The Griper's Times

ON a freezing cold February day almost eight years ago I paid my first visit to the BBC's local HQ. The reception impressed, not least because they had an honest to god Cyberman head encased in glass. "The stuff of nightmares, reduced to an exhibit," I thought to myself, instantly regretting that too few people in the regional press - or probably reading this blog - were conversant in Doctor Who references. Even then, just a few days into my new journalism job, I was vaguely aware this would likely be my last hoorah. I was scarcely 30, but my trade was almost unrecognisable from just a decade earlier. The local news had already succumbed to the thinking that people didn't much like local news actually (think greengrocers getting cold feet about cucumbers) In this new age what the readers really wanted was potted summaries of whatever Piers Morgan had grumbled about on Good Morning Britain . Or Greggs product launches. They fucking loved them. The sudden enthusiasm for...

Second one of these, only four weeks or so late. Ah well. Was pretty chuffed to get into double-figures for views on my first outing - roughly equivalent to the long-reads I used to produce on the climate crisis. NOW WATCHING (TV): How Are You? It's Alan Partridge A few years ago Partridge had once again returned to the dizzy heights of prime-time presenting, as co-host of spoof magazine show This Time . After a perhaps inevitable on-screen meltdown, the Norfolk broadcaster is once again scraping a living in this latest series - perhaps his funniest since the I'm Alan Partridge heyday. Nominally a self-funded documentary on mental health, we're also offered glimpses of Partridge's crumbling personal life. His horrid girlfriend is clearly having an affair, while the man himself grubs up money filming Cameo greetings and presenting gigs on Saudi Arabian radio. There is some comfort to be taken from the fact that, in TV comedy at least, those selling themselves to the lo...

IN Solihull just six years ago the Conservative-run council passed a motion to declare a climate emergency. The then leader of the local authority applauded the consensus the chamber had come to, with all parties present having voted in favour. In a direct swipe at the suggestion that the UK needn't fret about its comparatively lowly contribution to global emissions, he insisted  "we all have a responsibility to take action." The borough's environmentalists were, as it turned out, lucky to have a Green Party in opposition and a green party in power. One was probably fonder of lentils than the other, but there was enough agreement to get on with. In partnership with the region's Tory Mayor, another strong supporter of net zero, the council set about various schemes to cut pollution. A district heat network, to provide low-carbon electricity to key buildings around the town centre, started construction. Electric car charging started to arrive alongside parking bays....

I'M aware that I've written a lot recently about why we're all totally fucked, so in the interests of balance and blood pressure I've decided to start a regular posting on positive/you've got to laugh stuff. I originally had the idea for something like this during the dark days of the pandemic, but the idea of writing something satirical in my spare time somewhat withered on the vine when my day-job consisted of documenting the Chancellor's plan to bribe people to visit crowded restaurants in the middle of a pandemic. I mean, why do something for free you can get paid for? Returning to the idea five years later - when I'm not much getting paid for anything - and I've decided to make it more of a review of good stuff I've come across, somewhat in the vein of Stewart Lee's "I Arrogantly Recommend". Except Lee includes a year-to-date obituary for esteemed public figures and I've left that out. I've kept some of the jokes, although ...

WHAT properly put a stop to the riots last summer was not necessarily the police or even the fast-tracked court hearings. It was a massive show of strength. After a week or more of mobs attacking refugee centres and abuse being hurled at people who happened to be a different colour pissed-off progressives mobilised in force. In Liverpool "Nans Against Racism" locked arms to form a human barricade around a church which offered advice to immigrants. In Brighton meanwhile, eight racist agitators found themselves entirely encircled by some 500 counter-demonstrators and ended up cowering behind a police cordon. Even The Daily Mail, in a front page the following morning, seemed to recognise where the balance of power lay. "Night anti-hate marchers faced down the thugs," read the headline, which also echoed the Prime Minister's own language in describing the protests as "far-right." It's helpful to remember these scenes when, some 12 months on, we're...

FIVE summers ago Britain appeared to have side-stepped into a dystopian sci-fi novel. Bus stops flashed warnings for walkers to keep two metres apart and people had to dowse their hands in Dettol before entering the pub. It was a sobering reminder that almost every aspect of daily life can be upended by something we'd long assumed could no longer shake civilisation. Yet plagues and quarantine - the very stuff of 14th century folios - were among us once again. From the earliest days of the pandemic, there was a desperate desire to know when things would be back to normal. Tabloids would scream for an orderly timetable to take us away from the chaos, shrill as a child in the back of a car crying "are we nearly there yet?" Press releases promising the reopening of bowling alleys or easing of rules around socialising often offered false hope, only for the virus and restrictions to rapidly return.  And then finally with jabs in our arms we were hurried on past the horror of mo...