Darrell K Morris - Professional Photographer based in London, UK

So, with the shop currently out of action (see previous post) I need to find a way to keep selling my work till the shop is back up and running. I would love to say that I am so successful that this minor website blip is no more than a small problem and I can happily wait till everything goes live again, but I’d be lying and sales are always good. When I say good I mean they are sometimes the difference between affording the rent or being able to finance a new exhibition or project, such is the precarious life of the struggling freelance artist.

The silver lining about there being a shop lacking on the site, is that it will give me the chance to streamline the site, which will (hopefully) make it easier for people to navigate around the shop and make it easier to choose the right print option for them. Also, it should allow buyers the opportunity to buy my work in different formats from the traditional print.  Though prints of my work will be still be the main focus on the site, I am presently working on idea’s and designs for images to be used on canvas bags, t-shirts, metal signs, limited edition posters, postcard sets, cards and more…

There will continue to be both an Affordable and a Bespoke range of prints, but the range of options that were available before, will be reduced. For the time being the Affordable range – will continue to be sold with prices starting at £60.00 for a 20×16 inch framed and mounted print regardless of that image being hand printed as a monochrome or glorious technicolour image, with each print coming with a certificate of authenticity (other sizes and prices re available on request).

The Bespoke range will continue in its current format with images sizes and prints edition starting at 20×16 and editions of just fifty prints. All prints come framed and mounted by professionals and are all numbered and signed individually by me. All the prints in this range are produced by the brilliant Robin Bell who has worked with some of finest photographers in the world including – David Bailey, Terence Donovan, Norman Parkinson, Richard Avedon, Eve Arnold and Linda McCartney. Last year, he worked on the archives of Lee Miller, director Ken Russell and music photographer Kevin Cummins, before slumming it by working with me on my debut London solo exhibition. His love for his work, enthusiasm and attention to detail in every print he produces is second to none and I am extremely proud to have my work printed by him (bespoke sizes and prices are available on request).

As, I mentioned above I am working on new designs to showcase  and sell my work and I realize that not everyone may want (or sometimes afford) to buy one of my prints, but maybe they would be happy to have one of my images on a canvas bags as they go off to the shops? Which, is good as you can purchase any of my images now available on a long or short handled canvas shopping bag (£10.00 including postage). All sales are still available through PayPal or Google Checkout, just go to the Contact page to make an enquiry.

More items will be following shortly and hopefully in the near future a new and shiny online shop will be available for you all to peruse. Also, I am currently on the look out to set-up a Pop-Up shop somewhere in South-east London (apparently,there all rage, don’t you know). And my work will be available throughout the year at various art fairs / festivals / exhibitions…. So stay tuned….

For those of you who have stopped by the site over the last couple of weeks or so, you’ll notice there has been the odd problem here and there as regards to the shop (which I am putting down to a slow down in sales) and for a short time the galleries too.  Apologies, for this if it has disrupted your viewing pleasures.

If I was feeling amazingly twee, I would now be telling to you that a team of oompah loompahs / elves /sprites etc are working tirelessly to remedy this problem, but it looks like it may be a bit more problematic than that. But, at least (thankfully) it’s not what I originally thought, that it may be all down to me and my lack of technical expertise when I was updating the galleries.

 So, for the time being until the H.R. department gets to the bottom of the problems and I get some staff in, the shop is closed for an extended lunch. In the meantime please click here to go to the post regarding the temporary pop-up shop.

Firstly, many, many apologies for the lack of posts recently. Planning for various artistic endeavors, projects, exhibitions, etc…etc… have taken on a full-time role recently and hopefully news will follow shortly on what’s to come later in the year. And, I promise now that I shall be posting more frequently and not as it seems only posting on special occasions (i.e. – martyrdom of saints or the birth of the Son of God).

Which, brings us to Valentine’s Day or Love Day if you have ever watched The Simpsons (where’s my Lord Hugington?). Ah, what a fantastic day for already wonderfully happy smug couples to show us single people how insignificant and worthless we really are. If poor old Saint Valentine hadn’t been horribly martyred by Emperor Claudius II, then no doubt David Cameron and his future government would have set-up ‘Family Day’ or ‘Happily Married Couple Day’ or a celebration of ‘good old family values’ instead to keep us down. And before you ask, despite the headline Yes I am wishing you a Happy Valentine’s Day and not wishing a venereal disease upon you. VD is the official abbreviation of Valentine’s Day, Richard Herring just said so on 6Music, so there you go…

