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I am, wisely I think, taking Sundays off whilst I attempt my marathon of shows, not that I could have got much done today due to another poor night of sleep (it's nothing to do with the baby - I was sleeping in the other room - I just always wake up at 6 these days). I fought through the exhaustion to try and have a nice day with my family and we went for a picnic in the park. It was simple and mainly comprised of Pret a Manger sandwiches and I was almost falling asleep all the way through it. But it was the absolute best. How many Sundays have I wasted not having picnics in the park?
I was sad to hear about the death of David Nobbs, a writer who I very much admired and had some good conversations with about comedy (I wish I'd noted down more of what he said, but some of it is here). Last time I saw him he was having a cigarette with the hopefully immortal Barry Cryer on the steps outside the BBC Light Entertainment party. They were like the naughty little boys of the gathering, but also giving a robust “fuck you†to the Grim Reaper with their refusal to conform and be healthy. Barry has perhaps been granted immortality so that he can be the one to deliver the eulogy to everyone from his generation (and maybe the next couple too) and whoever granted him this super power has chosen wisely. And he abuses it beautifully by smoking, drinking pints and I imagine, snorting cocaine off the breasts of prostitutes on a nightly basis.
In typical 21st Century style I found out about Nobbs' death via a Facebook group which involves a game to see who can predict celebrity deaths each year, and where each new death is announced with a weak pun (in this case “Floppy nobs†- a particularly poor one). Usually I know about a death before I see it on this page, but there was something both inappropriate and apt about discovering the passing of someone I vaguely knew in this way. Nobbs was a fantastic sitcom writer, but his books are also well worth a read. I enjoyed his autobiography a few years back (and will maybe have another read of it now), but he also stayed current, keeping up a stream of gags on Twitter, the last one about Scotch eggs being typically individual and funny.
I wish it could have been all the actors who have played James Bond instead of him. But perversely they all carry on breathing (for now).
I move up one place in the oldest person at the BBC Light Entertainment party league. Will I still be there in 30 years time? I doubt it somehow. But if I am I will smoke a fag on the steps outside in memory of Nobbs. That's if Barry Cryer will lend me one.
