So, casual racism is ok now?

Shocking in 1967, commonplace today, right? Er... no.

As if we didn’t have enough to worry about with Rastamouse (who is actually pretty awesome, although I can see the potential problem with a lot of white 5-years-olds imitating Jamaican patois at kindergarten) we have a new scandal; Brian True-May, executive producer of Midsomer Murders (I think you need to be over 50) has ignited a race row. Mr True-May proclaimed “We just don't have ethnic minorities involved. Because it wouldn't be the English village with them. It just wouldn't work. We're the last bastion of Englishness and I want to keep it that way.”

I can’t really be bothered to examine this nasty little piece of bigotry; let’s just say, if he wasn’t racist, he might have said something like “We’ve researched this and found there just aren’t many ethnic minorities living in small English villages (strange but true) so we were trying to keep the proportions realistic.” Instead, he made it sound like English villages must have be segregated in order to be respectable.

A lot of people seem ready to leap to his defence, although most letters of support seems to run along the lines of “I’m definitely not racist, some of my best friends are black... and even I don’t think darkies should be allowed in a nice ITV drama.”

How is it that in 2011, we are still having these debates? And how is it that the number of black Hollywood stars has barely increased since the fifties? And that Asian nationalities are represented by... well, Jackie Chan and Lucy Liu? And that Indians are rarely allowed on the silver screen unless they are part of a comedy / drama about a stereotypical “Indian family”, or in a slum?

What makes it worse is that when anyone “of colour” does make it into the flicks, changes are made in the script to allow for this. I recently watched Sorority Row (don’t judge me, I have a weakness for rubbishy horror films) and one of the first lines was that of the “snobby bitch” character to the token Asian girl; “I like being your friend, because it makes me multi-cultural, without having to do anything.” Is inter-racial friendship really so unusual that it needs to be commented on? Um... maybe it is.

Dexter and his pal Mazuka:  

"How do you remember that? It wasn't even a homicide."

"Cheung is Asian, bro. He makes us all look bad."

              

Will Smith is one of those gifted actors who can carry a movie single-handedly, and his universal popularity has resulted in a string of varied roles. But I find it frustrating that screenwriters seem unable to resist the temptation to make some reference to his colour. Of course, this may be totally down to him – he knows that calling himself a “brother” and making racial jokes gets laughs. His first line in Men in Black came as he jumped off a bridge onto an open-top bus, telling surprised passengers "It just be rainin' black people in New York!" Now, Chris O’Donnell was originally in line for this role. Perhaps we should count it as a bonus that a non-white actor got the role at all, but... what are the chances that Chris O’Donnell’s first line would have been “It just be rainin' white people in New York!"?

Likewise, JLo may well have signed a contract saying she will not make any films unless she at least mentions being a “Latina”. It’s almost as if the film makers feel some need to “explain” or apologise for the presence of a non-white character.

Sidney Poitier was the go-to guy for racial dramas in the 50s and 60s, Richard Pryor was the butt of the black jokes (even if he was the one making them) in the 60s and 70s, and Eddie Murphy basically owned the 80s with a string of classics. (Not to mention the timeless genius of Bill Cosby.) Considering that the Civil Rights Act was only signed in 1964, and Martin Luther King jr was assassinated in 1968, maybe it’s amazing that we’ve come so far.

But we still have a long way to go. I’ve noticed that a lot of people will make “racist” jokes in a sniggering, Ricky Gervais “You know I’m not really racist, so it’s ok for me to say this,” kind of way. I was recently chatting to some colleagues about dodgy areas of London, rife with drug dealers, and one said to the other “You know about that sort of thing, don’t you? You’re black!”

Of course, it’s 2011, and he was “joking” so it couldn’t possibly be racist, right? Well, it irritated me, and I’m white, so I don’t have to listen to stuff like that every day. But I imagine if you are a member of any ethnic minority*, and people make “jokes” like this all the time, every day, and each of them thinks it’s ok, and you’re not allowed to be offended because that would mean you didn’t have a sense of humour – well, I imagine that must be pretty flipping tedious. (It's also useful to bear in mind that "I was only joking!" is the hallmark of an abuser, in life generally.)

