It seems to be compulsory for some kind of beloved celebrity to pop his or indeed her clogs during the festive season. This year's victim is one who means rather a lot to me: Elisabeth Beresford, author of the Wombles books.
If you aren't familiar with the Wombles, I pity you. They're rodentlike scavengers who live under Wimbledon Common and other places, and name themselves from an old atlas, hence Great Uncle Bulgaria, Tobermory and Madame Cholet. They live by cunningly recycling humans' castoffs and have hilarious small adventures. It's all very heartwarming but also genuinely intelligent.
Here's a clip from the rather good TV adaptation (narrated by the semi-divine Bernard Cribbins), though I urge you to find the books.
And 'their' terrible Christmas song, for which Mike Batt deserves to burn in hell (as he does for so many other crimes against music, taste, and the proletariat - he also wrote 'Bright Eyes' and is the Conservative Party's official composer):
2 comments:
There was a music shop called Buzz Stop in Leamington which was owned by a guy whom, local rumour had it, was once the bass player, or something, on the Wombles records. Whether this is true or not is a matter of no consequence, which is why it occupies me on this bleak midwinter evening as I hide from the festivities downstairs.
Ah yes, your 'festivities'. Keep your head down.
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