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The Lord says "You might be Jesus!"

Brian Luff writes…

So, ITV are helping Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber to find Jesus. Not just any Jesus, mind. Lord Lloyd-Webber’s Jesus has to be able to sing like Robert Plant, act like Kenneth Brannagh and look good on a red carpet with an ex- Spice Girl hanging on his arm.

Of course, it’s all a bit trickier than trying to find a Joseph to wear a multi-colour dreamcoat, a Dorothy to skip to Oz or a Maria to dance with the nuns in The Sound of Music.

ITV will have to tread a lot more carefully with this one. After all, they don’t want to upset the Jews, or the Muslims, or the Hindus at teatime on a Saturday night, do they?

Perhaps we should be asking ourselves this rather awkward question:  Why haven’t Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber also penned a musical about Allah? Or Jehovah? Why isn’t there a half-decent rock opera about Buddha or Vishnu? In this increasingly PC, media-savvy world, just how balanced is it to hand over a great big chunk of primetime weekend ITV to the Christians? Ofcom must have looked at this very closely. That’s obviously why the word “Superstar” is used so frequently during the programme, as opposed to the word “Christ” or “Jesus”.

As potential Dorothys were ejected from the BBC’s “Over the Rainbow” talent search they had to hand back their sparkly red shoes. Will our evicted Saviours have to tearfully part with their crowns of thorns? In previous similar shows they used to say things like “You might be Joseph,” or “You might Maria.” Are we therefore to be treated this summer to the voice of Andrew Lloyd Webber uttering the immortal phrase “You might be Jesus”?  I can’t wait to find out.


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The Lygon Arms, Broadway – Review

welliesEDSowerby & Luff write…

The Lygon Arms in Broadway is a beautiful coaching inn built from golden Cotswold stone and is rich in history and charm. The hotel has an international reputation for good cuisine and unashamed luxury. There are old beams, neatly trimmed hedges and a sumptuous indoor swimming pool and spa. They even have posh Hunters wellies and a Barbour raincoat hanging in every room – just in case the weather is bad.

However, there is nothing quite as disappointing as second rate service in a first rate hotel. We can’t speak for other guests, but personally we encountered rather amateurish and unprofessional service during our stay. When we arrived in late afternoon we asked for an evening menu and they apologised that they didn’t have one prepared yet. On returning to reception a couple of hours later the porter dismissively told us that if we wanted to see a menu we should “go outside and look at the one on the wall”. As a result we did go outside, and in the event were so annoyed that we decided to go and have dinner at the restaurant next door. Which was excellent, by the way.

When we arrived for breakfast the following morning Georgina and I were greeted by a rather senior-looking waiter who, after preparing a table for us, said “follow me ladies!” Being a large middle-aged man with a beard I was slightly taken aback at being addressed like this but passed it off as an amusing incident. We asked the same waiter for some glasses for the fruit juice. We waited patiently but he didn’t bring any, leaving us to use our own initiative to forage for some tumblers for ourselves.

When the same waiter took our breakfast order, he asked us to repeat almost every item twice, then read back many of the items incorrectly. When he bought our coffee he didn’t seem to know which was the decaff and which was the caff, forcing us to perform an impromptu coffee tasting before we could pour our beverages. He also forgot to put any milk on the table and we had to ask for some. When our hot breakfasts arrived, both orders were incorrect in some way. Missing fried items. Wrong type of eggs. We have never in our lives heard a waiter apologise so many times during the course of a single meal.

My plate was so hot that there were probably Health and Safety issues involved in putting it on the table in the first place. But despite the scorching heat rising from the plate, the scrambled eggs were somehow both cold and overcooked – something I would challenge even Heston Blumenthal to achieve under laboratory conditions. Meanwhile, the bacon was fatty and undercooked.

We have experienced poor service many times during our travels, but never in a 2 AA Rosette restaurant in a four star hotel with nightly room tariffs of around £225.




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A Bit of Luxury in North Yorkshire

Sowerby & Luff write:

It’s unlikely that you would ever come across Simonstone Hall by accident. But if you are lucky enough to stumble upon it, you’ll have uncovered a perfect little gem.

