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This month has brought news of not one but two “authorised sequels” to books which I adore, Winnie-the-Pooh and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. In both cases sequels are highly undesirable; Winnie-the-Pooh is a ageless treasure, something that needn’t and shouldn’t be added to (it’s hard enough to cope with what Disney has done to it), whilst the Hitchhiker’s trilogy was rounded off unexpectedly perfectly by Douglas Adams in Mostly Harmless in a way that left all stories tied up and all characters dead. Moreover, these are beautiful and rare jewels of literature and the last thing we need is some fake plastic jewels on display next to them.

If the alarm bells are not already ringing, then this interview ought to set them a-clanging. Let’s list the ways in which Eoin Colfer demonstrates his unsuitability to write a sequel to Douglas Adams’ book:

1. He sought inspiration in the music of the 70s – because that’s right, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is very much a product of the 70s, isn’t it? And not the timeless product of a genius whose style and references cross time, place and genre in a way that was completely unlike anything else in that decade…

2. ‘The Irish author holds up his hand and references a joke from the first novel: “And I got my digital watch, of course!”‘ – bloody hell, the man makes shit Hitchhiker’s in-jokes, is that what the book’s going to be like?

3. …um, yes, it rather looks like it is. ‘There are witty Guide entries, the Vogons and their awful poetry, the Infinite Improbability Drive and, of course, Arthur Dent and his companions Ford Prefect and Zaphod Beeblebrox.’ In other words, it’s a book that recycles a whole load of Douglas Adams jokes.

4. As if to confirm quite how recycled the jokes are going to be, Colfer reveals his pride at a new character called Hillman Hunter. Geddit? It’s the name of an old car! Like Ford Prefect! Almost like it’s the same fucking joke!!!

5. He describes the original as Monty Python meets Mel Brooks in space, which epitomises his lack of understanding of what made it great. Douglas Adams’ writing has more in common with Laurence Sterne and Lewis Carroll than Mel Brooks, and the similarities with Monty Python are only superficial. When you try to do Monty Python meets Mel Brooks in space you get… well, you get the film version of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Remember how successful that was?

It comes as no surprise that Colfer reveals ‘For me and a group of friends in Wexford, it became our Monty Python. We had all of these little one liners and we would contrive to get the number 42 into as many conversations as possible.’ What you mean to say is you’re a fan, Mr Colfer! A rather frightening geeky fan too, who contrives to get the number 42 into as many conversations as possible and thinks it’s really, like, clever! I’ve been there myself but I was 12!!!

What we have here is a piece of fan fiction, in the worst possible sense of the word. Of course it is – why else would any author try to write their own version of somebody else’s idea? Neither would I wish to deny the likes of Eoin Colfer the right to do so, it’s the domain of every fan to indulge in that kind of thing.

But what makes me SICK is that, undoubtedly for the sole reason that it guarantees them a quick buck, a publisher is actually going to print and distribute this fan fiction so that it is somehow legitimised, allowed to sit on the shelves alongside a modern classic and cheapen our memory of something genuinely special. The estates that allow this to happen, who no doubt also take a significant cut of the ill-gotten gains, ought to be ashamed of themselves. (I know little about the Winnie-the-Pooh one except that there’s a new character called Lottie the Otter who is said to be “feisty” – I’ll bet she needs to be to hide the sound of A. A. Milne turning in his grave.)

It’s time we stopped letting publishers take us for mugs; I urge you to boycott these unimaginative money spinners, dust off the books already on your shelf remind yourself what original writing really looks like.

On Friday morning I learned of the devastating news that Ian Thompson, Dean of King’s College, Cambridge, had died.

Ian has featured in this blog as patron of the Uncertainty Division, which it’s fair to say was probably the least important of the many positions he held – so the willingness with which he gave us his time, support and, on several occasions, his room (rehearsal space in Cambridge was never easy to come by) sums up the generosity that characterised everything he did.

When I first met Ian I was less than a year out of university, struggling to find my way after my failure to get academic funding, unsure of what I wanted to do or even in some ways who I wanted to be. Ian was the Dean of Chapel at Selwyn College, the friend of a friend, which I think is worth pointing out because when he recognised and met my need for friendship and guidance it wasn’t because it was his duty – it was simply his nature.

The warmth and kindness that he showed me over the years that followed played a huge part in the direction my life has taken, practically, personally and spiritually. He supported me through the bleakest emotional times and at other times reduced me to helpless laughter, be it from a perceptively wry observation or an outrageous innuendo. He offered wisdom and help on numerous occasions, even when it wasn’t asked for; when, at the end of one evening out, we discovered my bike had been stolen, he wouldn’t hear of me walking home: ‘you’ll need a bike to get to work tomorrow,’ he said, ‘take mine. I was about to buy a new one anyway.’

