private Pike made Mainwaring a cup of tea and inadvertently tipped sand into it instead of sugar. Mainwaring took a sip. "Marvellous. I bet they're not drinking anything like this over in Germany." Pike and Sergeant Wilson exchanged glances that said: no, they're probably having lovely coffees with Sachertorte.
Moments like that still make me adore Dad's Army above any other TV programme. Croft and Perry always loved to put the ticking bomb of satire under the bottom of any British hubris, loved to point out, like Irvine Welsh avant la lettre, what an effete, hopeless bunch we British were.
By the time I started watching, it was the early 70s. Britain had lost an empire, had forgotten its white-hot technological dreams, was going post-industrial. Only a fool could take its national myths seriously. Dad's Army helped with that transition from hubris to hopeless: it was popular over nine series in part because it was for a TV nation that knew it was now a bit rubbish.
What remained now, to make the future palatable, was to satirise our ancestors' finest hour – hence a wartime sitcom that was the antidote to Kenneth More or Jack Hawkins, those stiff-upper-lip celluloid memorialisers of a lost Britain that will never, ever, come again. I've had a lot of occasions in my life to feel disgust at being British, but Dad's Army's ironising approach to national identity made me fall for this rain-soaked dime of a dump in a way that only Danny Boyle's 2012 Olympics opening ceremony has ever managed to replicate. As export products, both were as successful as the Austin Allegro.
Dad's Army was also great on class. Mainwaring, Pike and Wilson, the last bankers that Britain ever trusted, were always snooty about greengrocer Warden Hodges's dirty fingernails. Corporal Jones's deference to his captain was subverted by the fact that the former, a butcher in ration-book civvy street, was the town's most powerful man. The show also included one of the great absences in sitcom history, the terrifying Mrs Mainwaring who (like Maris Crane in Frasier, only much louder), was the elephant in her husband's psychic room.
Dad's Army finished in 1977, having readied me temperamentally for punk's nihilistic critique of national shibboleths ("God save the Queen," snarled Johnny Rotten, "We mean it man." No they didn't). There was no future in England's dreaming, but Croft and Perry had told me that already.
But now? Can the looming film version be anything other than risk-averse imposture for me and the rest of the deluded wrinkly demographic? So much of the TV that gives me a Proustian rush has been ruined by grave-robbing makeover ghouls (Bill and Ben can speak now? Top Cat is a Mexican movie now?) that the prospect makes me want to sharpen the Authentic Corporal Jones Souvenir Boer War Bayonet I picked up on eBay before taking out the movie trash. Or pitch a much lewder film version of Mrs Slocombe's ****.
That said, the fact that Toby Jones has been cast as Mainwaring and Bill Nighy as suave, lady-killing, utterly unmartial Sergeant Wilson – like Michael Jackson in his collaboration with Paul McCartney on The Girl is Mine, Wilson was a lover, not a fighter – makes me think that the casting director, at least, isn't going to step roughly on my sensibilities. I'd pay good money to see Nighy try it on with Mrs Pike.
But who can play the other characters? I'm putting a team together. The film would probably suck, but I'd watch it. Who could be such a Caledonian thistle of lugubriousness as to eclipse John Laurie's Private Frazer? Sean Connery, back from Caribbean exile to fulfil his manifest destiny as a laughable gloomy Scottish undertaker in intolerable England. Mrs Fox, the busty divorcee with the hots for Jones's chops? Hayley Tamaddon from Corrie. Corporal Jones, the ancient warrior with meat in his proverbial cleaver? Steve Delaney (AKA Count Arthur Strong). Private Pike, the mummy's boy in the scarf she knitted for military manoeuvres? Alan Carr. Walker, the dodgy geezer with a jacket lining filled with watches and breast pocket teeming with ladies' nylons? Matt King (AKA Super Hans from Peep Show). Mrs Pike, punching above her weight with her bit of posh? Julia Davis. Mrs Mainwaring, unseen but heard galumphing upstairs as her husband's platoon stand terrified, clutching teacups in the parlour below? Miranda Hart.
