So the legendary King Arthur is once more in the news. Channel 4 is putting out a big budget drama called ‘Camelot.’ It is only the latest in a long long line of King Arthur movies and TV series; there has even been a musical, and all of them, thanks to Geoffrey of Monmouth for a start, pure fiction. One film got closer to the truth in placing him in Roman Britain but even that was a hundred years out of date.

He most definitely was not a fifth or sixth century Romano-Celtic warrior resisting Anglo-Saxon settlement; he was a Welsh chieftain by the name of Arivagu, or ‘The Great bear,’ son of Cunobelinis, (Cymbeline) grandson of King Llyr, (Lear) Roman name – Caractacus. His bother was Togodumnus. Uther Pendragon as his father is, like the sword in the stone, the lady in the lake, Camelot, the round table and Avalon, romantic myth. Scroll through any list of the kings of England and you will find no Arthur.

Google and the internet are truly amazing. Bits and pieces of my autobiography ‘No Official Umbrella’ keep popping up all over in the most unexpected places. I was no longer sure if I was spelling Arivagu right so I looked it up on Google and what did I find? An extract from the book so,if you’re really interested in finding out who I believe was the real King Arthur look up Arivagu on Google and you will read the extract from ‘No Official Umbrella.’ Alternatively I said all this I find in my Blog of October 1, 2008, also on Google.

Another king who has a hold on the British imagination, a real one this time, King John, and not for being a hero but ostensibly for being a died in the wool villain. (All down to Shakespeare?) A new film about King John further underlines history's judgment of the medieval English monarch as a cruel tyrant. But among the dozens of bad kings and despots, why is John always the pantomime villain? Depictions on television, stage and big screen, particularly in Robin Hood films, usually present a man who is treacherous and weak.

King John’s reign has been characterized by disaster and his reputation languishes among the lowest for all the kings and queens of England. Born in Oxford, in 1166 he was the youngest of the four sons of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, nicknamed Lackland because he had no obvious inheritance. His brother Richard, known as the Lionheart, became king and named his nephew Arthur as his heir. John tried unsuccessfully while Richard was still alive to seize the throne and on Richard’s death he did become king. An interesting sideline here: it was during the siege of the castle of Chalus in France that the king received an arrow in the neck that also penetrated his chest and he died of gangrene at the age of 41 but, before he died, he had the archer brought to his bedside, gave him a hundred shillings and set him free. The archer’s name was Betran and despite the king’s pardon he was flayed alive before being hanged. Interesting times.

The weather really doesn’t know what it wants to do. Here we are into the second week of June and nothing but completely overcast skies although there doesn’t give any indication of rain. The first apricots are dropping so I went into the garden and picked a carrier bag full. There’s masses still on the tree that were difficult for me to reach for the simple reason that picking the first lot nearly did for me. These apricots are smallish, tasty, but quite hard with hardly any juice whereas the second tree, a different variety, fruits in late summer early autumn, the fruit being much bigger and simply running with juice.

Depression depression, depression, I have to face up to the fact that age has caught up with me and I can no longer do anything in the garden except maybe potter about. It took me thirteen years of hard work lovingly undertaken to get the garden from a barren piece of land with huge rocks, boulders even, and under the walnut trees a positive forest of a certain kind of lily that took me three years or more to eradicate, into something giving the semblance of a real garden and it has all gone to pot in one season. Because of ill-health I’ve not been able to tackle it and the others have had much too much on their plates to expect them to do it (Chris has finally finished his sixteen stained glass windows, they are in situ and look ravishing) so it is no one’s fault but the weeds are rampant and everything is overgrown and needs to be cut right back. It is very colourful at the moment because all the shrubs, including roses, the bougainvillea and the oleander, red, pink and cream are in full bloom but that is little compensation for the mess. Trees have literally doubled in height and breadth and the fruit trees, mulberry, grape, fig, quince, guava, lemon, orange, prickly pear, all desperately need pruning. Even the walnut trees need cutting back. The avocado has grown considerably over the winter but disappointingly is not bearing any fruit this year and the nut peach, my favourite, has no more than half a dozen fruits. The nectarine has to be got rid of entirely. We have tried every year to eradicate the peach curl with spray and even completely denuding the tree of foliage but it keeps coming back so the only thing left is to get rid of the tree. We have never had fruit off it anyway.

An ancient pine tree right at the end of the garden has died, from old age I reckon, so that also has to go and will provide a fair amount of wood for the winter, that and all the other branches lying around from previous pruning. It is not a job we want to tackle as the tree is about forty foot high and really requires someone with expertise to take it down; once down Douglas can get busy with the chain saw to cut it into usable logs. There is also one fig tree that has grown out of all proportion to what it used to be only a year ago and it is covered in fruit but unfortunately as Douglas has discovered it is a male and the fruit inedible and will come to nothing.