I could tell a hundred similar stories, as could many, many people. His completely unnecessary death is a tragedy on so many levels and leaves a gap that will never be filled. It is naturally distressing to see the circumstances surrounding his death being twisted by the guttersnipe press for the sake of a cheap headline, the very thing he was afraid of. But it is with absolute certainty that I say he was an innocent victim – and, more importantly, a truly wonderful man, whose love for others made an impact on a huge number of lives.

There are not enough words in the world to express the loss we feel.

Who says you can’t tell a story in two minutes?: Pandore.

(Via Tim Bray.)

He goes so far as to tell us in the Village Voice. And it all makes a lot of sense; except that if read too broadly, no one would ever ask favours of anyone for anything, and then where would we be?

(Via Alex Epstein or Amanda the Aspiring TV Writer; I think I saw Alex’s post first.)

Also from Alex Epstein: Japanese insanity where schoolboy unearths fighting fish robot breast explosion. All under a moonlit sky.

Is Paul Carr a thrasonic journalist? Possibly. Certainly he’s an opportunistic one.

I’m not just talking about how he’s lazily recycled my recent blog entries to make one of his own. What I’m talking about is how, in true Telegraph journo style, he has taken my criticism of Dominic Cavendish’s caky review along with Mark Thomas’ statement that is was more a review of his employer, airbrushed out the bits he doesn’t need with the all-purpose airbrush-all sentence ‘it’s all very sound-and-fury-signifying nothing’ and turned the whole story into a glowing review of himself.

But delighted though I am to have my criticisms of Telegraph journalists so comprehensively vindicated in one fell swoop, I’m not going to be too hard on him for three reasons:

1. His comments about The Sitcom are so aw shucks lovely and quothable.

2. I have a suspicion that his claim to have cleared up the whole internet might just possibly be an example of the journalistic irony that Dominic Cavendish aspires to.

3. Assuming that to be the case, the rather po-faced comments on the post completely redraw the boundaries of what it means to have a tin ear for journalistic irony. I think I’m in the clear…

A blog entry which provoked responses from both Mark Thomas and Dominic Cavendish clearly deserves some kind of follow up. Mark Thomas sent me a lengthy email about the ‘horribly positive review’ (admittedly I did push it in his direction), whilst Cavendish himself has left a comment on our blog, a huge improvement on the comments we normally receive, for all of its shortcomings.

In it, Cavendish advises me: ‘Do please carry on reading the Guardian – ideally suited to people who have a tin ear for journalistic irony.’

Journalistic irony??? Is that what it was?

Suddenly it all makes sense. The suggestion that the Telegraph might have changed the face of British comedy, the sentence ‘a good percentage of his latest show owes everything to the revelations this paper published earlier in the year’ and the conclusion that Mark Thomas’ triumph was won by the Telegraph, that’s all ironic!!! Let’s hope none of Cavendish’s superiors misread it as badly as I did, or he might accidentally get promoted!

Clearly Mark Thomas also has a tin ear, as he thinks that Cavendish ‘has not reviewed my show so much as given the Telegraph itself a glowing review. It is arselicking of the highest order, he should go far in journalism.’

We stand corrected.

Sadly, Cavendish’s undeniable talent for journalistic irony has compromised the accuracy of his review (perhaps not such a problem when you work for the Telegraph). Mark Thomas tells me the review fails to mention the real focus of the show which is not the issue of MPs’ expenses so much as the absence of a systemic approach to the problem and a legal means of redress (he uses the example of Margaret Moran, who has been off sick since the affair blew up but continues to claim full pay and pension rights as there is no legal or democratic way of making her resign) – however, he suggests that ‘the Telegraph doesn’t appear to be interested in genuine change for greater democracy and transparency their primary motive is flogging their caky rag.’ (And oh, how I wish it had been me who had used the phrase ‘flogging their caky rag’…)

Mark Thomas agrees with James Aylett that Heather Brooke deserved a mention, saying ‘She is a fine journalist and campaigner and for the Telegraph to ride in the on the back of a cheque book and claim the story as theirs is bending the truth somewhat and an insult to the work Heather has done.’ So he will be pleased that Cavendish promises ‘I will do my utmost to mention the self-effacing Heather Brooke (I can’t quite work out if that’s ironic, damn this tin ear) whenever possible because clearly the biggest domestic news story of the year – which Mark Thomas is rash enough to attribute to the Telegraph – owed next to nothing to the endeavours of the, don’t you just hate em, ‘right-wing press’.