And Private Godfrey, weak-bladdered, doddery oldster who could barely lift a gun still less pull its trigger, and who lived in a home for the bewildered with his sister Dolly and her vast collection of upside-down cakes? Me. I would kill for that role. Literally.
.
http://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/tvandradioblog/2014/may/13/my-favourite-tv-show-dads-army
.
My favourite TV show: Dad's Army
Dad's Army's ironising approach to national identity made me fall for Britain in a way that only Danny Boyle's Olympics opening ceremony has done since
Dad's Army didn't play well with late 1960s' focus groups. When I interviewed the sitcom's co-creator Jimmy Perry a few years ago, he recalled: "One woman said: 'Haven't we had enough of this old wartime rubbish? And the bald-headed idiot [the great Arthur Lowe] doesn't know his lines!'"
Rude, but I can understand her compunctions. When Croft and Perry's portrayal of Walmington-on-Sea's charmingly risible last line of defence against Nazi invasion was first screened on the BBC, Britain was in the throes of Harold Wilson's white-hot technological revolution. It was 1968. Austerity? Sacrifice? Martial heroism? Yawn. Britain was young, swinging, libidinous and off its nut on illicit pharmaceuticals. This was no country for old men in itchy uniforms, bumbling about the south coast, mock-heroically practising for the stormtroopers who, as we know, never dropped in for tea and termination.
That said, any slur on Arthur Lowe makes me, like a latter-day Corporal Jones, want to fix bayonets and set about his critics. They don't like it up 'em, sir. What they didn't realise is that Lowe was a genius at performing pompous English self-delusion (you only have to listen to his audiotape narration of Charles Pooter in The Diary of a Nobody to get that). Such was Lowe's schtick as Captain Mainwaring, the roly-poly small-town Napoleon, the Quixote of the north. Once, Private Pike made Mainwaring a cup of tea and inadvertently tipped sand into it instead of sugar. Mainwaring took a sip. "Marvellous. I bet they're not drinking anything like this over in Germany." Pike and Sergeant Wilson exchanged glances that said: no, they're probably having lovely coffees with Sachertorte.
Moments like that still make me adore Dad's Army above any other TV programme. Croft and Perry always loved to put the ticking bomb of satire under the bottom of any British hubris, loved to point out, like Irvine Welsh avant la lettre, what an effete, hopeless bunch we British were.
By the time I started watching, it was the early 70s. Britain had lost an empire, had forgotten its white-hot technological dreams, was going post-industrial. Only a fool could take its national myths seriously. Dad's Army helped with that transition from hubris to hopeless: it was popular over nine series in part because it was for a TV nation that knew it was now a bit rubbish.
What remained now, to make the future palatable, was to satirise our ancestors' finest hour – hence a wartime sitcom that was the antidote to Kenneth More or Jack Hawkins, those stiff-upper-lip celluloid memorialisers of a lost Britain that will never, ever, come again. I've had a lot of occasions in my life to feel disgust at being British, but Dad's Army's ironising approach to national identity made me fall for this rain-soaked dime of a dump in a way that only Danny Boyle's 2012 Olympics opening ceremony has ever managed to replicate. As export products, both were as successful as the Austin Allegro.
Dad's Army was also great on class. Mainwaring, Pike and Wilson, the last bankers that Britain ever trusted, were always snooty about greengrocer Warden Hodges's dirty fingernails. Corporal Jones's deference to his captain was subverted by the fact that the former, a butcher in ration-book civvy street, was the town's most powerful man. The show also included one of the great absences in sitcom history, the terrifying Mrs Mainwaring who (like Maris Crane in Frasier, only much louder), was the elephant in her husband's psychic room.
Dad's Army finished in 1977, having readied me temperamentally for punk's nihilistic critique of national shibboleths ("God save the Queen," snarled Johnny Rotten, "We mean it man." No they didn't). There was no future in England's dreaming, but Croft and Perry had told me that already.
But now? Can the looming film version be anything other than risk-averse imposture for me and the rest of the deluded wrinkly demographic? So much of the TV that gives me a Proustian rush has been ruined by grave-robbing makeover ghouls (Bill and Ben can speak now? Top Cat is a Mexican movie now?) that the prospect makes me want to sharpen the Authentic Corporal Jones Souvenir Boer War Bayonet I picked up on eBay before taking out the movie trash. Or pitch a much lewder film version of Mrs Slocombe's ****.
