BEN THOMAS takes exception to a below-par series of Taskmaster.

BEN THOMAS on shenanigans in ‘one of the worst UK wrestling matches of all time’.

It’s BEN THOMAS on ‘The Twin Dilemma’, whether you like it or not.

Who broke Jonathan Creek? BEN THOMAS revisits the scene of the crime.

In a world where we can access endless entertainment media out of thin air via our mobile phones, the idea of a black and white portable colour television set seems like a relic of a bygone age.  Like something a flagrantly moustached Victorian scientist might have proudly displayed at the Great Exhibition of 1851.  Not so.  They existed in my lifetime. 

This one’s actually quite topical, considering… 1996 and my time on Creative Arts Studies is coming to an end. I was juggling a lot of end projects and plays and doing it badly. At one point I was juggling about four or five shows and plays (including Find Me, Between the Rock and a Hard Place, Andy Capp: The Musical and Shakespeare in their Lives) and a couple of different art presentations for my visual art modules.

Continued from part 1: Doing Shakespeare is actually tricky than you think. You can’t get away with just putting on a ruff, declaiming “Forsooth sirrah!” and then dropping down dead down-stage centre. If it was that easy then people off Hollyoaks or the PG Tips chimps would be doing it. It’s the language that’s the biggest hurdle. Unless you’re lucky enough to be an attendant, servant or spear-carrier in the background you actually have to learn an awful lot of words and many of them aren’t in proper English.

It’s difficult to be truly impartial about your own achievements, isn’t it? Especially through the dappled and deceiving mists of time. The human brain strives to build a coherent narrative out of the disparate and chaotic events of a person’s life and so most memories have an unnatural structure to them. And they’re rarely dispassionate. The inherent biases of the person comes into play.

It’d be fair to say that apart from my housemate Claire’s communal Sunday Lunches I didn’t eat terribly well when I was at university. Fray Bentos pies were a frequent thrifty option, even if they were Mad Cow Disease in a tin. One of the Fray Bentos tins nearly did for me at Blaine’s landlady’s house. Their kitchen only had one of the old fashioned “stab can” tin openers.

Oh, the Carlton Bar. I’ve mentioned her before. Easily the best of Sunderland University’s student union drinking establishments back during my tenure in the city. The Wearmouth Bar lacked the Carlton’s spark and soul. No-one ever got kidnapped by Sunderland Women’s hockey team in the Wearmouth bar. There was Manor Quay as well, the student union nightclub, but that was just a sweaty and garish warehouse of a place perched by the side of the river as part of the then-new St Peter’s Campus.

As I’m writing about university life, I suppose the time has come to cover the topic of illegal narcotics or “drugs” as they’re known in street parlance and… Actually the truth is there isn’t much to tell. My experiences with controlled substances were very much vanilla in nature. I smoked a fair amount of dope, a.k.a. Mary Jane, Ganja, Asphalt, Jazz Cigarettes, Japanese Maple or Pot. 

Fireworks can be dangerous things. "Never Fool With Fireworks" as the advertising campaign of the 1990's warned. There's a firework safety advert from the 1970's that I remember; one of those ones designed to emotionally scar little children for life. It's about a little boy blinded after a firework is thrown in his face. It's called: "Eyes". That's very on the nose, isn't.

Sometimes a very good idea can be a very bad idea. Drama Module 206: Scratch Theatre. The objective of the module was to devise something experimental, inventive and outre. We split into groups and Blaine suggested a radio play. Not something any of us had done before. A very good idea, but perhaps not unorthodox enough to meet the brief. …

Swindon is quite a long way away from Sunderland. I’m not making that up, I assure you. It’s something I could prove with a simple flourish of an A to Z road atlas of Great Britain. Do they even sell those anymore? I suppose Boomers might buy them. It’s all apps now, isn’t it? Or do we call geographical mapping applications “mapps”?

It’s tricky talking about my university lecturers as, I don’t know which of them are still alive and which ones aren’t. That's an important thing to consider, as you can't slander the dead... I didn’t have anything much to do with the music or dance lecturers on my course. You had to specialise on two subjects, minimum, so I chose drama and visual art.

I’ve been trying to remember this young man’s name.  He was on the Creative Arts Studies Course, although briefly.  He flunked out of the first year, so he wasn’t around much after that.  I asked Blaine – as he doesn’t drink and, as such, his memories of our time in Sunderland are more reliable – and he thinks the person’s name was “George Johnson” or maybe “George Johnston”. 