Ah, yes. Mark Thomas had something to say about the endeavours of the Telegraph (or ‘caky rag’) as well. ‘I would be wary of the political agenda of the Barclay brothers (Telegraph owners), who are hardly stirling examples of transparency or indeed democracy given their recent shenanigans over in Sark […] The only way the Telegraph can claim to be altering the way in which political comedy is seen is by airbrushing out the bits they do not wish aired.’ And indeed it seems that certain aspects of Mark Thomas’ show have been conveniently airbrushed out in Cavendish’s review – amongst other things, it ‘doesn’t dwell on whole areas of the show that delve into tax dodgers and off shore regimes (something I would have thought the owners of the Telegraph the lovely off shore Barclay brothers would enjoy tremendously). Strangely he doesn’t mention the attack on non-domiciles either.’

So much for Cavendish’s review. But what about his far less positive conclusions about this blog? Even my tin ear can detect a hint of irony in ‘Best of luck with whatever it is you actually do’, but just in case you really are interested Mr Cavendish, so far this year I have written and directed the music for a sell-out Greek comedy, co-directed a pilot series for internet broadcast, composed several substantial choral and orchestral works and two organ voluntaries which were played in King’s College Cambridge at a service celebrating the university’s 800th anniversary, written a short feature film, the first 45,000 words of a novel, a multitude of sketches and even one short story, plus introduced the films of Buster Keaton to primary schools around Bedfordshire in a major composition project. Perhaps if you were to adopt my work ethic you would have less need to give yourself the credit for other people’s achievements?

I have already hinted at my hostility to The Daily Telegraph‘s largely hypocritical, unjournalistic and exploitative coverage of the MP’s expenses scandal – for every genuinely scandalous story about astronomical claims for dry rot in recently flipped second homes there were twenty stories about MPs accidentally claiming 36p back for fuses, which is comparable to running a dramatic exposé about how many drivers hit 80mph on a motorway. In protest at their ultimately rather boring series of ‘Expenses Files’ I deleted the Telegraph news application from my iPhone and have rather reluctantly become a Guardian reader, though nobody seems to have taken much notice.

So, in part one of this new series exposing the unpleasant fanfaronading of Telegraph journalists, I must draw attention to this piece of smug, self-satisfied shite in which Dominic Cavendish suggests that the quality of Mark Thomas’ Fringe show is entirely the achievement of his own unspeakable rag.

I quote: …if the show was a triumph, it was our MPs ire-inducing foibles, as exclusively revealed in this paper, what won it.

Aside from the continuingly dubious use of the word ‘exclusively’, Cavendish is making the disturbing assumption that Mark Thomas somehow owes his four star review to the paper in which it is printed. He might as well suggest that satirists owe the quality of their shows to the stupidity of MPs, which may be closer to the truth but is equally ungenerous; Mark Thomas, whose material is nearly always spot on, maintains a consistent level of quality by choosing targets deserving of mockery and satirising them in an informative and balanced way, which at the very least puts him in a league well above the Telegraph and its scattergun shame and blame policy.

As for this, Mr Cavendish: It might be overstating the case to say that the Daily Telegraph has changed the face of British comedy this summer…

Might? MIGHT??? Does he really think that some of us are likely to make such an overstatement, and need hauling back with a falsely modest warning that, ‘come on now, you might be overstating the case there…’? If the British comedy establishment decided en masse to burn down Dominic Cavendish’s office it would be no more than he’s asking for.

I would very much like to see Mark Thomas explore the hypocrisy of guttersnipe journalism in his next show – then, at least, Dominic Cavendish could take some credit, and Thomas might be able to explain how a paper whose journalistic quality (if not political standpoint) I admired but a year ago has so quickly sunk to the kind of sensationalism that is normally associated with The Daily Mail (and is so much worse for its continued pretence at respectibility).

If that last sentence sounds like a hypocritical piece of groundless sensationalism itself, this story demonstrates that it’s not just the Telegraph‘s theatre reviews and political coverage that are going to pot.

Of all the things that have made me cross this year, this has made me the crossest. Yes, even crosser than Doctor Who. Because as a former Cambridge music undergraduate I can only describe last week’s musical “celebration” of the University’s 800th anniversary in the Royal Albert Hall as a big pile of wank.