That said, the fact that Toby Jones has been cast as Mainwaring and Bill Nighy as suave, lady-killing, utterly unmartial Sergeant Wilson – like Michael Jackson in his collaboration with Paul McCartney on The Girl is Mine, Wilson was a lover, not a fighter – makes me think that the casting director, at least, isn't going to step roughly on my sensibilities. I'd pay good money to see Nighy try it on with Mrs Pike.
But who can play the other characters? I'm putting a team together. The film would probably suck, but I'd watch it. Who could be such a Caledonian thistle of lugubriousness as to eclipse John Laurie's Private Frazer? Sean Connery, back from Caribbean exile to fulfil his manifest destiny as a laughable gloomy Scottish undertaker in intolerable England. Mrs Fox, the busty divorcee with the hots for Jones's chops? Hayley Tamaddon from Corrie. Corporal Jones, the ancient warrior with meat in his proverbial cleaver? Steve Delaney (AKA Count Arthur Strong). Private Pike, the mummy's boy in the scarf she knitted for military manoeuvres? Alan Carr. Walker, the dodgy geezer with a jacket lining filled with watches and breast pocket teeming with ladies' nylons? Matt King (AKA Super Hans from Peep Show). Mrs Pike, punching above her weight with her bit of posh? Julia Davis. Mrs Mainwaring, unseen but heard galumphing upstairs as her husband's platoon stand terrified, clutching teacups in the parlour below? Miranda Hart.
And Private Godfrey, weak-bladdered, doddery oldster who could barely lift a gun still less pull its trigger, and who lived in a home for the bewildered with his sister Dolly and her vast collection of upside-down cakes? Me. I would kill for that role. Literally.
Show More
Read this today, thought it was a sh1t article. Too much self flagellation regards being british for my liking.... Typical pinko guardianista.
Oh and for the record I love dads army, the comments were good,
Oh and for the record I love dads army, the comments were good,
What remained now, to make the future palatable, was to satirise our ancestors' finest hour – hence a wartime sitcom that was the antidote to Kenneth More or Jack Hawkins, those stiff-upper-lip celluloid memorialisers of a lost Britain that will never, ever, come again.
Typical poncey Guardian arts piece... there is such a thing as over analysis - it was a do-it-by-numbers sitcom ffs
Typical poncey Guardian arts piece... there is such a thing as over analysis - it was a do-it-by-numbers sitcom ffs
Just the 1st line does it for me.
I thought Danny Boyles Olympic opening ceremony was crap, very 'emperor's new clothes'.
The article reads a bit poncey and arty for me too.
I thought Danny Boyles Olympic opening ceremony was crap, very 'emperor's new clothes'.
The article reads a bit poncey and arty for me too.
I thought Danny Boyles Olympic opening ceremony was crap, very 'emperor's new clothes'
Yes, it was crap.
Yes, it was crap.
I was surprised to learn that it was on Phillipines TV, and probably all over the world.
Private Godfrey "My sister Dolly used to say ..."
Capt Mainwaring "Here we go again"
Private Godfrey "My sister Dolly used to say ..."
Capt Mainwaring "Here we go again"
Danny Boyles Olympic Opening Ceremony was generally hailed as brilliant
Any contrary view is wrong.
Any contrary view is wrong.
Review of ceremony :
From a bucolic green and pleasant land via the belching chimney stacks of the Industrial Revolution to the internet age, Danny Boyle's attempt to define Britishness in the opening hour of his Olympic opening ceremony was a madcap, surreal, moving and often confounding affair.
An "industrial parade" of Jarrow marchers and colliery bands, hundreds of dancing nurses accompanied by Mike Oldfield, the Queen's encounter with James Bond as well as a nightmarish sequence of childhood terrors – they all featured.
When Dizzee Rascal, tiny among the armies of volunteer dancers around him, appeared to sing Bonkers at the climax of a third act that starts as a love story and becomes a riotous celebration of British music through the ages, it felt curiously appropriate.