What we need now more than anything is a gardener but in our current state of precarious finances that is mere wishful thinking.

I am reading Laurence Olivier’s autobiography, ‘Confessions of an Actor’ and fascinating stuff it is. Originally published in 1982 I can’t understand why I never read it sooner. It’s been on the shelf a goodly while. I have always maintained, and I might have mention this before, that two people sitting side by side watching a play together do not actually see the very same play. Well I didn’t see the Zeffirelli production of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ at the Old Vic on the same night as Lord Olivier (at least I don’t think so) but what a different reaction we each had. Regarding Romeo this is what he writes – ‘…for the ideal of boyish passionate intensity I find it hard to believe that John Stride in Zeffirelli’s splendid production can ever have been bettered.’ Wow! There’s praise indeed. So what was my reaction to Mister Stride’s performance? I remember thinking at the time – ‘how can jumping up and down like a puppet on a string betoken passion?’ Obviously Lord Olivier and I must have seen it on different nights. I really did think he was dreadful. On the other hand, and Olivier doesn’t mention this, I saw to my mind the definitive Juliet, a once in a lifetime performance by the young Judy Dench, never to be equalled. Juliet is such a difficult part, a mature actress playing a thirteen year old, even if at thirteen a girl at that period was of marriageable age.

Olivier’s writing, though easy enough to read. is not a great advertisement for the acting profession and reading it one can see why snide journalists refer to actors as luvvies. So many best beloved wonderful fabulous friends, so much adoration, so many Johns who become Johnnies; Johnnie Gielgud, Johnnie Dexter etcetera. Even Noel Coward at one point is referred to as Noelie, Frederic March becomes Freddie and Ronald Pickup becomes Ronnie. Kenneth Tynan becomes Kenny and the girls don’t escape, little wifey becomes Joanie and Geraldine McEwen becomes Gerry, and there are many more. It’s as though he is desperate to assure us how intimate he was with all these people.

It’s interesting to read how he was torn apart by critics and what he has to say about them especially as he was reputed to be the greatest actor of his age. I met him only once, at an audition, and found him charming and so polite, unlike one or two lesser men who were rudeness personified. It’s a shame that in his latter years he suffered so much from various horrid illnesses.

England's Italian football manager Fabio Capello claims he can manage his players with just 100 words of English. So how far could you get with a vocabulary of that size? Despite his sometimes colourful language, communicating with Wayne Rooney does not require a Shakespearean command of English.

His comment raises an interesting question - how far could such a limited knowledge of English take you?

Not very far, says Peter Howarth, deputy director of Leeds University's language centre.

"It's a ridiculously small number, you could learn 100 words in a couple of days, particularly when you're in the country surrounded by the language," he says.

"People do say that from a learner's point of view, English is relatively easy to use without too much grammar... but Fabio Capello needs a range, presumably, and to communicate emotions and a bit of nuance."

A grasp of 1,500 words is needed to communicate at an intermediate level with "some range", he suggests.

Estimates for the average size of a person's vocabulary vary, but TV lexicographer and dictionary expert Susie Dent says it's about 20,000 active words and 40,000 passive ones.

She says it's important to distinguish between the active words we know and use and those we might know but don't use. Part of the problem when learning a language is understanding the context in which words should be used, she adds. It's about learning how and when to use the vocabulary, which is why learner dictionaries are very useful."

I wonder how many words I know in Greek. More than a hundred but less than 1500 I am sure.

We watched the final episode of ‘The Island’ and were all vaguely disappointed. I can’t quite figure out why. After twenty wonderful riveting beautiful episodes why should this last one have been a disappointment? Was it because there were too many loose ends to tie up? It did seem to be even wordier than usual and that, for Greece, is saying something. Or did Theo lose his masterly touch in that final episode. Maybe he was very tired which would hardly be surprising after such a long shoot. The final scene was tedious, went on far too long and the music didn’t help. Well, it was a wonderful piece of television; beautifully directed, beautifully photographed, beautifully performed – except for that last episode which for the first time produced at least one bad performance. Well, it’s all over so we will have to find an alternative for Monday night viewing. It would be really great if the series was dubbed into English. Maybe an enterprising company will pick it up.

There is still so little worth watching on Greek television, except for the government channel that broadcasts interesting documentaries, ballets, operas, we have been filling our evenings with watching ‘Our Mutual Friend’ again and two episodes of ‘Ugly Betty’ a night. We’re still on the third series so have number four to look forward to.