Searching through the University section of the Thomas Archives I made a few discoveries. A number of programmes to shows, scripts and essays that I’d forgotten. One really pleasing find was a rehearsal schedule for an early show. I think it might be for “Oh What a Lovely War”, but it’s not clear. Overall it’s just a rather dry list of names, dates, times and rehearsal spaces, but it has reminded me of the names of some of my classmates I’d forgotten.

I want it noted that I'm not proud of what happened. Not in the slightest. But I also want it noted that it wasn't really my fault. Not really. I was very much a victim of circumstance. As mentioned in another blog I had a nickname at university: "Beej", which was short for "BJ" (Ben-Jamin). However, before that sobriquet became attached to me there was another BJ.

When I was studying at Sunderland University I did the majority of my grocery shopping at a discount supermarket called Food Giant, based near the main Wearmouth campus site. The brand’s defunct now, it was an offshoot of Somerfield supermarkets that were reabsorbed by the parent company. And Somerfield are defunct as well now, swallowed up by the Co-Op. Mad to think I visited Food Giant in Sunderland literally hundreds of times and yet the name has barely left a footprint.

Let me tell you about the first time I nearly died while I was at Sunderland University: I’d been out in the city centre that evening. I can’t remember where. If it was Wednesday then it was probably 70’s night at Annabels. That was my go-to night out if I could afford it, and I often could as . Brutus Gold was the DJ.

As we sit now, poised shivering on the cusp of a Third Global Conflict, fuelled by hubris, stupidity, self-interest and greed, I find myself looking back dewy-eyed over 32 years to when the BA (Hons) Creative Art Studies' first intake of students performed "Oh What a Lovely War" in the Bede Theatre, Sunderland University. The First World War, eh? What was all that about?

I was, in many ways, an innocent when I first went to university up at Sunderland. Guileless. Younger than my years. On one occasion in my first year I was walking down a side street (possibly lost) when a gentleman approached me. A gentleman of the road. A transient. An itinerant. A tramp. He beckoned me over and asked if I’d pop into a nearby hardware store and buy something for him.

My first few weeks in Sunderland were a bit overwhelming. I was three hundred miles from home, in a strange city and surrounded by people speaking a variety of English that defied definition and understanding. I got lost a lot and there wasn’t much point asking for directions. All in all I was strongly regretting not taking GCSE Mackem at school.

I shared a house with a lot of fellow students at numbers 8 and 9 Toward Road, most of whom I got on with to a greater or lesser degree. And they seemed to tolerate me. Which was very decent of them as I was frequently exhausting. I don’t think I ever properly fell out with any of them. Well, I suppose there was that girl (I forget her name) who put up a “toilet roll rota” in the bathroom in the second year, that we (we, not just me) added spelling corrections to in red ink.

I spent a lot of my free time at University at the Carlton Bar on Mowbray Road. There were two main Student Union bars at the time: there was the Wearmouth Bar in the town centre, hidden under Wearmouth Hall, which was the main student halls of residence at the time. It was a cramped bunker of a place, but where the majority of the student body used to hang out.

"If I start looking behind me and begin retracing my track,I'll remind you to remind me we said we wouldn′t back.And if you should happen to find me with an outlook dreary and black.I'll remind you to remind me we said we wouldn′t look back." From the British musical Salad Days by Julian Slade (1954) I’ve been keeping a daily diary since 1997. 

“Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor, you have pleaded guilty to the charges brought by this court, and it is now my duty to pass sentence. You are an habitual nonce, who accepts arrest as an occupational hazard, and presumably accepts imprisonment in the same casual manner. We therefore feel constrained to commit you to the maximum term allowed for these offences: you will go to prison for many years.”

Sunday 22nd February marks what would have been Kenneth Williams’ 100th birthday. He won’t be celebrating it himself on account of him being dead. Dead nearly 38 years as a matter of fact, which seems inexplicable as far as I’m concerned as 1988 was only a couple of years ago, surely? I distinctly remember Kenneth Williams being alive. He used to read me stories when I was a boy.

I was gifted Tim Curry’s autobiography, “Vagabond”, for Christmas. I enjoyed it. The prose is enjoyably arch, the chapters on The Rocky Horror Show are illuminating and the latter sections on his life, post-debilitating stroke in 2012, are clear-eyed and lacking in self-pity. The book suffers from a bit of a soggy middle where his career went into a bit of a lull, but, overall, it’s a diverting read and I enjoyed spending a few hours in his company.