It was typical that the arrival of the head of state, usually an overblown affair, is instead preceded by a film in which the Queen met Daniel Craig's James Bond at Buckingham Palace.
Although Boyle said that he consciously avoided trying to compete with the scale of Beijing, based on the dress rehearsals this week there were moments of jaw-dropping wit and invention.
But there was also an effort to tell a thousand small stories, amid a jumble of ideas that may or may not have translated to the expected international audience of up to 1 billion.
One of the show's recurring themes, juxtaposing Britain's past with its present, was set in the opening two-minute film directed by Boyle and made by the BBC.
It chased the Thames from its source in Gloucestershire to the heart of the stadium, to a soundtrack featuring Big Ben, the Sex Pistols, the EastEnders theme and the Clash's London Calling.
The green and pleasant land set, which had already been unveiled by Boyle, with real horses tilling real soil and gangs of country folk playing cricket and football amid water wheels and cottages billowing smoke was revealed during the "pre-show" that kicked off at 8.12pm, with Hugh Edwards presenting the BBC's coverage live from the lush meadows.
But after the giant bell at the end of the stadium was rung to begin the show, the pastoral atmosphere didn't last long.
The sheep and geese were herded off just before the show began to a chorus of national songs from England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. And following a reprise of Jerusalem, Kenneth Branagh appeared as Isambard Kingdom Brunel to usher in the "dark satanic mills" flipside to the opening "green and pleasant" land.
Once Branagh delivered Caliban's speech from the Tempest – "Be not afear'd; the isle is full of noises" – all hell broke loose. At the opening of the second act, named Pandemonium after John Milton's invented word for hell in Paradise Lost, the oak tree on Glastonbury Tor rose from the ground and hundreds of people streamed out from beneath to start dismantling the green and pleasant land.
The "clouds" that were being pulled around the edge of the arena on lengths of string are packed up and put away.
Amid sparks and smoke, seven huge industrial chimneys rise from the ground.
Meanwhile, around the edge of the stadium on the circuit dubbed "the M25" by Boyle an "industrial parade" of Britishness past and present marched by. This is where the Jarrow marchers and colliery bands make an appearance, accompanied by marching Chelsea Pensioners, Sergeant Pepper-era Beatles pulling inflatable yellow submarines, pearly kings and queens, and hollering newspaper vendors.
At the end of the act, five flaming Olympic rings floated into view, sparks falling from the sky against the night – providing the first big photo opportunity.
After the arrival of the Queen, it was time for the next act – Second on the Right and Straight on Until Morning.
Boyle's homage to the NHS featured hundreds of real nurses who volunteered to be part of the 10,000 strong cast, including staff and patients from Great Ormond Street Hospital, with its links to JM Barrie, and the Harry Potter author JK Rowling reading from Peter Pan.
Following a song and dance routine with nods to Benny Hill and Carry On, the kids are tucked up in bed and a nightmarish dream sequence begins – featuring child catchers, the Queen of Hearts and witches.
Here, the pixellated paddles on every seat that had been used up to now to effectively turn the entire arena into a big screen came into their own as sinister blinking eyes.
Then the nurses collectively delivered a giant baby, the London Symphony Orchestra played Chariots of Fire in tribute to the British film industry and Michael Fish ushered in the next act. It was that sort of show. Who knows what they will make of it in Beijing.
The final act – Frankie and June say Thanks Tim – was more straightforward. A love story set in a suburban house that pays tribute to the British inventor of the world wide web, Tim Berners-Lee, to a soundtrack of big British music, TV and film moments.
From Gregory's Girl to Four Weddings, the Beatles to the Stones, the Jam to the Who, Monty Python to Harry Enfield and Amy Winehouse to Tinie Tempah it was a condensed greatest hits of British popular culture.
Inevitably, Born Slippy also features – a nod from Underworld, who composed the score, to Boyle, who featured it on his Trainspotting soundtrack.
The lights on the seats turned into graphic equalisers and spell the message: "This Is For Everybody!"
Although the ceremony cost £27m, large parts of that clearly went on the technology, the flying rigs and the pyrotechnics.
