However, it was the content of the column that may perhaps never be equalled. Each week, using the pen name of Daedalus, he wrote about an ingenious invention that was on the edge of plausibility, but was entertainingly fictional. It was not so much science fiction as technology fiction. As he put it: “Daedalus is ideally just beyond the edge of possibility, but only just. I can’t overtly break the laws of physics, and my arguments are always carefully buttressed by scientific facts . . . nonetheless, one should have the feeling that the argument has gone off the rails somewhere.”
The ones that struck were where some new discovery was slightly perverted into the foundation of a business. That just didn’t, really, make sense but did superficially.
Something of a pity that this appears to be where the professor of practice has got his economics from.
An alternative epitaph might have been delivered by Max the macaw. Blazer’s wife had taken the bird after their divorce and returned it to him a year later having taught it some choice phrases. Henceforth, as Blazer took business meetings at Trump Tower, the macaw would squawk: “You’re a dope.”
Status Quo guitarist Rick Parfitt died with an estate in the UK worth just a few hundred thousand pounds.
The 68-year-old rocker’s estate is valued at a little over half a million pounds, but after debts and costs amounts to £230,753, according to his will.
Estates of artists (yes, I know, but, he was an artist) are a bit more complicated. His performance royalties (ie, recording) will continue to come in for some time. Songwriting for another 70 years. I don’t think “Whatever You Want” is going to survive quite in the same manner that, say, Nessun Dorma has but I’d still expect it to get another couple of decades play on the radio. And such royalties do add up. One play on a BBC station would gross Parfitt’s estate perhaps £30 (Andy Brown getting another such and that number’s a bit of a guess from memory) before whatever deal there is with the music publisher.
He didn’t write that many songs, true, but just that one alone would, I would think at least, provide a useful income. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least if there’s a thousand plays a year on UK radio, all paying needle time to the writers.
We have a number of tax specialists around here. How are such future earnings from an estate valued for probate purposes?
Under Crawford, Unseen launched 18 torpedo attacks, yielding 15 hits and 11 successes. She also survived 199 depth charges — no wonder the consumption of rum over 257 days at sea during 11 combat patrols was seven gallons, seven pints and six tots per man.
Well, not so much really. Standard rum issue was one eighth of a pint per man per day. So the rum issue there was in fact two issues a day, thereabouts, allowing for the occasional Temperance declared.
Not low, no, but by the standards of the time (there was no other booze on a submarine of course) not all that high either.
The Normans’ family business was a problem early on when the young Barry attended the public school Hurstpierpoint College. The school did not accept the sons of tradespeople, and there was a lengthy debate over whether film editing was a trade. Norman later moved to Highgate School, which had no such qualms.
Perhaps trivial but there are good reasons why I’m not a conservative.
And this isn’t a bad thing to have someone say about you, this last line:
PERSONAL FOOTNOTE: Much as I usually agreed with him, Barry didn’t always get it right. Early in his TV career he reviewed, rather negatively, a film called That’ll Be The Day (starring David Essex) which was my first foray into screenwriting. A big admirer of Film ’73, I was devastated. It was the film’s first review and I was in despair.
His judgment wasn’t shared by other critics, so when asked by a friend what I thought of the reviews, I said: ‘Well, everyone seemed to like it apart from that **** Barry Norman’, using the rudest word I knew.
A few weeks later I was at a party when Barry, whom I’d never met, approached and introduced himself, smiling broadly. ‘Hello, Ray. I’m that **** Barry Norman.’
We both had to laugh, and I drove him to catch his train that night. We would remain good friends whenever we met over the succeeding decades.
Because, he really was a lovely man.
He also complained that he had not been insured for the dangerous stunts he performed over the years. Baxter denied this, saying: “They were insured. That is a myth. Also, we gave them the absolute top whack we could.” That said, in the early days of health and safety a corporate risk assessment for the BBC was understood to read simply: “John may die.”
At his 90th birthday party Tempest slid down the bannisters for a final time, showing his grandchildren how it should be done.
Although perhaps something for us all to remember when talking about fuel poverty:
Henry Tempest was living in a nondescript 1960s house in Oxfordshire when he unexpectedly inherited Broughton Hall, an unheated, 97-room, grade I listed pile near Skipton, in North Yorkshire. It had a leaking roof, a heap of debt and death duties of 65 per cent were due. He had to flog some of the family silver, paintings, books and even the local pub, the Tempest Arms, to keep his head above water.
Then, rather than taking the easy way out and selling up, Tempest set about turning the estate, which had been in the family since 1097, into a success, drawing on his experience of creating a farm from scratch in Africa. He got the family out of farming, instead letting the 2,700 acres for grazing. He converted many of the estate’s outbuildings into a business park, which is now home to dozens of companies employing about 600 people.
The idea that the inside of a house should be a generally warm area is a very modern one indeed.
In Heidelberg he began an affair with a woman married to an economics professor. Rather than confront him, the professor invited Eugster to a faculty party and introduced him to his most attractive student.
The strategy worked; the man’s marriage recovered and Eugster wed the student, Edda, in 1954. The union produced two children, Andre, an ophthalmologist, and Christian, a civil servant, who live in Switzerland and survive him.
Throughout her adult life Helen Szamuely was known and feared for the sharpness of her tongue. It was said that those who engaged her in debate over the European Union — she was a founding member of what became Ukip — would come away with their egos in slices.
It’s a good obit. One thing does surprise me though:
She was also writing for History Today, contributing chapters for books, writing articles for various think tanks and blogging prolifically. Her debut with the latter was in April 2004 on Richard North’s blog EU Referendum. Five years later she decided to go it alone and began running her own blog. She was as cutting online as she was in person and would tear her victim’s virtual self apart.
“I notice you have no arguments just personal invective,” she wrote to one commenter. “I am proud of my enemies and you are an excellent addition to the group. I shan’t bother to reply to you again but be assured your self-satisfied silliness is appreciated.”
She was always sweetness and light to me. I assume that’s because I never said anything interesting……
John Hurt, the widely-admired English actor who rose to fame playing flamboyant gay icon Quentin Crisp, has died aged 77.
There#’s a scene where he’s in the dock, wearing make up (no, not just stage, obviously). Made a hell of an impression if I can recall that all these years later. The character seemed to leap out of the screen*.
Oddly, I always thought he was Irish. Only English in the Peter O’Toole (who may actually have been born in England as well) sense, that the accent was trained.
*Scrolling down the article there’s a photo of it. But I remembered before scrolling down. And that photo does look very odd as well, that microphone is a bit modern for the time it is set isn’t it?
His most memorable dispatch from France came after an unidentified aircraft had aroused a fever of speculation by crashing and scattering grenades across the runway at Orly. For whom was this deadly cargo intended? Ottaway was sent to investigate, and came back with a crisp one-line telegram: “Grenade is French for pomegranate.”