This small country house hotel is in a quiet corner of North Yorkshire, just outside the tiny town of Hawes. Unimposing from the front, a short walk around to the rear of the hotel reveals a charming courtyard garden with sweeping, uninterrupted views of the Yorkshire Dales – overlooked by quaint, stone-clad buildings, with a hit of gothic. There’s a “village clock”, a tall spire, and the whole place is so photogenic it simply cries out to be booked for a fairy tale wedding reception.

The bedrooms are large, airy and well equipped, and in the room we occupied there was a luxurious, super-sized four poster bed. The wi-fi connection, however, was intermittent at best – not a problem if you’re trying to escape civilisation for a few days, but tricky if you’re trying to post a review.

The staff at Simonstone Hall are friendly and efficient without being intrusive, and there is an air of cheerful, well-drilled professionalism about the place.

The dining room is a intriguing labyrinth of oak panels and mirrors with breathtaking views across the Dales, and the atmospheric wine cellar doubles as a small function room, in which private parties can be held and regular wine tasting events take place.

The lounge bar sports a splendid tartan carpet and is as snug as any traditional English pub, with a good selection of beers including a tasty local ale Black Sheep. The restaurant at Simonstone Hall is fast gaining an excellent reputation in the area, and from what we experienced during our short stay this is thoroughly deserved.

The menu features good honest local produce served with flair and individuality. Everything looks so mouth-watering it’s actually quite difficult to decide what to have. After much deliberation we eventually went for smoked duck salad with a breaded poached egg, and pearl scallops with lemon and thyme risotto. We followed this with Prime Yorkshire Beef in port and stilton and Yorkshire Venison with Poached Pears. Both dishes were skilfully presented, perfectly cooked and absolutely delicious..

We also recommend Simonstone’s Luxury Berry Soufflé – which is so light you might actually find room for a selection of Yorkshire cheeses, served with home made pear chutney and a big lump of fruit cake.

This splendid little country house hotel has been a secret for too long, and richly deserves to reach a wider clientele.

Official Simonstone Hall Web Site

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The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Sowerby & Luff write…

Having been lost in New York many times, even we could locate the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and Georgina had been hankering to go there for years. A quick look at the map told us it was only a few miles away, so we went to the corner of Bowery and hailed a Yellow Cab.
“The Metropolitan Museum of Art, please,” said Georgina.
The cabbie peered back at us from beneath a bright purple turban.
“Which way you wanna go?”
“Whichever way you think?” I said. “We’re not native New Yorkers, so we’ll leave the route up to you.” This was probably the most stupid thing I said to anyone during our entire stay in America.

The Metropolitan Museum was roughly half way up the east side of Central Park, on 5th Avenue, exactly 4 and a half miles to our north, so I was more than a little surprised as the Yellow Cab headed due south towards the Lower East Side. Before long we were speeding past the Brooklyn Bridge, and heading for the Financial District at the furthest southern tip of Manhattan Island.
“Why are we driving south?” I asked the driver.
His reply was both reassuring and cryptic. “5th Avenue is one way,” he said. “You can only drive down it from the north.”
This was clearly going be an unscheduled Magical Mystery Tour of the whole of Manhattan.

Twenty minutes later we were sitting in a completely stationary traffic jam in Battery Park, at least two miles further away from the Metropolitan Museum than when we had got into the cab. Annoyed and frustrated, we glanced over to the right hand side of the road, and noticed a busy building site, surrounded by tall buildings. It wasn’t until Georgina pointed out a giant American flag flying at the far side of the site, that we suddenly realised we’d arrived, completely by accident, at Ground Zero. Georgina put her hand over her mouth. It gives you a very strange feeling in the pit of your stomach to see Ground Zero with your own eyes. The destruction of the World Trade Centre was a global catastrophe on a vast scale, and the events of that day – even though they changed the lives of everyone on this planet – seemed to most people remote and distant. Unreal, even. Like watching a movie. To find oneself, unexpectedly, just a few feet from the scene of such an event is oddly surreal, and it’s actually quite hard to feel any emotion at all. Being at Ground Zero makes you feel numb – the history and horror of the place simply too great to take in. Too terrible to put into words. By the time the traffic got moving again, we’d almost forgotten why we were in the cab in the first place, and neither of us said anything for a quite a while.

