Terence Brady - Playwright, novelist, actor and painter.
My Blog

BROADCHURCH The most talked up nonsense of the year



Opens in flashback with Doctor Who mumbling very loudly about losing someone or other while Rev’s wife shouts back tearfully saying it was the fault of the woman who was about to give birth to her pregnancy padding in the street while the man with small eyes who is meant to have murdered these children in the next door garden to his makes his escape from Doctor Who who is ( that is Who is) driving a car he is not allowed to drive while possibly fighting off a heart attack in pursuit of somebody or other.


      This is not and was not what is called a case of Pareidolia,  that is seeing faces in things – the Virgin Mary on a piece of toast, Mother Theresa in a bun, etc – this is and was a case of actually seeing a face that is a face and the face has just appeared in a painting on which I am working.  Suddenly. Out of the blue. Out of the the everywhere.

      I’ve just written about this on my Facebook page so forgive me, friends, for my repetition but I wanted this to reach a larger audience because I can evidence this and I can show you the photographs of the painting and you will be able to see the face for yourselves and judge, as some of my Friends have done, as to the disposition of the features and the extraordinary detail and character of the image.



It was the moment every dog owner dreads – no, I have to refine that. It was the moment every male dog owner dreads – the time when you are told by your vet They have to come Off. The reason They had to come Off apparently was because all that testosterone was making the boyo a little aggressive. But then not really.  The vet might have found him a little aggressive because he sunk his canines into the vet’s derriere when the vet shoved a thermometer up the boyo’s derriere and I must say I can’t blame the boyo for that, having recently had one of those male moments myself with a doctor - however.

Loud Mouths and Not very Ragged Trousers

The 2nd Viscount Stansgate was alas a political hyperbole. More famous for his insistence on being called Tony than for any worthwhile political notions, how he has handed in his dinner plate he is being lionised for his pantomime ambition to turn Labour into some sort of Eastern European socialist party. in fact possibly his greatest ambition would have been to see Britain turned into a satellite of the USSR. He was a deluded Leninist who seemed from his rhetoric to have been more consumed by hatred than by compassion, (he 'loathed' the EEU - his words - and had little time for Germany either) which is hardly a good base for true socialism, two of his earliest and most burning ambitions being to remove the Sovereign's head from postage stamps and to ban off shore radio stations.

A size three hat

This is a difficult one for me, as someone who has owned National Hunt horses and trained some as an amateur. But. (a) What Ruby Walsh said - if this is what indeed he said - it is not just way out of line it is utterly and entirely disgraceful and reflects ill on a man who is one of the most talented and bravest of jockeys.


                                                           OF TWO CLOWNS 

I write of two clowns. One is called Paterson, the other is called Kaye. Of these two comics, one has already earned immortality through his work while because of his foolish recklessness the other is fast gaining notoriety and with a bit of luck will soon hopefully be gone and long forgotten.


                                              ADVICE TO THE LOVELORN

       The essence of happiness is that it is not visible. It is not a material thing. It is an intrinsic thing, an abstract, and as soon as people try to analyse it, it becomes even more invisible.



           I remember so very well when this delightfully funny book was written. Being Clever Drawers, I should do, but I’ll resist making any Clever-Drawer-ish sort of remarks here. All I will say that having just finished preparing this second volume of my beloved wife and partner’s youthful autobiography to me it is still as fresh and totally original as the day it was written. The one thing it is not is one however, is one of the things it was claimed to be when it was first published, that is brilliant.



On the crime scale of one to ten this barely even rated. Someone broke into a cottage on the estate and did a bit of rifling. I noticed it when I walked by because the mattress was sticking out of the window and a light was shining from the fridge. A closer look showed a side window (double glazed too) smashed and forced and noting a bit more of a mess than usual within I called the fuzz. Three days later a very small policeman wearing a very small car called.


It sits above us like an incandescent orange box, situated high on a promontory in order to optimize the view and so spoiling the same for everyone else. It is meant to be a house but what it totally resembles is an orange railway carriage, one parked carelessly without a thought for the consequence and unless the ground opens up beneath it (if only) or Armageddon arrives sooner than scheduled it is there for evermore. You can’t ignore it. It forever catches the eye and when it does the eye becomes very sore.
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