Plenty of audience interaction was encouraged, perhaps in hope more than expectation given that only half the tickets available were on general sale.
Stewards known as "mechanicals" encouraged the crowd to hold their pixellated paddles aloft, to stand in the appropriate places and pass large silks of blue cloth down from the top of the stands.
Two hundred lucky ticketholders became part of the action, watching from a "mosh pit" and a "posh pit" at either end of the arena and waving banners and flags in an echo of Glastonbury.
Boyle, who said on Friday morning that he wanted the audience to be moved as well as impressed, also built in moments of genuine reflection to the hour-long show that preceded the parade of athletes from the 204 competing nations.
In one brief sequence during the Pandemonium section, first world war-style soldiers removed their hats and the only sound was a lone whistler. The crowd were motioned to stand to remember the dead "wherever they are".
At the end, as if to bring the audience down before the athletes parade, there was a moment of silence for "friends and family who can't be here tonight" and an Akram Khan dance piece to Abide With Me by Emeli Sandé.
And then, after all of that, the part of the evening that Boyle insisted was the main event – the athletes' parade and the protocol of the anthems and speeches – began. And there was still Paul McCartney to come.
From a bucolic green and pleasant land via the belching chimney stacks of the Industrial Revolution to the internet age, Danny Boyle's attempt to define Britishness in the opening hour of his Olympic opening ceremony was a madcap, surreal, moving and often confounding affair.
An "industrial parade" of Jarrow marchers and colliery bands, hundreds of dancing nurses accompanied by Mike Oldfield, the Queen's encounter with James Bond as well as a nightmarish sequence of childhood terrors – they all featured.
When Dizzee Rascal, tiny among the armies of volunteer dancers around him, appeared to sing Bonkers at the climax of a third act that starts as a love story and becomes a riotous celebration of British music through the ages, it felt curiously appropriate.
It was typical that the arrival of the head of state, usually an overblown affair, is instead preceded by a film in which the Queen met Daniel Craig's James Bond at Buckingham Palace.
Although Boyle said that he consciously avoided trying to compete with the scale of Beijing, based on the dress rehearsals this week there were moments of jaw-dropping wit and invention.
But there was also an effort to tell a thousand small stories, amid a jumble of ideas that may or may not have translated to the expected international audience of up to 1 billion.
One of the show's recurring themes, juxtaposing Britain's past with its present, was set in the opening two-minute film directed by Boyle and made by the BBC.
It chased the Thames from its source in Gloucestershire to the heart of the stadium, to a soundtrack featuring Big Ben, the Sex Pistols, the EastEnders theme and the Clash's London Calling.
The green and pleasant land set, which had already been unveiled by Boyle, with real horses tilling real soil and gangs of country folk playing cricket and football amid water wheels and cottages billowing smoke was revealed during the "pre-show" that kicked off at 8.12pm, with Hugh Edwards presenting the BBC's coverage live from the lush meadows.
But after the giant bell at the end of the stadium was rung to begin the show, the pastoral atmosphere didn't last long.
The sheep and geese were herded off just before the show began to a chorus of national songs from England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. And following a reprise of Jerusalem, Kenneth Branagh appeared as Isambard Kingdom Brunel to usher in the "dark satanic mills" flipside to the opening "green and pleasant" land.
Once Branagh delivered Caliban's speech from the Tempest – "Be not afear'd; the isle is full of noises" – all hell broke loose. At the opening of the second act, named Pandemonium after John Milton's invented word for hell in Paradise Lost, the oak tree on Glastonbury Tor rose from the ground and hundreds of people streamed out from beneath to start dismantling the green and pleasant land.
The "clouds" that were being pulled around the edge of the arena on lengths of string are packed up and put away.
Amid sparks and smoke, seven huge industrial chimneys rise from the ground.
Meanwhile, around the edge of the stadium on the circuit dubbed "the M25" by Boyle an "industrial parade" of Britishness past and present marched by. This is where the Jarrow marchers and colliery bands make an appearance, accompanied by marching Chelsea Pensioners, Sergeant Pepper-era Beatles pulling inflatable yellow submarines, pearly kings and queens, and hollering newspaper vendors.
