Do Only Lost Children Have Secret Places?

The Cat Inn, Cheswick, Northumberland

DUKE VINCENTIO: Many that are not mad
Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would you say?
William Shakespeare (Measure for Measure. Act V, Scene I)

I LOVE THE BUS EXPERIENCE. I am never disappointed by the view: A frozen wind turbine that most Northumbrians might think a useless blot on the landscape is magic for me; I've been longing for windmills around the next corner for sixty years. And there is something truly fascinating about vehicles abandoned on the shoulder of the highway: What stories might they tell? Now and then there is a car so thoroughly crushed that one knows more than the headlights went out. I've rarely been disappointed by a street or highway sign: I miss The Great North Road, replaced by The A1. However, there's a peculiar sign that shines in the day and glows at night, between Warkworth and Alnmouth Village on the coastal route, that has an arrow pointing towards the North Sea and the words "Waterside Ho". Make up your own jokes.

On a chilly late November day, there's precious little as pleasant as the heating on a bus. I try to get my feet near the warm vents. With my sleeve I wipe a little of the condensation from my window so that any windmill or evidence of life or death is more clearly witnessed.

Yesterday I was on a minibus, one of those seventeen- or eighteen-seaters. We left Alnwick just before noon and headed north on that poorly renamed A1. Our destination was The Cat Inn near Haggerston Castle. The Cat Inn is near several places, if one were going to Berwick-upon-Tweed, it would be near that. The postal address is Cheswick, and it is near that, if out on the side of the main road, a little isolated. A beacon. A friend is the pub landlady. Marion and her partner, Paul, have only recently taken over The Cat. Make a note to stop there for a hot meal or a bevy, or both. It's all castles and coast up there, wild birds, seals, sheep and crops, and a couple of miles from the Scottish Borders: Go and see all that, and visit The Cat. You can stay overnight; Marion has rooms and does breakfasts.

A Pair of Tits

On the bus, as we rock-and-rolled in deluging rain and gale force winds, I listened in on an odd conversation. There is always an odd conversation somewhere on a bus if you but tune in … and I travel with some curious characters at times. One member of our group was discussing recent programmes on the television.

Now, I don't watch what is referred to as Reality TV because it tends to be too surreal. I do notice updates on I'm a Celebrity, Get Me out of Here! And The X-Factor on my computer, in the Yahoo! Headlines, and in the newspapers. I do read the papers. So I know, for example, that Katie Price, aka Jordan, ex-wife of Peter André, has quit the jungle after only a few days. She was paid many times more than the other contestants. And Great Britain discovered something, at last, about Katie Price: She's detestable. Nobody here actually likes the big-boobed woman after all. Katie refused to chomp down on a kangaroo's testicle (one newspaper suggested that that was a first for her as testicles go) and headed back home to spend all that money the sponsors over-paid her. Meanwhile, on X-Factor, the British public finally gave identical twins John and Edward (nicknamed Jedward) the push. I'd never seen or heard their act till after they'd gone. I felt I should have a listen when the regular news covered the story. I'll tell you, Jedward are as untalented as it gets: tone deaf and clumsy. Disney will buy them. They'll be a draw for a year, and then one can only hope they'll find some addiction or a career in the porn industry. If the Jedward twins had only been born conjoined, they'd be made for life. No such luck.

The lady on my bus kept muttering about some reality show she'd seen on the telly over the last weekend and how she'd hated every minute of it because "there were too many adverbs ..." She continued: "One after another ... adverb after adverb ... It made me quite mad ... I said to myself 'Fucking Nora, why am I watching this? All these adverbs.' ..."

I thought to myself: "She's utterly and completely (and unashamedly) off her nut. Undoubtedly, this woman is in need of medication. Absolutely crackers!" Finally, I decided: "I quite like her, even if there are not enough adjectives to describe her!" I resisted, of course, the temptation to whisper: "You want the noun ADVERT!" We sat at the same table for lunch, and it was quite jolly.

A Nice Shag

Marion told us about some recent guests she'd had at The Cat Inn. A couple turned up in the evening with only a shopping bag for luggage. The woman looked not so much like the common slapper as a lady of the night. She glowed with one of those fake orange tans, the kind that Katie Price thinks attractive. For some reason, the dodgy couple, revealing themselves as obnoxious, wanted the family room at The Cat, which has three beds. They tried to persuade Marion to lower the overnight tariff, and Marion responded by hiking it. One does not mess with Marion! The couple paid the new price and went upstairs. In no time, the clientele in the bar were treated to the clear sounds of loud and riotous sex as the overnighters had a very long shag. In the morning, after the guests had departed, Marion went to strip the bed. She discovered that the couple had used all three beds in the family room. Worse, the hooker's orange tan had come off on all the bed linens, and attempts to wash it out failed. One wonders if Katie Price rubs off that way. I wouldn't touch her with Peter's.

On the way home in the minibus, I sat in the same seat as I had on the way north, but I was, of course, looking out in the opposite direction. I spotted one of those windmills, the tall metal tower type, with a fan having many flat blades. The kind one sees in old western movies, with cattle gathered to drink water below it. When I was very young, my father used to take me and my sisters for a Sunday drive now and then, and we'd look for favourite things. Mine was a windmill, set back from the road, this in Bermuda. Formative experience.

Yes, you get a prize, an honorary title, if you noticed that Jedward has the same hairdo as the Shag.

CAMP CARRY ON - BIG BROTHER 10

Please, saviour, saviour, show us.
Hear me, I'm graphically yours.
Someone to claim us, someone to follow,
Someone to shame us, some brave Apollo,
Someone to fool us, someone like you.
We want you, Big Brother, Big Brother.
David Bowie (Big Brother)

THERE ARE NOW OVER 30 CCTV cameras within a few hundred yards of the flat where George Orwell lived when he was writing 1984. I'm guessing that does not include the cameras on buses and in some other vehicles. Of course, there are cameras mounted outside buildings everywhere, and in shops. It must be increasingly difficult to get away with murder.