(*I know. "Ethnic minority" sounds kind of patronising, as whether you're a minority or not kind of depends on your geographical location.)

It’s said that Dennis Haysbert’s portrayal of David Palmer in 24 opened up the way for Obama by getting people used to the idea of a black president. Casting agents – you can change the world! Maybe one day we'll see a black guy cast in a Shakespeare play other than Othello, or feature in a horror film without making any jokes about being the first to go. Maybe an Asian girl will play a character who isn't a kung-foo expert or dominatrix. 

Here’s hoping Hollywood will catch up with reality.

Crackpot theories 101

Of course, only a fool would cut their hair while the

 moon was in Aries. It's so dry and barren, y'know?

Following on from last month’s post, I  now find myself aligned with a distinguished group of people – tree huggers, if you will – who may be said to be so open-minded that their brains need to be strapped in to keep them from falling out.

You know you’ve taken the crazy train one stop too far into Kooksville when you cut your hair according to the moon (not to mention when you find yourself saying “Well, don’t MANIFEST it!” when a friend is being pessimistic).

But last night was the “Supermoon” – the biggest perigree moon in about 20 years. I don’t know about you, but I was somewhat surprised to see that it was pretty average looking – from the newspaper’s reports, I think I'd been expecting to look outside and see it looming at my window like  the eye of a T-rex.

Turns out the moon is a powerful force, and it affects more than just our oceans. I think almost every practitioner of “magick” would attest that certain charms work best while the moon is waxing (growing) and some when it’s waning (shrinking). Fans of “biodynamic” gardening use the entire system of zodiac signs – through which the moon passes every month – to give their crops an advantage. Turns out that when the moon is in a water sign, it’s a good time to plant leafy crops, but naturally, earth signs are better for root vegetables.

This may sound a little bit... how can I put it... MENTAL, but hey, it’s no sillier than the idea of the moon pulling the tides back and forth, and we all believe that. Truth is stranger than fiction, that’s fo sho. And the Old Farmer's Almanac has acknowledged the moon's influence for yonks.

When you think about it, it's logical that Lady Luna should have a compelling influence on crops, what with the gravitational pull affecting the water levels in soil. And the fact that humans (and animals) are largely made up of water could explain why so many pet owners and police officers can attest that the full moon brings out the beast in the best of us.

But hair? Rational thought would suggest that your roots can’t be affected by what’s happening to the ends, so how could a cut affect how fast your hair grows? https://morroccomethod.com/lunar-hair-chart goes some way to explain it, suggesting that you can “shock” your hair into growing. Sounds screwy, but who knows?

I am terrible at getting my hair cut – forget 6 weeks, I've been known to leave it for 6 months. But hoping that the moon would magically transform my hair, I booked myself in for a trim to coincide with the Supermoon grand appearance (and so close to the Spring Equinox, too! Bonus).

Being a commitment-phobe and cheap to boot, I’ve never established a long relationship with any hairdresser for long, preferring to look out for special offers or using college students. (Although I haven't used the latter since a slightly traumatic experience; the (BO-challenged) young man had clearly spent most of his time working on model heads which didn’t answer back or say “ow”. Cue four hours of of head yanking and vigorous, painful combing. He kept saying “Ooh, sorry,” every time I winced – I was tempted to snarl “Don’t be sorry, just stop f-ing doing it!” but I didn’t, because I am far too polite.)

Remember those ads with a voice-over which started “We all know blow-drying and styling is bad for our hair, but we still do it....” ? Well, actually, I don’t. In fact, the only time a hairdryer ever comes near my head is when it’s being wielded by a hairdresser. The rest of the time, I use a towel and then air-dry. I think I last used a curling tong about 2 years ago, and I don’t straighten. So, I find it more than a little ironic when stylists recommend (extortionately priced) “caring” shampoos to me while the air is actually filled with the aroma of my burning hair as they scrape it around with a hairbrush and hairdryer to leave it poker straight. It's best not to take them too seriously; I once had one who told me my hair was “really split” the first time I went to see her, before saying a few months later “your hair is so much better since you’re been seeing me”. Ladies and gentlemen, I had done NOTHING differently. Mind games, I tell you!