 But, I digress. as this post (is in some way) about love or maybe more importantly how love is interpreted in song. Now if you’re Valentine’s Day is set out in an amazingly stereotypical way and you’ve already been to the supermarket and taken up there Valentine offer – usually too include imitation red roses, a Sex and the City / Legally Blonde DVD box set and Pink Cava. And now you are frantically searching for a Westlife / Take That CD to make her melt like a caramel waffle over an overtly poncy cup of coffee, then you may leave now. This goes for the female equivalent of this too…  On the other hand if you are reading this propped up against a bar alone, shouting at bar staff  saying - I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough, as you reminisce about the ‘one that got away’ - ’one that you never told’ or if you’re desperate that person you saw briefly on a bus / train/ tube a couple of weeks ago… Then don’t despair I have made a playlist of  ’Saloon Songs’ just for you – If you have no idea what I’m talking about then read this wonderful article from The Guardian. As Frank quite rightly said all those years ago – The Carpenters would never write a song like these (unless they could have a happy ending or it involved a puppy) but I still think there are songwriters out there whose lyrical output on unrequited and lost love could be added to a new chapter of the great American songbook… I’m looking forward to Tony Bennett’s rendition of It’s a Motherf**ker….

Eels – Its a Motherf**ker

Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan – Honey Child What Can I Do

The Pogues – Rainy Night In Soho

The Smiths – Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want

Roy Orbison – Shes A Mystery To Me

Nina Simone – If You Knew

Frank Sinatra – The Gal That Got Away / It Never Entered My Mind

Apologies, to the great Merle Haggard for stealing his song title and using it for my rather spurious blog post, but hey-ho there you go and it’s the end of a decade and an end to the festive blog posts. I must admit I did start to race through them a little and I’ve ended a few days early. But, if your still in need of some festive cheer you could do no worse than drop by erstwhile modern day Dr Dolittle / Piano Man Bill Bailey whose twelve days of Christmas is only up to day eight.

So, I’m presently packing and preparing to head back to the capital after a few days up here in Shrewsbury (as in Shropshire), which has gone amazingly quickly and promised so much (in the way of snow) but delivered so little. And after an early train journey tomorrow morning, I’ll be arriving back in London and heading straight into work, which has got me regressing back to childhood at the end of school holidays and I am wishing my mum will call work to tell them I’ve contracted foot and mouth or something. Most people in London see Shropshire as completely rural, to which they are semi-right and I may get away with it.

So, as the old wives tale goes – Whatever you do on the first day of the year, you’ll do for the rest of the year. Well, on the plus side I’ve been blogging once more, which is something I’m starting to enjoy again,  tweeting about David Tennant and editing some work. On the negative side I have been fretting about financing new projects, financing new camera equipment (thank you to whoever robbed me, I hope you’re new year was as uneventful as mine) and just generally sighing and wandering what my next move is. When I should have been spending time with my family and stuffing my face with black forest gateau (it’s a 70′s Christmas in Salop).

In happier news – I am continued to be surprised and touched over the feedback to my Abstract works (of which you can find at the top of this post). I always thought this was going to be something only myself and the odd fellow creative would enjoy, but the image above has received a lot of plaudits, if not sales.  So, at least it is critically acclaimed if nothing else and my new reputation as the Rolf Harris of photography is cemented (can you guess what it is yet?).  So, to follow in the same vein here’s the video I directed for the late great Elliott Smith (if only).

Here’s to a creative 2010.

Angeles / Elliott Smith

As the caption to this wonderful photograph from Magnum photo living legend Josef Koudelka says, the party is over. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings and all that, but it’s pretty much true. The only surprise I got from this image, was that it wasn’t taken somewhere in Britain and is instead from Koudelka’s native Prague back in 2005, but I suppose we do share some Saxon blood and we can be proud of our Slavic cousins also making tits of themselves on New Years Eve.

So, is that head hurting this morning? Spending the first morning of the new decade in a zombified state (what’s new, eh?) Well, I suggest you grab a large jug of water, something to eat or drink that is filled with vitamin C and as a small treat a couple of croissants (but not pain au chocolat) and prop yourself up somewhere and listen to this, I promise to be gentle with you… Enjoy your online jukebox.

