Art for art's sake

Last week, in the space of a long weekend, I saw three Art Deco buildings.
Trouble is, all of them were 100% fake - one of them having been ‘knocked-up’ a couple of years ago, with the other two having been erected in the last few months.

As buildings in an Art Deco-style, they’re a decent attempt, but why go to all that trouble when all over the land there are beautiful, genuine Art Deco buildings being torn down by a combination of clueless councillors and dim-witted developers? Well, they were, before the recession.

These Modernist buildings from the golden era of the 1920s and 30s - with their clean, smooth surfaces and contrasting, ornate detailing - have often been overlooked simply because people believed that it was impossible for anything beautiful, especially architecturally, to have come out of the 20th Century.

The Hoover Building in Middlesex is widely regarded as the finest example of Art Deco architecture in the British Isles and was restored by Tesco - not renowned for its social conscience - when converted to a supermarket following its closure as a vacuum cleaner factory in the early 1980s.

Nearby, the (arguably even more wonderful) Firestone tyre factory wasn’t so lucky. Sadly, developers got wind of the structure’s impending listing by the Department of the Environment, and so when the preservation order arrived, the dust was still freshly rising from the rubble following the visit of the bulldozers only days earlier.

In an act of pure vandalism, the developers cynically worked faster than any building company before or since to get the huge structure demolished over the course of the August Bank Holiday weekend in 1980. That was a lot of triple overtime, even back then.

Thankfully, the Firestone factory didn’t die in vain. The subsequent outrage was channelled into the formation of The Twentieth Century Society who campaign for the preservation of Britain’s architectural heritage, protecting buildings constructed from the end of World War I right up to the present day.

The society has helped high-profile buildings, like Hoover, survive, but as I mentioned earlier, more obscure Art Deco buildings are still disappearing, or are in danger of disappearing, at an alarming rate. Just five years after Firestone disappeared, the much less well-known, but equally splendid, Woolworths store in Weymouth - complete with tiled façade and ocean liner appearance - was demolished, to be replaced by a depressingly nondescript row of shops.

Further along the coast, Campbell House in Plymouth, once home to Habitat, is facing an uncertain future, despite it being one of only a handful of buildings in the city centre that survived the blitz. Where the Luftwaffe failed, sometimes councillors and developers succeed. Let’s hope not.

I could be so good for you

I’ve got some sad news. After a long illness, Originality finally died on 4 February 2009. I’ve strongly suspected for a while that the world was struggling to create anything that was truly new - quite simply, everything remotely creative had already been ‘done’. That said, confirmation that the inventiveness reservoir had finally run dry still came as quite a shock.

The final straw occurred when Five finally aired their new version of Minder - an undoubted TV classic, especially for gentleman of a certain age (of which, thankfully, I consider myself a member). The internet community had seemingly written it off even before seeing an episode, although the Daily Mail, not renowned for its benevolence, had been unusually enthusiastic about the first couple of episodes. I didn’t know whom to believe.

Having missed the series’ opener, I managed to catch the second installment - and soon wished that I hadn’t. The new theme tune is dreadfully lifeless, whilst I also miss the traditional ‘Minder’ logotype on the opening titles (he says, putting his ‘Design’ hat on for a second). What follows, though, is even worse.

Shane Ritchie was always a controversial choice for the lead role of Archie Daley (Arthur’s nephew), and those fears were proven to be well-founded. Whereas George Cole played his character ‘straight’ with just the right amount of humour, Ritchie plays his part strictly for laughs, creating a character that is silly, irritating and completely unlikeable. When your co-stars, Rik Mayall and Myra Syal, are made to look like Hollywood heavyweights, then you know that you have got problems.

Sadly, Ritchie’s ego or delusion (I’m not sure which) saw him believe that he, a former Pontins’ Blue Coat and soap actor, could step into the shoes of a true master, George Cole. Although, Dennis Waterman’s trainers are easier to fill, Lex Shrapnel’s convincing portrayal of new minder, Jamie, still deserves some credit - although he clearly isn’t the series ‘lead’, which Waterman obviously was.

If it had been my decision, I would’ve cast Waterman in the lead role, as Terry, looking after (the probably now-deceased) Arthur’s business empire. Shrapnel could happily have fulfilled the minder character within this set-up, whilst an aging Waterman should have enough gravitas to drive the show whilst retaining an all-important link with the past.

Sadly, the new Minder is the culmination of years of deterioration that probably began with the likes of Jive Bunny, saw TV classics such as Starsky & Hutch and Charlie’s Angels cynically regurgitated as oh-so-predictable movies, and design icons, the Volkswagen Beetle (although the original was never formally christened ‘Beetle’) and the Mini (I refuse to tow the BMW line by spelling it in capitals!) being reborn as technically competent but visually lazy pastiches of their former selves.

Next up for the modern treatment is the brilliant (well, the first two series, anyway) The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin, with Martin Clunes in the lead role. Now, I like Clunes - I even bumped into him in a garden centre one Sunday - but he ain’t no Leonard Rossister.

The thought of it is almost enough to make me have a Perrin-style mid-life crisis, especially since West Bay - the beach where Reggie left his clothes when faking his own suicide - is only 20 minutes down the road from me…

Brazil nuts

People seemed genuinely shocked at Chelsea’s sacking of Luiz Felipe Scolari, pointing to the fact that he had managed Brazil to a World Cup victory.

I wasn’t in the least bit surprised, though.

It should be obvious that international football is a completely different kettle of fish to the day-to-day involvement of club football.

And I reckon that even I could win the World Cup with Brazil, given the players that would be at my disposal.

Sandra Redknapp would probably fancy her chances too.

Food for thought

Well, the Great Channel 4 Food Fight is over for another year. Have 12 months really passed since Hugh’s Chicken Run, which put our town of Axminster on the map, and - at times - came close to splitting the place in two?

This year, we were treated to Big Chef takes on Little Chef, a hopeless mismatch in true modern day televisual style, as presumably imitated from the likes of Wife Swap and Holiday Showdown.

If you don’t believe in the old adage of there being no such thing as bad publicity, then the only winners from this curiously pointless triple-bill of shows were BMW - there must’ve been approaching a zillion gratuitous shots of Heston’s shiny black 5-series. Reminded me of Alan Partridge and his Rover 800 Sterling.

There was also a rather helpful programme that told us - with not the slightest hint of irony - that cheap food wasn’t as good as expensive food. Unbelievable. And it took them a whole hour.

Still, at least Masterchef continues its run, despite the suspicion that this latest series has seen some of its worst cooks ever – although its rigid formula and mock tension is, frustratingly, the same as it has always been.

There have been times - especially during a recent ingredients test when budding chefs were asked to identify an Ostrich Egg and Stilton Cheese - when I’ve thought that even I could blag my way through to the second half of the programme.

Imagine Greg, once memorably likened to Bunson from The Muppets Show, and his reaction to my… um… er… beans on toast:

(Speaking slowly, but assertively)

“First, you get the lightly-toasted bread.”

(Lowering his voice, whilst adding a note of pleasant surprise)

“Then, you get just a hint of butter.”

(Stamping his foot and beginning to growl ever-so-slightly)

“Then, BANG, in come the beans!”

Reckon I would still beat the woman who memorably threw together Chorizo sausage, peaches and Feta cheese on pastry, though.