As for the moon; you have to get your hair cut some time, right? So why not do a scientific experiment, rather than dismiss it because it doesn't "sound" true?

I'll believe anything if it's true.

Stranger things have happened.

My favourite news story last week was that of George Hudspeth, whose sight had totally deteriorated through Macular Disease over the last ten years. After talking to a photograph of his dead wife (as was his daily wont) his sight suddenly came back. The 76 year old was able to see his baby granddaughter for the first time, saying (and this might be my favourite bit) "She has a right chubby little face." 

Now, being healed by talking to a photograph of your dead wife doesn’t particularly fit into my faith (I would describe myself as a Jesus-worshipping, nature-loving, candle-lighting, vaguely panentheistic reader of CS Lewis and M Scott Peck) but I can be open minded. For me, the real kicker came in the quote provided by the Macular Disease Society, “Mr Hudspeth must have been misdiagnosed because recovery is impossible.”

Now, you would think that someone with a scientific bent and inquiring mind would say, “Well, gosh, we THOUGHT this disease was incurable, but this highly unusual event may force us to rethink that theory. Thanks for the heads up!” But the powers that be cannot accept anything that deviates from the accepted wisdom. So, gangster style, they inform us “This never happened. Got it?”

My dad tells me “there is no such thing as an expert,” and I’m inclined to agree. It’s a fairly meaningless term which tells you a person has put some effort into studying a subject – not that they know everything there is to know about it. Unfortunately, being fallible humans means that we inevitably bring our own personal prejudices to the table.

It’s said that science is excellent… at answering the questions it chooses to answer. But being scientific SHOULD mean being open-minded; as opposed to coming up with a theory and then bending all the evidence to suit it (and denying any evidence to the contrary).

(Just to be devil’s advocate  / crazy conspiracy theorist for a moment; “experts” also tell us that there can be no aliens living on other planets because nowhere other than earth can sustain life. Apparently, they are basing this on the idea that any other life would thrive in similar conditions to ours, which seems to me a rather gigantic assumption. Maybe Martians love heat. How the hell would we know?)

(Not that I NECESSARILY believe in aliens. Just sayin’.)

The funny thing is, when stories recounting “miraculous” events appear in the media, a lot of knee-jerk reactions are cynical. It’s as if trusting that THERE ARE NO MIRACLES is the absolute cornerstone of some people’s belief systems.

I once read that healings (the kind you get in churches where people fall over a lot)

which have been properly documented (thus eliminating many of the usual objections) have been explained by a sudden, natural spontaneous healing which was going to happen anyway. Forgive me, atheists, but you’d need an awful lot of faith to believe that. (You could at least call it a placebo effect.)

(Incidentally, why do people talk so disparagingly of placebos? Surely they are less a failure of medicine, more a testament to the awesome power of the human mind…?)

It makes me wonder; in the unlikely event that you could show Richard Dawkins irrefutable proof that God exists, would he say “Well slap my grandma, I had it wrong all this time. I am surprised, but I clearly can’t ignore this new information.” Or would he shut his eyes, stick his fingers in his ears and say “La la la I can’t hear yoooooouuu”?

I think we all know the answer to that one.

Now let's forget our troubles with a big bowl of strawberry icecream

Sexism on the football field. Are we bovvered?

ETA: Since this blog was written, Katie Hopkins has become a professional troll, saying outrageous, hateful things in the knowledge that it will bring more publicity / money her way. I have zero respect for her. However, back in 2011, I agreed with her stance. I don't any more, having seen that some industries are so deeply regressive, that they NEED women / minority-only shortlists in order to force them to become more balanced.)

Back to 2011....

 

Well, I must say I enjoyed the Question Time debate on the "Sky sexism scandal" involving Richard Keys and Andy Gray. (You can watch it here.  I had very little idea who "Katie Hopkins from The Apprentice" was, but found myself agreeing with all that she said – unlike the rest of the studio audience, who maintained a stony silence whenever she spoke and clapped whenever anyone disagreed with her. I expect if she'd said "Women are victims! Men are sooo meeeean to us" she'd have got a standing ovation. Poor old Edwina Currie only put feminism back by about 50 years when her take on women in football was summed up with "Have you forgotten Bend it Like Beckham? Wasn't Keira Knightly gorgeous?!"