Wrapped Up In Books / Belle & Sebastian 

Just Like Me / Joni Mitchell

Blue Yodel No 9 / Louis Armstrong & Johnny Cash

Roadrunner / Joanthan Richman

In My Dreams / Eels

Near Wild Heaven / REM

You Can Close Your Eyes / James Taylor

Isobel Campbell / Time Is Just The Same

Now At Last / Blossom Dearie

Manhattan / Every Time We Say Goodbye / Ella Fitzgerald

I think last week I promised a review of the year, but I’m sure if you’ve been watching TV or reading any newspaper or magazine over the last couple of weeks, you’ll be quite frankly bored stupid by every one’s personal choices for the year. I will say that on a personal and professional level this year, they’re were more ups and downs than Tower Bridge. Like many of us (in some way) I was affected for quite sometime by the recession / credit crunch / robbing city bastards holiday, call it what you will. And for a while there was a feeling that I may never work again. But Hurrah!! I got through, I found a new job and I finally relocated back to London and more importantly I’m back taking photos and working with some fantastic people too and my reemergence on the world wide web with this very site.  Hopefully 2010 will see lots of new work, lots of sales and more exhibitions. Look!! stage left!! Over there!! That’s one of mine and it’s pretty new and a world exclusive!! (looking all super-uber blurry and monochrome, if you know my work you’ll know where I’m at).

On the downside there was the death of my Grandad, a lonesome London Christmas and having my camera stolen in Soho on Christmas Eve, which sounds like a B-side to The Pogues – Fairytale Of New York, but is actually a rather horrible reality. And as I’m currently selling the rest of my photo kit (don’t worry, I’m buying a whole new kit for the new decade) to finance new projects, I wonder if I could be prosecuted under trade descriptions on the site for calling myself a photographer? Who knows.

Artistically and culturally there was the brilliance of a new Bob Dylan album, which once more confirmed the Bobcat as the Lonesome Hobo / Travellin Troubadour par excellence with yet more tales of shady characters, loneliness, lost love and hope for a new America. Once more mixing up good ol’ boy country, bluegrass, cajun and good old rock n roll that will keep Neil Young, Tom Waits et al in his shadow for some time to come and which would have been my album of the year, if it wasn’t for my epiphany on the No3 to Crystal Palace at the end of November.

 So, step forward Mr Mark Oliver Everett (Or as he is better known E). His triumphant return with the first Eels Album in four years added with his poignant memoir’ Things The Grandchildren Should Know’, about his struggles as an musician, relationships and the deaths of his family. It was made even more poignant for me as I read it, as I was making my way to and from my Grandad’s funeral. So, engrossed I became in it’s wry humour, moments of artistic doubt, depression, being alone in a big city (L.A.) and actually finding someone who isn’t a fictional character who I had something in common with and has / had suffered all the emotions I am going through, that there were times I missed tube and bus stops (Hey Abacus, if you wanna use that for a quote on the paperback, I’m cheap). The epiphany happened one night on my way home, winding my way through South London. I was engrossed in my book, when through the powers of the Ipod touch this song came along That Look You Give That Guy / Eels.

I think that this was the moment, when every emotion that I gone through over the last year decided to leave my body and as the heartbreaking lyrics whipped through my head, a small tear trickled down my face, as I stopped reading and looked through the window covered in condensation and the blurry Christmas lights of Kennington. Trouble is I couldn’t stop crying at this stage and this being London public transport I was seen by other passengers as (A) – An escaped mental patient (B) – Manic Depressive or (C) – Artistically Temperamental. I like to think that I’m probably just C - but maybe I’m a bit of all three, but who knows. This is one of just two songs I heard this year, that had the power to make me cry, but what I got from both songs was that despite all the problems, there was still hope and that’s what I carry into 2010. But, I can only end on a high, so here’s Stevie!!

Uptight / Place In The Sun / Stevie Wonder

Ah, welcome to the wonderfully non-PC Christmases of the 1970′s. All you really need to do is add Leslie Crowther’s immortal catchphrase ’Come On Down’ and ‘I’m’ and voila!! If you view this decade through rose-tinted John Lennon-esque spectacles and believe that every Christmas was Wizzard and Slade playing on the Christmas editions of Top Of The Pops, while Jimmy Saville danced around with girls half his age, the Queen entertaining the commonwealth with her speeches, Morecambe & Wise specials and Paul Daniels being given prime-time slots to entertain us with his magic (not alot). Then this is going to be the proverbial jolt back to reality, alongside having your Christmas tree starting to shed it’s needles halfway through Boxing Day. Ah well, we’ll always have The Black And White Minstrel Sh.., Oh.