Cats, both domestic and wild, are evolutionary marvels. Ruthless, opportunistic and calculating hunters. A lethal combination of razor-sharp claws, senses and instincts. Perfectly adapted to prey, ambush and maim. By the above optics Tarragon is not very good at being a cat. He can’t help that, he was literally the runt of his litter and separated from his mother too early, so he didn’t get the neonatal coaching required.

I’ve been reading a book. I know, how quaint. Apparently 40% of Britons haven’t read a book in a the last year, which explains a few things if you ask me. A book, even a bad one, is a robust breakwater against the constant seething tempest of misinformation flooding us online. Into a book, ideally the actual, solid, reassuring weight of a physical hardback, is where I retreat when things are horrid.

Rail Replacement Bus. Are there three worse words in the English language? I mean, yes, there’s loads. “Total Renal Failure”, for example. “Congestive Heart Failure”. “Ant and Dec”. “Josef Fritzel’s Cellar”. It was very silly and insensitive of me to suggest otherwise. Apologies all. All the same, the prospect of having to take the Replacement Peasant Wagon as part of my journey to London last weekend did fill me with dread.

God almighty, life’s a treadmill isn’t it? I’ve not properly digested 2025 yet, and yet there’s already a great big steaming plate of 2026 being shoved under my nose, like a trough of undercooked mince. All this and not an existential antacid in sight. This must what it’s like being the end link of a Human Centipede must be like. To quote Mister Creosote: “Fuck off, I’m full!”

James Whale:   Radio“personality”, TV presenter and podcaster.  Not to be confused with English film director James Whale (1889-1957).  Or an actual whale.  Styled himself after American “Shock Jock” personalities like Howard Stern and Rush Limbaugh.  Suspended from talkRADIO in 2018 for openly mocking a sexual assault victim and laughing at her during an interview.  Generally considered himself “outspoken” and “controversial”.  Actually a bit of a bore. 

So this is Festive Perineum, and what have you done? Another year (nearly) over, and a new one (nearly) just begun. Comparing the No-Man’s Land (No Woman’s Land) between Christmas and New Year to the useless patch of skin between the genitals and anus is so on point you can see why its caught on so, can’t you? Better than “Twixtmas”, which is so twee it makes my teeth ache.

Fairytale in New York by The Pogues featuring Kirsty McColl (1987) Written by Jem Finer & Shane McGowan I know there isn’t a 25th day of Advent, so don’t start I’m doing an extra one if you don’t like it you can póg mo thóin. Consider it a late Christmas present. You’re welcome! Efforts had been made to make Christmas Day as friction-free as possible.

Wonderful Christmastime by Paul McCartney (1979) Written by Paul McCartney Yes, this one is more than a little bit late. Soz. Annoying as I managed a 23 day streak throughout the rest of December. What can I say? Actual Christmassing got in the way. A brief comment on McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime”: it’s definitely not the worst Christmas song released by an ex-Beatle, but it’s not a patch on his Frog Chorus.

The Cat Carol by Meryn Cadell (2000) Written by Ted Evans One last serious chore before Christmas: taking Tarragon to the vets to get his annual check-up and shots. Not my chore, to be fair. Caroline was doing the cat wrangling, caging and transport. Tarragon cordially loathes going to the vets. He was a sickly kitten and suffered many visits in his formative years.

The Boar’s Head Carol (Traditional, circa 15th Century) Modern Coral Arrangement by Elizabeth Poston, 1960 And now we get into the meat of the build-up to Christmas. With emphasis on the word “meat”. We’ve been a butcher’s wet dream over the last few weeks. The Christmas protein has been delivered. “Christmas protein” sounds like an unsettling euphemism, but I only mean it in the strictly Epicurean sense.

Just for fun: a selection of the Christmas cards I've sent out this Christmas. If you haven't had one of these then you've been a very good boy or girl this year.

In The Bleak Midwinter by Chas ‘n’ Dave (1986) Written by Christina Rossetti in 1872 The shortest day and the longest night. It's been a hell of a year. Still digesting it and it's threatening to give me serious heartburn. There's one particular turd in the punchbowl, but I'll address my employment situation in the New Year. In the meantime, I've been presented with plenty of distractions.

Mother Christmas (J.S. Ondara 2017) By J.S. Ondara I can’t imagine being 100 years old.  I couldn’t imagine being 50 years old and that happened.  It's awful, in case you were wondering. That still feels like a vertiginous height to be teetering at.  50 is wall-to-wall aches and indignities.  You don’t know what’s going to happen from one cough to the next.