Miss Hopkins dared to point out that "women actually don't want equal treatment....What a lot of women are actually asking for – and you can look aghast at this – is special treatment." I agree – and it's silly bints like Edwina Currie and Harriet Harman, who propose "positive discrimination" (no such thing) who do the real damage. When we start having "Women Only" short lists, we are basically saying that women ARE inferior, that they can't get jobs based on their merit, and they need a special leg up, as if being female is some sort of disadvantage.

Similarly, when women are awarded millions because they threw a hissy fit when a fratboy-type colleague said "nice knockers", they may think they're striking a blow for feminists everywhere, but actually they are making women look like humourless wimps, and making bosses understandably leery about taking on such volatile employees. What's wrong with laughing in the faces of these dinosaur-like men? You can't really take them seriously...  can you?

Maybe I see the funny side of these things a little too much, but after listening to the infamous exchange between Andy Gray and Richard Keys, I couldn't help but have a giggle. It's SILLY. It may be sexist, but it was also freaking hilarious, right down to the final line from Mr Keys: "Did you hear charming Karren Brady this morning complaining about sexism? Yeah, do me a favour, love." The spirit of Andy Capp lives on.

I also enjoyed the way they huffed that "of course" women didn't understand the offside rule. I find it odd and sort of endearing that men have made this into some mythical esoteric knowledge that women may never know, even though they are privy to exactly the same information that men are. Perhaps it's revenge for the way women always insist that men can never understand the pain of childbirth? I have to admit, I don't know the offside rule, but then again, I don't care to. I certainly wouldn't consider myself in any way inferior for this, any more than I would call Andy Gray inferior because (I suspect) he could not name Hello Kitty's twin sister (Mimmy). I've never felt any desire to join a men only club, either. It's the "grown-up" equivalent of a tree house with "No gurlz alowd" pinned to the stepladder – let them have their fun, bless 'em.

Giggles aside, Richard Keys shows his non-comical colours on another occasion, when describing an ex girlfriend of Jamie Redknapp – frankly, his description "You could have gone round there any night and found Redknapp hanging out the back of it" is pretty vile. Forget sexism, I'm concerned about the state of his soul. Who calls a fellow human being "it"? Astonishingly, he has a 25-year-old daughter – who claims “Dad’s comments were totally out of character." (Am I the only one who thinks it would be quite funny if she dated a footballer?)

But before Edwina Currie bans it from the airwaves, let's enjoy this clip – if you listen carefully you hear Andy Gray plaintively slipping in "Why do they call them linesman?" and the Creature Comforts-style repetition of the word "Potty."

Keep 'em coming boys!

Goodbye 2010!

The talented Miss Clarkson: Seeing her play was one of my favourite moments of the year.
Incidentally, I once took this very photo to a hairdresser to show them what I 
wanted, but I somehow ended up with a mullet instead. Not that I'm bitter. 

So, it's the end of 2010...here are some of my personal highlights...

• Getting into a sold-out gig (Imelda May) and then deciding afterwards that it wasn’t worth going home, especially when work had foolishly given me keys so I could open up in the morning. It seemed serendipitous that I had just bought a new dress, so after an uncomfortable night curled up under my desk, I was able to appear fresh-faced (thanks to makeup samples from the Boots on Carnaby street that opens at 8am) and in different clothes from the day before. The perfect crime. 

• Dressing up as a schoolgirl for a School disco event and inadvertently popping my shirt buttons open within the first ten minutes.  When I expressed horror that I had been flashing my bra to all and sundry for the entire evening, my friend Alicia helpfully explained ”I thought you were just going for a slutty schoolgirl look!” So that's my official line, if anyone asks. 

• Having a great time at a Kelly Clarkson concert and then going on holiday immediately afterwards (when your flight is a 6am, it’s hardly worth going to bed...) thus “enjoying” a 36 hour day. (Actually, I’ve done this before, and became so tired that even though my friends were speaking English, I couldn’t understand the words. Sad, really.)