11.55 p.m. (GMT) December 31st 1999, and as I sit at a girlfriends house  with her family and friends and watch BBC’s quick cut editing between Big Ben and the Millennium Dome, I make my way to their bathroom (drink in hand)  to freshen up and make myself look semi-presentable for the new century. As I look blankly into the bathroom mirror, I hear fireworks go off and I jolt from my daze and leave the bathroom to see everyone happily celebrating a new century and spy the images of the Royal family and Tony Blair joyously singing Auld Lang Syne. So, I head back to the bathroom with a fresh drink and wait for everyone to calm down and get back to intelligent conversation, instead of (intone Charlie Brooker sarcastic voice) Ohh, Look at the pretty fireworks in the London sky. And so the ten year party begins…

It’s horrible when some guests are half-cut well before Midnight. The Blairs were going through they’re song repertoire since early evening and Tony loudly mocked anyone who wouldn’t join in with his New Labour, New Millennium love-in in erm, Greenwich much to the disapproval of the Windsors. ‘Who are these bloody peasants’ hissed Phil in the direction of T.B., ‘ Please for one night, don’t do this’ Liz hissed back at him. Meanwhile, Bill Clinton sat quietly in the corner stroking his saxophone and muttering softly about approval ratings and the hole-in-ones the great American public didn’t hear about. Dreaming of a day when he could simply devote himself to Golf and the occasional hostage release. While his best mate Al practised acceptance speeches and looked forward to only fleeting visits to Iowa and New Hampshire a week later. The party ambled along, Cherie Blair sang old shanty’s with the ‘Scouse Git’ from Til Death Us Do Part, John Prescott came along filled up on cocktail sausages and bemoaned a lack of canapes and then the Governor of Texas arrived. He seemed  to be pretty unimportant and most guests viewed him as a kinda comedy turn for a short period, especially when he mispronounced countries or failed to remember any of the names of the world leaders in the room he was introduced to. He smiled inanely and acknowledged some old friends of his Dad, who sat over in the corner mumbling to one another and furtively looking around the room. They were under the impression that they were going to a fancy dress party and they had all decided to go as stereotypical villains from James Bond films, with attached comedy beards.

 Time went by and the party became uneventful, til the Governor of Texas came back shouting in a whiny Texan drawl’ ‘Daddy, said it was a done deal’ while Daddy and various members of his entourage  frantically made calls. Florida, dimples and chads could be made out of the conversation, followed by hushed tones and nods to members of the entourage who insisted on wearing sunglasses indoors. Al looked up from the mirror, where he had stopped practising his acceptance speech and was working on his Inauguration speech.  The whining continued, until whoops and cheers echoed through the room.  Al panicked, the practising of the speech and what witty remarks he could make on Letterman were becoming obsolete. He called over his new pal Joe and members of the Democratic party to come and help him out in Florida. But, Joe and pals looked to the heavens and whistled ignoring poor Al’s plight. The party took a new strange twist, despite renouncing alcohol and discovering God behind a bottle of Wild Turkey many years before to coincide with his father becoming President. The old governor / new president wandered through the party like a bad drunk, pronouncing his greatness and upsetting everyone. Eventually he fell asleep watching old re-runs of Bonanza and like Bill before him, dreamed of a life when he could just play Golf and tend to his ranch, while the party unravelled around him. He did wake up from time to time to pronounce various statements about defeating ‘Evil Terrorist Killers’ but he got confused and wondered if it had been a bad dream or an episode of Rawhide. Factions grew up around the party and the old governor had become friendless except for some old  friends of his Dad’s, Dick and Don. They started to resemble an old boys network at a country club and passed their time thinking up unflattering nicknames for various guests and the governor slowly morphed into W, the first 3-d cartoon world leader.

Meanwhile, across the room Tony was becoming restless, he was tired of making small talk with the cast of Eastenders and being snapped with Noel Gallagher and even worse having to feign interest in his time as a roadie for the Inspiral Carpets and pretending to enjoy the music of The Smiths, that was strictly to impress hipster northern voters. All he wanted to talk about was the music of Yes and the new song new learned on his guitar . He itched to take out his chord book and have a jam session with Noel, but it was never to be.