Well, actually as a former Cambridge music undergraduate I should probably be able to find a more eloquent way of putting it, but the contents of the prom suggest that expectations of the university have dropped.

What was in it? First the presence of Prince Charles was announced by a gloriously camp Willcocks arrangement of the national anthem, in many ways the highlight of the concert. This was followed by a couple of very insignificant works by a very significant dead Cambridge composer (Vaughan Williams), a couple of insignificant works by two fairly significant living Cambridge composers (Jonathan Harvey and Judith Weir), a very slight new work by, I fear, a completely insignificant Cambridge academic (Ryan Wigglesworth), a set of liturgical canticles by a composer significant only in the tiny field of Anglican music (Stanford)… and finally, AT LAST, a significant work by a significant composer who never went to Cambridge at all, viz. Saint-Saëns. Yes, he received an honorary degree from the university, but so did Mother Teresa, it doesn’t mean we can claim them as our own.

This cowardly programming would seem to suggest that Cambridge composers have produced so little of significance that, besides commissioning a new work from somebody that not even a regular concert-going audience would have heard of and falling back on some banal Anglican crap, we need to rely on a composer only tenuously linked to the university for a proper work.

Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. From giants of the rennaissance like Gibbons, to the greatest English composer of the first half of the 20th century, Vaughan Williams, through to extremely fine living composers like Jonathan Dove, George Benjamin and Thomas Adès, there ought to be enough music to fill a whole concert series before it becomes necessary to rifle through the list of honorary degrees.

For the non-musicians reading this let me try to find a way of putting it into context: imagine the BBC ran an evening of programmes celebrating 90 years of innovation and success. The inclusion of Stanford would be like running two episodes of My Family back to back, whilst Ryan Wigglesworth’s new work would be the equivalent of the BBC asking for a special celebratory edition of BBC 7’s satirical sketch show Newsjack. The decision to make the main event of the evening a symphony by Saint-Saëns would be like the BBC rounding off with an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

So the question remains, what the fuck were they thinking??? If Stanford and Wigglesworth, why not Richard Vranch and Kit Hesketh-Harvey? At least the concert wouldn’t have been so bland.

Bland and conservative, that’s what it was. Qualities which aren’t usually associated with Cambridge University, but perhaps judging by both the concert itself and its enthusiastic sell-out audience, aspects which apply to more of its alumni than it might care to admit.

Robin Holloway (a very fine living composer himself) has written far more forgivingly about the debacle here.

All around Bedford’s branch of Marks & Spencer there are big signs talking about their 0% commission on foreign currency deal. I know this, because I spent a good deal of time this morning wandering around it looking for somewhere I could actually change my money.

Finally, I located a help desk and enquired as to where I could go to change my pounds sterling into Euros. The answer, it turns out, is Milton Keynes. This information is not proferred on the many big signs and leaflets dotted around the Bedford store, a good 40-minute drive from the one in Milton Keynes.

I commented at the time that the cost of travelling to Milton Keynes to change money would rather outweigh the benefits of the 0% commission. But what I now feel I should also have pointed out was that the benefits of going on holiday to the South of France would be potentially annulled by spending any amount of time in Milton Keynes.

This article on the new Doctor’s costume is well worth reading for the slightly hysterical comments at the end (my favourite is from Krycek: ‘I love the new costume, I just wish he had a hat. It’s been a while since The Doctor had a hat’ – oh Krycek, I feel your pain!).

Whether or not you feel the Doctor ought to be fashionable or eccentric or timeless or all three (and all I’m going to say is that I’ve been dressing like that since I started university), there is one statement that clearly displays the BBC’s (sadly increasingly) sloppy journalistic style, viz.:

Fans fondly remember Jon Pertwee’s bow tie, Tom Baker’s scarf and Christopher Eccleston’s battered leather jacket.

They fondly remember Christopher Eccleston’s battered leather jacket?? Really??? I’m probably a rather-too-critical-fan to be the benchmark on this, but I occasionally spend time (not too much time) with other fans and I’m pretty sure none of them were sad to see the battered leather jacket go.

Could it be that, far from it being a case of fans fondly remembering that item of costume, Tom Geoghegan of BBC News Magazine couldn’t remember any other item of costume worn by any the Doctor?

‘Hey guys! I’ve got Jon Pertwee’s bow tie and Tom Baker’s scarf but I need a third thing or the sentence doesn’t work – can anyone remember another thing one of the Doctors wore that fans would fondly remember?’

‘A hat?’

‘Which Doctor had a hat? It’s been a while since the Doctor had a hat. I’ll just go with Eccleston’s battered leather jacket.’