• Working at the Chelsea flower show, seeing the Queen, and discovering that Alan Titchmarsh is a very lovely person, and strangely sexy too.

•  Accidentally drugging my family with homemade lavender ice cream. (I come from a long line of cooking rebels who rarely follow recipes to the letter, and may have overdone this soporific ingredient.) I thought “A quarter of a cup of lavender? That’s not very much! Five minutes to steep? That’s not very long!” After eating, we were all suddenly overtaken with fatigue... (Other kitchen mishaps involve setting off a small fire inside the microwave... when you’re trying to soften butter that you forgot to leave at room temperature, make sure you peel all the paper off first, that’s all I can say. Otherwise you will be eating smoky flavoured toast for weeks.) 

• Camping for a wedding, which meant having to emerge from my tiny (2 midget) tent in full evening dress. After the reception ended at midnight, I got changed into my pyjamas before realising that actually, people weren’t going to bed yet. So I socialised with people who were still in their wedding outfits while I was in my pyjamas, an oddly liberating and dreamlike experience. 

•  Possibly sounding a little bit like a paedophile to a roomful of fellow travellers in a hostel room. After spending a week house-sitting and sleeping in the youngest child’s room, I confessed to my friend “I‘m looking forward to sleeping in my own bed.. that little boy’s bed was uncomfortable...” and then laughing manically for a full two minutes as I realised the possible confusion this could cause. 

• Actually, I’m sort of proud of this one.  I went down the red carpet at a film premiere in my jeans. (In fact, the outfit I’d worn all day for pottering around the house in.) When a friend asked if I wanted to go to a “screening”, I didn’t know it would be a glamorous, celebrity-ridden affair (actually, it was only Katherine Heigl and a couple of people from Hollyoaks). Surprisingly, no reporters cared to enquire who this bohemian, insouciant young starlet was. How odd. 

• At a friend’s house, we heard an “Oy! You up there!” from a male voice below the window. A toy tiger sitting on the windowsill was volunteered to peer out inquisitively.... all fun and games until we realised that the voice belonged to a policeman, who had heard our music and thought we were squatters. (I don’t know why.)

• I had a second winter holiday (I hadn’t actually been abroad since my year-long travelling escapades five years ago, so I felt justified) spending a week in Spain with my friend Jasmine. We may have been a little irresponsible letting the local stray cats into our apartment to sleep on our beds, but it’s hardly less hygienic than what some people do with stray people they find in the pub. Getting trapped at the airport all day because Gatwick was shut due to snow? All part of the fun. 

• Working as a costume designer, I had my own assistant for the very first time – how exciting! She was a lovely girl, and kindly offered to give me a lift home. Unfortunately she drove like a freaking maniac. As the car filled with pounding bass and cigarette smoke, I realised this stomach-lurching feeling was oddly familiar. Lightheaded, I realised that it was uncannily like being on a fairground ride. But I survived and so did she; a highlight of the year, indeed. 

• Other film shoots vivid in my memory: the occasion I was driving myself between various locations and got lost twice. When I did find the others an hour later, my first action was to blow up the kettle. Oops! Honourable mention must also go to the childrenswear ad which involved 8 children with 3 outfits each, in the space of one morning, with the only instruction from the director being  “Good luck”. 

• Finally, I was an extra in a film I was costume designing. My tip for the day? Never believe a director who tells you “You won’t have any lines... well, if you do, it’ll be part of the crowd scene, nobody’s going to hear you.” Cue me and one other person, who happened to be the main actor, being the only ones talking while a roomful of crew watched.  Mortifying, and no actor’s fee either! 

I wonder what 2011 will bring...? Have a good one y'all! 

I believe in magic....

Every time you say that Santa doesn't exist, a puppy dies. Fact.

As I may have mentioned, at this time of year I love to waste hours watching dreadful cheesy Christmas movies. Seriously – quality is not an issue. I’ll watch them all.

Somehow it seems easier in December to suspend disbelief and get all sappy over the magic of flying reindeer and little bells you can only hear if you really and truly believe (Yep, Polar Express is one of my faves).