Smokers around the world are really coming under fire, if I can use that expression. China joins Europe in instigating a ban in enclosed paces and Argentina has now been added to the list, bringing in some quite draconian anti-tobacco measures. I don’t know how the ban is being observed in Greece but evidently the Spaniards are resisting for all they’re worth; and talking of draconian methods New York has now even banned smoking in some open spaces like parks for instance. I’m so glad I am no longer a smoker.

The small Himalayan country of Bhutan has banned smoking and a Buddhist monk is likely to face five years in prison for violating its strict anti-smoking laws. Police have not named the monk but said he is 24 years old and was caught with 72 packets of chewing tobacco. Bhutan says it is determined to become the world's first smoking-free nation. It banned the sale of tobacco in 2005. But authorities admit that booming contraband traffic from neighboring India has largely undermined the ban. Of course, what else could be expected? Think of America in the prohibition years. Critics say the flow of illegal cigarettes is so strong that the ban has failed to make much of an impact. A law passed in 2005 gives police sweeping powers to enter homes and search for tobacco products. In addition it gives them power to jail shopkeepers for selling tobacco and arrest smokers if they fail to provide customs receipts for imported cigarettes - which are only permitted in very small quantities. Smokers can legally import only up to 200 cigarettes or 150 grams of other tobacco products a month. They must provide a customs receipt when challenged by police. The monk maintains he didn’t know about that which is why he couldn’t produce a custom’s receipt. He was charged with smuggling controlled material, which is a fourth degree felony, according to an official of the Bhutanese Narcotic Drug and Law Enforcement. A fourth degree felony carries a sentence of five years.

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No matter how intrusive the Elf and Safety Executive is into people’s lives it simply cannot stop accidents from happening. They happen because they are unforeseen no matter how many rules and regulations there are. Recently eight children have been injured, five playing on an inflatable slide that tipped over and three on a bouncy castle that slipped its moorings. The first five suffered only minor injuries but unfortunately the three playing on the castle were severely injured with broken bones and all are in hospital.

As everyone and his or her mother seem to be writing a book it is amazing how many self-publishing houses have spring up in order, for a price, to give assistance and to publish said book. Believe me for what value they give they can be very expensive and even if your book is published there are no guarantees of sales. A good few years ago I sent a manuscript to one of these firms, this was when there were only a couple of them who offered to publish with my share of the cost being £3000 and that was when three thousand pounds was a great deal of money. Naturally (never having that much in the bank at any one time) I declined their offer. In those days books were published by the run and even mumbers of those published by mainstream houses ended up on the remainder table. With the advent of print on demand it is a whole other ball game and one is not left with hundreds of unwanted books mouldering in the attic as it were.

It’s surprising how many famous writers started out by being self-published. Evidently J.M. Barrie, the author of ‘Peter Pan’ and who once had no fewer than five plays running in London was one who started off that way. I learnt this from a book I forgot to mention in my last Blog – ‘Cock-A-Doodle-Do’ by Charles B. Cochrane, or Cocky as he was known, a fascinating biography from a man who late nineteenth century up to the second world war was an entrepreneur and the producer of plays, spectacular revues and pantomimes; an English version of the American Florenz Ziegfeld. Everybody who was anybody in the theatre at that period worked some time or other for Cochrane. Talk about name dropping! How’s this for half a page worth?

“Perhaps the most popular item of the evening was when a double file of women dressed in the garb of an Edwardian musical comedy chorus, and men dressed in scarlet dress suits, marched down a long joy-plank and gravely performed the banal steps of an old-fashioned musical comedy ensemble. There were Gorge Robey and Diana Wynyard, Noel Coward and Dorothy Dickson, Douglas Fairbanks Junior with Gladys Cooper, Owen Nares with Ivy St Helier, Ivor Novello with Yvonne Arnaud, Ronald Squire with Adrienne Allen, Raymond Massey with Vivien Leigh, John Gielgud with Fay Compton and Clifford Mollison with Adèle Dixon. The audience rocked themselves into a delirium of applause.”

There are a couple of names there I don’t recognise but otherwise what an ensemble of theatre notables, a once in a lifetime.