Instead, Tony became entranced by the figure across the room called W. Maybe, it was because the two of them had become increasingly isolated or that W professed a love of the work of the Doobie Brothers and knew their tour manager and Tony hoped he was connected enough to get him backstage, unknown to him that the Doobie’s  hadn’t toured for twenty years.  Tony had no time for the trappings of political fame and secretly knew that he had no interest in meeting Nelson Mandela and would prefer to meet Rick Wakeman. More and more they spent time together talking about bland 70′s rock, justifying their ‘War on Terror and praying to God that they had made the right decisions. If not they knew they could always put the blame on him and absolve themselves from criticism, they’d just have to wait for a new Pope to arrive. By this time the comedy villains had retreated from the room. Osama had apparently fled the party altogether. A wandering French civil servant apparently told W that he had been hiding under a pile of coats in one of the guest rooms for six months, but it was never proved. He was also spotted raiding the chef’s supply cupboard in the kitchen and was even spotted posing as a waiter. His old friend Saddam, though they had never even been seen together at the party, or anywhere else for that matter, stayed on for a while. Just after Osama’s disappearance Saddam became embroiled in an argument with Dick and Don, who previously happily reminisced over afternoon tea about the good old days of the Iran-Iraq War, but idle rumours flew between the two parties and when talk turned to WMD, Saddam left for good. For a while it was said that Saddam was also hiding out in the kitchen, living off stray boxes of Ferrero Rocher. It was said he tired of this life and jacked it all in, but it was never proved and he lives on as an almost mythical character to scare kids into not eating multiple boxes  of Ferrero Rocher or growing Hobo beards.

After sometime Al returned. Without any speeches to rehearse, he had found a new purpose as a predictor to the end of the world and would show powerpoint presentations to the guests of the forthcoming catastrophe, while making up sandwich boards inscribed with doom laden messages. W looked up from the TV with disdain, while Tony broke away from trying to write songs in the hope of finding some lyrical inspiration for his next career move. This coincided with the arrival of a guy called Barry, who’s idealism, easy charm and an obsession to his Blackberry unsettled W. He tried to involve him in his TV sessions and wanted to make him feel at home by watching Sanford & Son. But, when Barry enthusiastically instead started quoting lines from Good Times and mixing up his characters, W sighed and grabbed a handful of pretzels and went back to his westerns. And a day when he would be Gary Cooper and his old pal Osama would take on the role of a hybrid of Jack Palance and Lee Van Cleef and their shoot-out will see him be the hero for once.

The party was slowly coming to an end. Tony was enthusiastically working around the room looking for a new gig. Sadly, for him this wouldn’t be literal and he would have to reluctantly settle for teaching at Yale, being an Peace ambassador and after-dinner speaking. It would bore him immensely, but the money was right and he could always keep the musical dream alive. In the kitchen sat Gordon and Dave, among the piles of frozen food that defrosted in front of them amid the scurrying chefs and servants. Occasionally, they would look up and weakly smile at one another but they were polar opposites and despite both of them enjoying waking up in the morning to the music of the Arctic Monkeys, they had very little in common. Tony was ready to leave the party even if his old friend W wasn’t and Gordon could finally take his place. It had been coming for a while, ever since his wife had been going around the room cap-in-hand charging for anecdotes. They both had gone, though it was as equally as tedious a farewell as his Oxford colleague’s farewell almost twenty years earlier, but at least his other half hadn’t taken most of the drinks cabinet with them. Gordon, smiled weakly and readied himself to be the host, but he had been in the kitchen too long and he never felt truly at home. He even looked over enviously to W watching the TV and muttering to himself about approval ratings, Golf and often repeating ‘What Hurricane?’, while Dick (now taking on the role of Dr Strangelove) smiled to himself and prepared himself for a career as a TV talking head and blaming Barry for America’s problems and his own advocating of torture and then they were gone via a helicopter, a bit like the final episode of M*A*S*H but without the goodbye.

Barry now took over the party and became the cool kid in the room and though Gordon hoped some of his light would shine his way, his view was obscured by the reemergence of old Europe, who hadn’t taken an interest in any Americans for over forty years and Barry looked bemused at the broken English and American hip-speak  he had only ever heard in West Side Story being spoken at him, but he smiled politely and took the plaudits. Over in the corner what remained of W’s reign sat plotting like the comedy villains before then. Barry to them was a massive disappointment, where were the comedy nicknames? Mispronouncing world leaders? Misguided photo Ops? and lost afternoons watching Bonzana? And with that the ‘Teabaggers’ were born and despite them being oblivious to it’s Gay slang term, people at the party took notice of them. Barry, continued to work the room and invited the ‘Teabaggers’ to join him, but they refused and continued to write they’re misspelled placards, despite Barry showing them how to spell his name.