And it doesn’t take a Christmas pixie to spot the theme that emerges in these “Santa-in-peril-because-nobody-believes-except-one-small-child” tales. This benevolent, all-knowing father figure may hand out some gifts if we behave ourselves (he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake!) but in order to receive, we have to believe. A “Santa as God-lite” analogy, if you will. And if there’s one thing movies teach us (apart from the fact that New York is THE place to spend Christmas, not least because you can ice skate in central park with Cary Grant) it’s that faith is the cornerstone of the Santa religion. Kris Kringle is the real thing only because he is BELIEVED to be the real thing.

For some people, the idea of God is just as nonsensical as Père Noel; a fairy tale you outgrow. It’s easy to become disillusioned as you grow up – prayers and letters to Santa go unanswered, cracks appear in the stories, and magic is an illusion that only a fool would believe in.

Well, call me a fool, but I do believe in magic. It’s all around us. Take photographs, for instance. You can explain it to me in whatever scientific way you like, but the fact remains that the MAGIC BOX manages to suck in an image of whatever it is pointed at and record it forever. Likewise telephones – tell me about airwaves til the cows come home; the fact is, I can communicate with someone in another country via a tiny MAGIC TOOL. And don’t even get me started on CDs and the miracle that is music trapped in a tiny disc. It might just blow my mind.

 As Jostein Gaarder points out in his novel The Solitaire Mystery, “Nobody would believe this world if they hadn’t spent years getting used to it.”

The very fact that your mind controls your body is pretty stupendous when you think about it – not to mention the fact that your body can HEAL ITSELF of minor injuries. You cut your finger, a couple of days later there isn’t so much as a mark. You’re a freaking terminator!

I remember being astonished when I first realised that trees can heal themselves in a similar way – and it turns out they also talk to each other. Well, sort of – they can communicate via pheromones, managing to warn when a predatory insect is around so they can prepare themselves to make their leaves taste nasty. How clever is that! 

And those proponents of the Law of Attraction claim that every word we speak has a magical effect on our vibrations; anyone who’s ever read a self-help book will know the dangers of saying “I’m so sick and tired of x” until it becomes true, but who knew you could magically create your own reality by the power of your mind? (If you’re skeptical – well, just keep doing what you’re doing, if it’s working out for you...)

The Bard put it best; “There are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

As for Jesus, well, I think it was C.S. Lewis (and do correct me if I’m wrong, because I now can’t find the quote) who said “Don’t knock the immaculate conception, because the normal method is strange enough.”

May I quote Jostein Gaarder one more time?

 “I have been in outer space many times,” bragged the cosmonaut, “but I have never seen any angels.” The brain surgeon stared in amazement, but then he said “and I have operated on many intelligent brains, but I have never seen a single thought.”

So, I think we can conclude that the world is a pretty wacky place. And we human beings, in our infinite wisdom, have decided what is possible and what is not. As this is based merely on what we have so far seen to be possible, it seems we may not have the exhaustive list worked out just yet.

Of course, nobody REALLY believes in old Saint Nick. (Not even the adults in the movies who apparently don’t notice the strange gifts appearing in their houses every year.) I do fervently wish he was real, though. I’ve always wanted to have an interviewer ask me what my dream job would be, so I could answer honestly “Being an elf in Santa’s workshop,” and I would sound far less bonkers if it was actually an option. 

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, y’all. xx

And WHAT, pray tell, ARE YOU?

"I'm here, I'm here! I've come back, it's all right!" Ah, Lucy, I can hear your little piping voice now.

I love all Christmas films, from schmaltzy Jimmy Stewart ones to the delights of Clark Griswold (I always identified with his urgent need to make the entire family take part in the Christmas of his dreams). But when the snow is thick and crunchy, there is only one movie for me. Forget big budget Hollywood; the original cartoon of The Lion, the Witch & the Wardrobe is the definitive version (and available on VHS!).

I have to warn you, this film is greater than the sum of its parts. At first glance it may seem to be a slightly ropey animation (with colours that do not always match) and features some fairly dreadful acting from the child actors, especially in crying scenes.