I recall a very few cameras in Hyde Park about 40 years ago which seemed to be quite obvious and intrusive. I don't notice the darn things now. There are a number of them here in Amble by the Sea which may, or may not, be switched on. A friend had his shop vandalised, a brick through the glass door, and a CCTV camera on a building directly opposite had no record of the crime. There is a sign in the window of one of the funeral parlours in Amble warning CCTV is in operation and that footage of any illegal activity will be passed along to the appropriate bodies. Bodies? All the buses seem to have cameras now; they look a bit like the HAL 9000 outlets.

In a bigger city, apparently, one might be recorded over 300 times a day. Something to think about if you're on a hot date and your wife doesn't know about it. Suddenly somebody commits a crime and you and your companion are taped witnesses and the Police are looking for you.

My youngest sister boasts that she and her son frequently climb over or under pay turnstiles to save a few pence. One day she'll be nicked when the authorities aren't watching possible terrorists and have to meet a quota.

There are now CCTV cameras that are manned full time by security officers who can, and do, speak to the people they are observing if necessary. "Would the chav in the tracksuit please pick up the cigarette packet she just dropped?"

I once applied for a job with a security company, to work nights monitoring a bank of TV screens and alarms. I lasted one trial night, it was a horrible experience. Boring beyond belief. I should mention that I was unable to communicate with anyone who appeared onscreen. If anything was dodgy, I was to telephone the Police or other emergency services. I believe I had only one event that night, an open window in a building that was supposed to be sealed shut.

In 2007 I watched Big Brother 8 UK on Channel 4 from time to time. I'd never watched one of those reality captive shows before and it was somehow compelling for a while. I actually remember a few of the contestants and the eventual winner, Pete, who was notable as he was a pleasant punk with Tourette's syndrome who twitched and ticked and screamed (usually Wankers!) a good deal. Pete was involved, in the Big Brother House, with a daft girl called Nikki. Nikki complained about everything and her shrieking was a match for Pete's outbursts. Both Pete and Nikki, whose attachment did not last after the series ended, continue to appear on the television as guest panellists and commentators.

Last year, 2008, the Big Brother Housemates were a dull and forgettable lot. The only thing I recall now is that a skinny and incredibly naive boy from, I think, Wigan, called Luke, was somehow paired with a large, slightly older woman with enormous boobs, which she often flashed at her fellow housemates and the Big Brother cameras (and those of us daft enough to be watching), called Rebecca (Becks for short). They both got voted out of the House within a few weeks of the show starting and I stopped watching. Luke and Becks did pop up as commentators on this year's show and they are, they say, still an item. Some things one doesn't like to picture…

Three weeks ago some 16 people ranging in age from 18 to just over 40 moved into the Big Brother compound. I don't know how many weeks these things run, but it will be through the summer. Of the 8 males, 3 admitted to being gay-bisexual; I believe at least two of the 8 females bat for the other team. I'm not sure that 5 out of 16 is statistically representative of the sexual preferences of people in Britain. It seems that this year the producers decided to go with camp.

Two contestants have been given the push and one simply walked out of her own volition. Another contestant didn't earn the right to be a Housemate. There are now 7 boys and 5 girls circling each other, plotting and trying to look appealing to the viewers who vote them in or out.

After three weeks, the Housemates are all horny and tetchy. Indian lad, Sree, is stalking the prettiest girl, Noirin, who clearly detests him. Kris is courting Dogface's huge knockers. (Dogface? She had to change her name to stay in the House. Another contestant is now called Halfwit.) Charlie, a former Mr Gay UK runner-up, is getting attention from the boys and girls (including those who are supposed to be straight). The youngest Housemate, Cairon, from Atlanta, Georgia, was evicted last week. He'd been very homophobic, and awfully immature. He then shoved a peeled banana up his arse on camera. Over 70% of the votes to evict went to him. He earned them!

There's no censorship on our Big Brother. Language has deteriorated rapidly, nudity is becoming common, and the snogging may soon lead to sex for the cameras if the show moves along like those in other years. The boy on boy action is prevalent this go round, even among the straight lads. Whatever gets you through the night?

All of the contestants this year have been quite attractive physically, though Dogface's breasts are a bit over-inflated (they are implants and she wants bigger ones, a mindset I cannot understand). I like only two of the Housemates enough to hope one of them might win.

Angel is a Russian girl in her 30s, a boxer, trainer, magician and would-be pop star. She's wonderful looking. Not beautiful, but wonderful, better somehow. Angel is fairly fragile for an athlete, when the House gets to be too much she heads for the garden with her jump rope. Angel breaks down and cries too, but offers a shoulder to the other Housemates. If I were 20 years younger…

Halfwit, whose real name is Freddie, is an upper-class twit, complete with a stately home and boarding school education. He wants to be a Tory politician. Halfwit has something fairly interesting to say about everything. The other Housemates, proles all, perhaps not surprisingly, detest him and keep nominating him for eviction. So far, Halfwit has survived because the other nominee has been less attractive to the viewers. He's a good-looking fellow, plays for both sides. He's English in a House that has mostly foreign types. I'd like Halfwit or Angel to win.

However, I believe the money is on Brazilian bisexual Rodrigo to take the title. He may turn out to be too boring as the weeks go by. Rodrigo is camp, but straight Siavash, an Iranian chap, is camper than a row of pup tents, and noisy with it.

As the weeks go by, I have no doubt that language, nudity and sex will decide the thing. The more graphic, the better the chance to overcome.