At the end of the act, five flaming Olympic rings floated into view, sparks falling from the sky against the night – providing the first big photo opportunity.
After the arrival of the Queen, it was time for the next act – Second on the Right and Straight on Until Morning.
Boyle's homage to the NHS featured hundreds of real nurses who volunteered to be part of the 10,000 strong cast, including staff and patients from Great Ormond Street Hospital, with its links to JM Barrie, and the Harry Potter author JK Rowling reading from Peter Pan.
Following a song and dance routine with nods to Benny Hill and Carry On, the kids are tucked up in bed and a nightmarish dream sequence begins – featuring child catchers, the Queen of Hearts and witches.
Here, the pixellated paddles on every seat that had been used up to now to effectively turn the entire arena into a big screen came into their own as sinister blinking eyes.
Then the nurses collectively delivered a giant baby, the London Symphony Orchestra played Chariots of Fire in tribute to the British film industry and Michael Fish ushered in the next act. It was that sort of show. Who knows what they will make of it in Beijing.
The final act – Frankie and June say Thanks Tim – was more straightforward. A love story set in a suburban house that pays tribute to the British inventor of the world wide web, Tim Berners-Lee, to a soundtrack of big British music, TV and film moments.
From Gregory's Girl to Four Weddings, the Beatles to the Stones, the Jam to the Who, Monty Python to Harry Enfield and Amy Winehouse to Tinie Tempah it was a condensed greatest hits of British popular culture.
Inevitably, Born Slippy also features – a nod from Underworld, who composed the score, to Boyle, who featured it on his Trainspotting soundtrack.
The lights on the seats turned into graphic equalisers and spell the message: "This Is For Everybody!"
Although the ceremony cost £27m, large parts of that clearly went on the technology, the flying rigs and the pyrotechnics.
Plenty of audience interaction was encouraged, perhaps in hope more than expectation given that only half the tickets available were on general sale.
Stewards known as "mechanicals" encouraged the crowd to hold their pixellated paddles aloft, to stand in the appropriate places and pass large silks of blue cloth down from the top of the stands.
Two hundred lucky ticketholders became part of the action, watching from a "mosh pit" and a "posh pit" at either end of the arena and waving banners and flags in an echo of Glastonbury.
Boyle, who said on Friday morning that he wanted the audience to be moved as well as impressed, also built in moments of genuine reflection to the hour-long show that preceded the parade of athletes from the 204 competing nations.
In one brief sequence during the Pandemonium section, first world war-style soldiers removed their hats and the only sound was a lone whistler. The crowd were motioned to stand to remember the dead "wherever they are".
At the end, as if to bring the audience down before the athletes parade, there was a moment of silence for "friends and family who can't be here tonight" and an Akram Khan dance piece to Abide With Me by Emeli Sandé.
And then, after all of that, the part of the evening that Boyle insisted was the main event – the athletes' parade and the protocol of the anthems and speeches – began. And there was still Paul McCartney to come.
Danny Boyles olympic opening ceremony was a chaotic mess. Britain has to
become less arrogant and a simple low key opening ceremony would have been
more tasteful, it was so overblown it was embarrassing. Even the athletes parade
was badly done, the cover on the track looking dirty and the camerawork poor.
We hardly saw the teams from above marching along a pristine track as with
previous olympics, just continual close ups of an unruly rabble.
become less arrogant and a simple low key opening ceremony would have been
more tasteful, it was so overblown it was embarrassing. Even the athletes parade
was badly done, the cover on the track looking dirty and the camerawork poor.
We hardly saw the teams from above marching along a pristine track as with
previous olympics, just continual close ups of an unruly rabble.
I must be the only one who thinks Dad's Army was a load of crap. I always thought the idea of comedy was to make you laugh.
The amount of times 'don't tell him Pike' has been wheeled out on tv to justify its hilarity says it all.
The amount of times 'don't tell him Pike' has been wheeled out on tv to justify its hilarity says it all.
GOOD FAMILY ENTERTAINMENT WITH NO NEED FOR DIRTY LANGUAGE AND FILTH
Very true Do wah, but lets hope they don't make another film though.
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