However, it does boast a cracking soundtrack and a high calibre of adult actors. Do make sure you watch the slightly lesser known English soundtrack version; Arthur Lowe and June Whitfield are the ultimate cosy couple as Mr and Mrs Beaver, and Sheila Hancock gives what is, in my opinion, her tour de force performance as the white witch. I would love to ask her if she remembers this film; what was probably a few days work in the voiceover booth for her ended up influencing my entire childhood.

Until seeing the fancy schmancy remake, I didn’t appreciate how cleverly this screenplay was streamlined; cutting out unnecessary details and pushing the story along in broad strokes. The script has a lyrical quality, to the point where I realise now that I didn’t even understand half of the words I heard as a child, I just enjoyed the poetic rhythms. Despite the dodgy animation, parts of the film are spellbinding – especially the death and resurrection of Aslan.

My friend / virtual sister Anna and I would spend hours acting the movie out as we watched, pulling the curtains and walking along the windowsill to create a “tunnel” for the extending wardrobe. She was always Mr Tumnus (who, I realise as an adult, was as camp as Christmas) and Edmund, and I was always Lucy and the witch (they didn’t have any scenes together). In fact, after spending my childhood performing the witch’s lines, I have them memorised and still occasionally use them. “Are you my counsellor? Or my slave? Do as you're told!” is a pretty failsafe retort to anyone who is attempting to boss you about. And "Who has won? Fool!" (in ringing, jubilant tones) will ensure that you exit every argument with triumph.

Being a little obsessed with the series and CS Lewis himself (I was recently admiring an antique wardrobe in Oxfam and HAD to open it and check the back, JUST IN CASE) I have a somewhat vested interest in hoping that the latest adaptations will do justice to the books. (Although I am quite fond of the rubbish BBC version which had people wearing barrels to suggest animal-like bodies.) I’m still disappointed that nobody thus far has attempted to film the wonderful prequel, The Magician’s Nephew; it has some sequences that would lend themselves so well to the CGI that has now been developed. I think we can safely say that The Last Battle will never be made into a film, unless the principles of the story are butchered beyond recognition. Call it racist, call it prophetic – but a story about Aslan's end-of-the-world judgement, brought about because Narnians start to believe that his name is synonymous with that of the god of the "foreign" Calormenes, and you have a problem.

Unfortunately movies like this are often ruined by the child actors; I’m a firm believer that generally, children cannot act. This is why you only ever see the same kids over and over again (Shirley Temple, Dakota Fanning, Haley Joel Osment) because once you find that quirk of nature who is able to sound natural rather than stagey, you're going to use them until the uppers and downers and coke and prescription nerve tonic have rendered them useless. The Golden Compass, despite its stellar cast and CGI polar bears, was ruined for me by the frankly appalling performance of Dakota Blue Richards in the leading role of Lyra. Poor kid, it wasn’t her fault – it was down to the person who cast her and the director who let them print the godawful takes.

Back to Narnia; in my humble opinion, the 1979 cartoon wipes the floor with the new offering. Aslan (voiced by Stephen Thorne) is an imposing presence, with a voice that is deep and rich – as per the original description in the book – and creates the truest interpretation of the character that I've seen. To me, Liam Neeson sounds far too friendly – although the current Oxford / Regent Street displays have Aslan looking like a yellow-eyed vampire lion. I know he isn’t tame, but I don’t think he should be scaring small children.

Tilda Swinton may look ridiculously evil in most of her film roles, but I felt that her turn as Jadis was hampered by her apparent reluctance to ham it up. She ended up going too far in the opposite direction and underplayed the whole thing to the point where lines such as “Despair... and die!” came out as a feeble suggestion rather than a strident command.

So for the ultimate in "always winter and never Christmas" fun, curl up with a pint of hot ribena (best drink evah!) and enjoy the sight of those saucer-eyed, bell-bottom-wearing kids, the snuggly atmosphere of the Beaver's underground hideout, and the uplifting music. You might even want to indulge in a box of Turkish delight. As a child, I'd never seen the real stuff and used to cut a Fry's chocolate-covered Turkish delight into miniscule cubes to better resemble the witch's confection. We made our own fun in the 80s.