For a number of years I’ve felt rather guilty when conversations turned to various “Grand Old Dames”, whom I declined to confess, did nothing for me at all.

I’m sure the fault/lack of taste or appreciation was all mine.  Irrespective of the size of our group I certainly always seemed to be in a constituency of one.

 

Take Tolkien for example; specifically, “Lord of The Rings”.  I think the films are great – good acting, excellent storyline, lots of action, brilliant scenic backdrops.  Top bombing.

But the book?  Dear, oh dear!  (By “the book” I mean the first one, “The Fellowship of the Ring” – it’s the only one I could be bothered to labour through).

Whereas the film is all action, excitement, battles, encounters with orcs and stuff, the book is about a journey.  And don’t we bloody-well know it!  Tolkien must describe every bloody step.

 

Then there’s Bobby Charlton, Grand Old Man of Manchester United.  Revered and dignified, and with a history spanning over 100 caps for England.

But what did he do?  He was a member of England’s World Cup winning team of 1966 but so were ten others.  Ask the question of anyone and they’ll tell you about 30-yard screamers he scored. Now I’m old enough to remember Charlton and I can assure you that for every one of those pile-drivers that hit the back of the net there were ten which scattered the pigeons in the stadium roof.

So what else?  Could he tackle?  Was he a pin-point passer of the ball?  No, his name was built on belting the odd one from 30 yards.

Like Ronnie Radford.

 

Then in the field of entertainment there’s Charlie Chaplin and Morecambe and Wise.

 

I could never argue with anyone who described Chaplin as a comic genius.  But for me that’s all he was.  Funny thing to say, really; isn’t it?  So what’s my bleat?

Well, basically, he never made me laugh.  I could marvel at his brilliance, his slap-stick, his comic timing and acting, his body language; I could side with him as the “little man” or the “good man” – but he didn’t make me laugh.

 

So too Morecambe and Wise.  Catching invisible balls in a paper bag, playing the piano with Andre Previn, enormous sleeves on his flamenco costume, skipping off set together – all iconic memories.  Then talking about them next day at school or at work.  “Did you see the South Pacific sketch?  Wasn’t it brilliant?”.  BUT IT DIDN’T MAKE ME LAUGH.

 

And lastly, Tony Benn.  Recently deceased and enjoying accordingly his greatest popularity.

Scholar, thinker, orator, polemic, darling of the Left and particularly of left yoof.  National treasure and Grand Old Dame.  Receiving tributes from all political spectra, even David Cameron (“Everyone loves a dead enemy” as they say).

For some, like myself, who laboured through earlier times of Labour Party self-harm, tribute is more qualified.

Bete noire of the moderate Labour Party, contributing enormously to their unelectabilty throughout the 80’s, until the party was reined in by Kinnock.  (As if proof were needed, ousted by his own constituency in favour of the Conservative candidate in 1983).

A man to me, as a campaigner for the Labour Party during those years, who did as much to sustain the electoral appeal of Thatcherism as she ever did herself.

Tony Benn, RIP.  A Good Man; delusional but essentially good.  No doubt in Heaven and close to God – where he can keep an eye on him.