To continue with the books recently read; another ‘show business’ one, ‘Back Stages’ by Michael Kilgarriff. He and I are contempories and have both been in the theatre a good many years but our paths never crossed. Hardly surprising as he was more into musical theatre, Music Hall, and pantomime whereas I was legit as it’s called. Consequently only a few names in his book cross over as it were. Trish Michaels, now married and living in Canada, and Nola with whom she shared a house in Hackney where we were living at the time. We are still in touch with Trish but lost contact with Nola a long time ago when she upped stakes and moved to New York. I believe she was a very good film editor and she most likely thought America would provide more opportunities. John Dalby is mentioned and we know John well. We both performed in a lunchtime theatre for him in a club in Leicester Square, a short farce by Feydeau, and he was also our singing teacher. Simon Merrick is mentioned and I worked with this actor in a dreadful play called ‘Who Goes Bare?’ twice nightly one summer season in Bournemouth. I swore I would never do twice nightly again and thank god I never did. Then there was John Inman, later to find fame in the television series ‘Are You Being Served’ who I worked with in rep in Weston Super-mare. This was for that good old-fashioned actor-manager Charlie Vance. I’m surprised Michael didn’t work for him; nearly everyone else did at that period. I was also in the company for a season at the Arts Theatre, Cambridge and toured in ‘A Man For All Seasons’ for Charlie doubling Cardinal Wolsey and Henry Vlll. Charles played Sir Thomas Moore.

I followed up ‘Back Stages’ with a quite delightful book, also written by an actor, Michael Simkins, every actor seems to be writing a book these days. It’s called ‘Fatty Batter’ a memoir all about a fat child growing up to become a cricket fanatic. If you don’t like the game of cricket or don’t know anything about it I doubt the book would appeal to you in the same way. Or maybe it would, I don’t know. It is very funny but he missed out on one legendary cricket story, I don’t know whether or not it’s apochryphal but a commentator during an England versus the West Indies match was reputed to have said ‘The bowler’s Holding the batsman’s Willy.’

And finally one of the books I truly love, another perfect charmer in the Number 1 ladies detective series by Alexander McCall Smith, ‘The Double Comfort Safari Club.’ A ray of comfort indeed in this crazy world.

I had never before come across this word “raptured” that Harold Camping used for the blessed ascending with Jesus into heaven when he predicted the end of the world but I have discovered it is not new. One learns something every day. In Antonia Fraser’s book ‘The Weaker Vessel’ about seventeenth century women (yes, I have picked it up again after a lengthy hiatus. Informative and fascinating though it be it is still quite a weighty tome and I find I can only read a few pages at a time. Densely packed on every page her research is quite extraordinary) and I am admonished as always that ‘All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright holder.’ So sue me because I am going to ignore the admonition. After the Restoration small religious sects seemed to spring up all over the place, each with its own sometimes most peculiar view of established churches, Christ and Christianity, the Fifth Monarchists for example. Yes, I had to look that one up – truly weird. There were also a number of women who were regarded as prophetesses, amongst whom was a lady named Anna Trapnel who had a ‘moment of revelation on Christmas Day 1642 which happened to be a Sunday. Listening to the Baptist minister in St Botolph’s church in Aldgate. Suddenly Anna found herself saying “Lord, I have the spirit.” Then what joy she felt. “Oh what triumphing and songs of Hallelujah were in my spirit.” Anna felt a clothing of glory over her and saw angels, a clear flame without smoke and other “christal” appearances. Thereafter there were still moments when Anna felt buffeted by Satan as when she learnt of her mother’s death. Yet many “raptures” followed.’ So there we are. It’s not a newly coined expression after all.

Have been catching up with a lot of reading (apart from Miss Fraser’s book that I am only half way through – I told you it is a heavy tome and not exactly light reading but well worth the effort.) Well to start with there is Sal Mineo’s biography. I’ve mentioned this to a couple of people maybe fifteen or twenty years younger than myself and received blank stares in exchange. To mention the film ‘Rebel Without A Cause’ elicits some sign of recognition and ‘Oh, yes, James Dean’ is the usual reply. Well, of the three leads in that movie, Sal aged sixteen was one, and looking at clips of it now, bloody good he was too. Unfortunately he had that enormous hurdle to overcome moving on from child actor to adult. Not many make it and fall by the wayside. Twice nominated for an Academy award he did appear in other movies- Exodus, The Gene Krupa Story, Giant, The Longest Day so his career did continue but, despite appearing in these major pictures, was never the same again. I have learnt so much from reading this book and realise what an ignoramus I was at the time, especially about the film industry and all its machinations. We knew Sal (the reason for reading the book) and his then lover Courtney Burr lll with whom we are still in touch, and I remember the shock we felt when we learnt of his murder. We are mentioned a couple of times in the book, becoming friends when I worked with him on a screenplay for Robin Maugham’s novel ‘The Wrong People.’ He never did make it. But there you are; how fame spreads! Phht! According to the book I wrote a number of gay plays that were produced in London. I should cocoa. Firstly, though homosexuality may feature in my plays, I have never actually written a gay play let alone had it performed in London. A good many years ago I submitted a two-hander to the Hampstead Theatre Club as it then was and the response was that if I turned the woman into a boy they would do it. Maybe I should have done it but I didn’t see the point. Little did I realise there would soon be a rash of gay plays mainstream. Silly me. I could have been the first.