Gordon kicked a discarded party popper across the room and checked his pockets for some change, he wanted to keep the party going but it was too late. John Prescott briefly returned to tweet about the good day and talk to media mogul and occasional prime minister of Italy Silvio about their days on the cruise ships, but John tired of him and his leering at his beloved Pauline and after a brief argument hit him with a model of Hull’s world famous St Winifred’s Church. Dave was still in the kitchen waiting to join the party, but he was now asleep clutching onto the batch of cool Brit Cd’s he had bought to impress Tony / Barry. Barry himself was now also slumped on the sofa in front of a static TV, muttering about ‘Copenhagen, damn Teabaggers and when will there be time for Golf’. Al sat close by, talking to himself about the end of the world, completely forgetting about Florida all those years before. He now had new things to tell Letterman / Conan. The Windsors came back briefly to bid farewell after spending a considerable amount of time hiding from The Blairs in a spare bedroom, with Barry’s wife. There was only so many times you could put off their invitation to holiday with them in Tuscany or have dinner at Connaught Square. They sighed a relief that wouldn’t be another rendition of Auld Lang Syne. Gordon surveyed the damage to the room and made a call – ‘ Maybe we’ll cancel the fireworks this year’ and with that the party was at an end.

What Are You Doing New Years Eve / Ella Fitzgerald

Day 402 of a sadistic Big Brother Christmas or some kind of horrible 1980′s style Telethon where like Malcolm McDowell’s Alex in A Clockwork Orange you’re now being forced to watch and listen to absolutely anything to get you through to the new decade, instead of celebrating this festive season in the manner of a low budget American TV Movie which is like a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. Up here in the shires or Shropshire as it is better known, I am treated to my Mum and Dad’s Skyplus and a inexhaustible amount of channels, but it seems so overwhelming after having to simply watch TV from a laptop for the last six months or so and I simply give up and watch the Darts instead ( I have a sneaky premonition for Simon ‘The Wizard’ Whitlock to defeat either The Power or Barney in the final). Despite the vague threats to sit together as a family and watch films, everyone has retreated to their own corner (mine being the spare room, where I write this from) which I think probably disappoints my Mum, but she knows it is better than some eventual bloodbath on New Years Day after spending time with one another constantly for 48 hours, bit like a traditional Eastenders Christmas.

Instead, I have been reduced to venturing into the outdoors to join in the great British Christmas tradition of swapping presents at various high street chains (Hurrah! For Shrewsbury’s new H&M which was almost deserted and not an annoying tourist insight, but sadly no bowler hats too) and purchasing my only Christmas treat, an old vinyl copy of the Human League’s Hysteria, which has the coolest Gatefold sleeve of any album I own or know.  If you own a copy or can make out what film is on the TV in the corner of the Hockney-esque photo collage, I’ll send you a 10×8 print of your choice or buy you a drink, whichever has the greater value. Here’s a clue, Miisster Grimssdaleeee!!  (while wearing flatcap at a jaunty angle).

Human League / Life On Your Own

I wasn’t ever really looking forward to Christmas this year – Being left home alone in London and the recent death of my Grandad certainly saw to that. But, then having my bag and camera stolen from a well known Bar / Jazz venue  in Soho on Christmas Eve didn’t help and now with the possibility that I may have lost my new Ipod Touch too, means that 2010 can’t come along quick enough. Actually, just bypassing the next decade to may help and I can fast forward to being 45 and stop worrying about lives problems and I can give up and start considering early retirement. As you can imagine, I am in serious need of some cheering up. But, sadly all I can find on the TV is a Terry and June Christmas Special. Has June Whitfield just died? Surely that’s the only reason for showing Terry and June once more. Instead I have had to scour the iPlayer and youtube for some moving vignettes of festive hilarity without having to resort to Only Fools And Horses, Morecambe & Wise, Dad’s Army or the bloody Christmas specials of The Office, The Royle Family or ever tedious Gavin and Stacey. So, thank the lord for Charlie Brooker and his ever wonderful Screenwipe. Though it’s slightly disconcerting to see Noel Edmonds is still allowed to make those bloody awful Christmas specials, despite him becoming the British equivalent of Fox News Pyscho-Tit Glenn Beck. Try and enjoy.

A Very Screenwipe Christmas 

A Very Screenwipe Christmas Part II

A Very Screenwipe Christmas Part III

A Very Screenwipe Christmas Part IV

Hancocks Half Hour / Trial Of Father Christmas Part I

Hancocks Half Hour / Trial Of Father Christmas Part II

Hancocks Half Hour / Trial Of Father Christmas Part III