Ten minutes later we were hammering up West Street, the Hudson River on our left, and weaving in and out of traffic at about sixty miles an hour.
“This driver is insane,” I whispered to Georgina, as he threw the cab into a sharp right turn and headed northwards again, up through the West Village. It was around here that I think he sensed that Georgina and I were not entirely happy with the route he was taking, so he slammed his foot down flat on the gas, accelerating along 9th Avenue like a Boeing 777 going along the runway on take-off.

Another glance at the map told us that we were now drawing level with the Metropolitan Museum, but it was still on the opposite side of Central Park. As the meter ticked furiously past forty dollars, we decided that this was probably the moment for a timely intervention.
“Excuse me” I said. “Are you now planning to drive all the way around the north of Central Park to get to the other side?”
“5th Avenue is one way,” he repeated like a mantra. “You can only drive down it southwards.”
“Tell you what,” said Georgina. “Why don’t you drop us here. We’ll walk across the park.”
The driver seemed momentarily confused.
“You want to get out?”
“Oh, yes please,” we said. “I think we both feel fairly strongly that we can get to the Metropolitan Museum from here without spending the next twenty five minutes driving around Harlem.”
“OK,” he said. I gave him forty five dollars.
“Why are you giving him a tip?” snapped Georgina.
“I don’t really know,” I said, and we headed off towards Central Park.

We arrived outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, to discover a vast cheering crowd on the front steps watching a couple of break dancers spin around on the pavement. At the end of the performance they collected at least 200 bucks from the punters, thus proving that worldwide the tourist dollar is as likely to end up in the pockets of street performers as it is in the wallets of Equity members.

The Metropolitan probably has the largest collection of Egyptian artifacts in the world, and they don’t do things by halves. The entire Temple of Dendur has been transported from Egypt and rebuilt, brick by brick in a large room, partially surrounded by a reflecting pool and illuminated by a slanting wall of glass which opens onto Central Park. The whole thing looks like a set for an early James Bond movie. 
“Any ideas for the pandas?” I said.
“What about one of those Egyptian fertility goddesses,” suggested Georgina.
“How are we going to get it out of the case?” I replied.

On the next floor we came upon the Age of Rembrandt Exhibition, which was absolutely packing in the tourists. But after walking around for several minutes we were unable to find any paintings by Rembrandt.
“Where are the Rembrandts?” I asked Georgina.
“I’m guessing there aren’t actually any Rembrandts in the exhibition,” she replied.
“Why not?” I said.
“Because this is the age of Rembrandt,” she grinned. “It’s all the other painters that were alive at the time.”
“What, all the shit ones who weren’t quite as good as Rembrandt?”
“Yes,” said Georgina.
“What a completely brilliant idea for an exhibition,” I said, and I sat down in front of a de Hooch, a de Booch and a de Gooch to rest my throbbing ankle.
Georgina’s favourite painting at the Met was a giant canvas, completely covered by solid black paint.
“What’s it called?” she asked.
I glanced at the information card. “Untitled,” I said. “So, not only could this artist not be bothered to put anything into the painting, he also couldn’t be arsed to think of a name for it.”
“What’s the name of the artist?” asked Georgina.
“I can’t be bothered to find out,” I said.

Before leaving the Met, we had a good rummage about in the museum shop but all we came away with was a souvenir postcard of a painting by a Dutch artist other than Rembrandt.

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The Underdog Wins Britain's Got Talent

So the dog won Britain’s Got Talent. A part of me always knew that it was going to happen. It wasn’t going to be the Welsh choir with hundreds of dedicated members who had practiced for thousands of hours and sounded like a host of angels. It wasn’t going to be the injured ballroom dancer who overcame agonising injury to compete at the last moment. It wasn’t going to be the young opera singer with a voice as pure and powerful as Pavarotti. It wasn’t going to be the trio of cheeky chappies who are already virtually guaranteed to top the charts in 2012. No. It was the dog. The scruffy little mut who got most, not all, of his routine correct and rounded off his act by sitting on his trainer’s arse.

Simon Cowell did his best to sound happy. He had always said he wanted to find a great dog act but he never really thought it would happen and clearly hasn’t yet thought of a way of getting a sixteen year old girl and a mongrel to record a Christmas number one. But he’s no doubt working on it.

It’s results like this that should make us proud to be British. We as a nation love to support the underdog. Whoever the thought that the underdog would one day literally be an underdog. Oh happy day.