Children's Literature c. 17th century-2007

Children's Literature, that young sapling of creative writing that has enthralled children at bedtime and adults who ought to know better on the long commute to and fro their boring, stupid grown-up jobs in the city, has died of shock following the outing of Professor Albus Dumbledore by that gossipy chronicler of Hogwarts, JK Rowling, during her US book tour - a revelation almost as shocking as Enid Blyton's deathbed admission that the Famous Five were all members of the Hitler Youth, and that Timmy had died shortly after the end of the first book and had - unknown to Julian, Dick, Ann, George and Adolf - been replaced by an almost identical dog shortly before the start of the gang's second adventure.

Children's Literature got off to a slow start in the 17th century with the publication of picture books which contained stories of a mind-numbing simplicity that have only recently been rivalled by the films of Adam Sandler. And when the Brothers Grimm first published their collection of fairytales at the beginning of the 19th century there were sleepless nights all round as children begged to be read just one more chapter of the cruel and magical stories and adults went to bed unable to drop off for fear of the harm they were doing their children, and the angry dwarf they swore they saw lurking in the shadows at the foot of the bed.

Yet children had begun to delight in the magical wonderlands seen through the looking glass, found lurking beyond the wardrobe or inside the gates of the greatest chocolate factory known to man, woman and - most importantly, small child. While some authors enthralled young readers with fabulous tales spun from the wildest shores of their imagination, others set their stories in the more humdrum world of home and school. Yet Children's Literature prospered - quite happily refusing to grow up for nearly two hundred years. Indeed, the feared collapse of Children's Literature brought on by its neglect in favour of video games and crack cocaine on the school curriculum, had been averted, chiefly by the creative genius of JK Rowling in joining the magical world of CS Lewis with countless middlebrow boarding school novels of the mid-20th century in her well-written, exciting, never over-long and - most importantly - highly original series of Harry Potter books⁽¹⁾.

So it was with great surprise and horror that the unexpected death of Children's Literature was precipitated by an innocent question about Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore's lovelife. Save for a chance remark in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by Griselda Marchbanks, Head of the Wizarding Examinations Authority, that the young Dumbledore had "done things with a wand⁽²⁾ I'd never seen before" there were few clues to Dumbledore's sexual orientation. Indeed the issue had never occurred to most people, especially those in the media who were - rather disturbingly - far more interested in JK Rowling's wealth, Daniel Radcliffe's getting naked on stage and the precise date at which Hermione Granger would "be legal". When Ms Rowling - with an announcement in no way designed to further fill her golden coffers with what little is left of her readers' parents' money⁽³⁾ - told a packed Carnegie Hall in New York that the Hogwarts headmaster would never get it on with Professor McGonagall, the shockwaves crashed through Children's Literature.

Revelation followed revelation as tearful children and shocked adults still clinging on to the nostalgic sanctity of their favourite bedtime reading from decades past learnt in quick succession that the Mad Hatter had married the Dormouse in a civil ceremony, the Cat in the Hat loathed children and Winnie the Pooh was not just addicted to honey but also "prescription painkillers".

Unable to show its face in public, Children's Literature went into a steep decline and within days of Ms Rowling's outing the last chapter had been read for ever, the bedside lamp extinguished and Once Upon a Time was no more.

Children's Literature will be buried in the St Bookhouse Cathedral of Remaindered Fiction. The service will be conducted by Archbishop Rowling herself. (Service begins at midnight, admission fee £14.99⁽⁴⁾, all welcome). The congregation will read from the book of... No, we had that one last night... No, it's my turn to choose...

Children's Literature is survived by the works of JRR Tolkien, Dan Brown and JK Rowling's billions.

⁽¹⁾ Not that we would dare suggest that the billionaire author would ever have the need, let alone desire, to employ a team of the finest and most highly-overpaid lawyers...
⁽²⁾ No, the wand wasn't Prada.
⁽³⁾ for the love of God, see ⁽¹⁾, Ed.
⁽⁴⁾ at time of going to press that is approx $350.

Those Who Knew Them: Miss Moneypenny

Bond lit his first cigarette, one of the Balkan and Turkish "Morlands' Specials" they blended for him in Grosvenor Street. There were three gold bands on the filter, signifying his rank of Commander. They were the only gold bands Bond wanted in his life. He raised the long white tube to his lips. He had no need for women. They were for recreation. Bond needed action and he needed it with men. With a woman there was too much emotion, fogging everything with love and hurt feelings. If Bond had to have anyone under him he wanted it to be a man. He wanted someone as hard and strong as he was. And yet ...

He sipped at his coffee - strong, black, the way he liked it - as he looked out across the plage towards the little boats that bobbed in the sea. He thought about her. Moneypenny. She was different to all the rest. He could rely on her.

They had been together for more than 23 years. Bond still held a precise mental picture of her appearance when they first met. Her hair was a rich chestnut, artfully cut and set to frame her elegant face down to her firm, slightly mannish jaw. She had a good, strong nose. Her eyes gazed back at him amusedly from beneath her carefully arched eyebrows. Her lipstick was rose, picking out lips that indicated to Bond a pleasing mixture of sense and sensuality. Around her neck was a teal scarf, tucked into a sleeveless shift in Navy blue, which showed off her long and well-formed arms to good advantage. Her voice was deep and rich, with a Canadian twang that sat uneasily for an ostensibly English civil servant, just as the strong Scots accent and shlight shpeech impediment Bond affected in their early years together had gibed with his Eton and Fettes background.

Bond had little use for reflection - it was a womanly way to pass the time - but he thought back now to the years they had spent together. He knew he had changed a lot. He had put on weight and lost hair. He had been an Australian male model, a saturnine Welsh Mancunian, a suave Irishman and for several years he had been little more than a quizzically raised eyebrow on a wide-lapelled safari suit, but throughout it all Moneypenny had remained unchanged and unchanging. Wherever he had been, whoever he had been and with whomever he had been, Moneypenny had always been ready to greet him with a warm smile, a clever remark and a fond sigh. Bond knew he had used her badly, as he used all women badly. He could only hope that she forgave him.

Moneypenny was dead. Bond pushed away his breakfast plate of three scrambled eggs and bacon uneaten. As he lifted his cigarette to his lips once more his thumb grazed his cheek, discovering an unexpected wetness. He looked down. The copy of The Times that had brought him news of her death showed the damp evidence of many tears. Bond shook himself, leapt from his chair and reached for his holster. It was time to shoot someone.

The As A Dodo Editors add: Lois Maxwell, born 14 February 1927, best known among her many other roles on stage and screen for playing Miss Moneypenny in 14 James Bond movies, died on 29 September 2007. She will be remembered fondly by anyone who ever thrilled to the sound of the Dr No theme or whose heart ever leapt at the words "James Bond will return".

Those Who Knew Them: Ingmar Bergman 1918-2007

Following the passing of Ingmar Bergman, one of the greatest figures in European cinema, we at As A Dodo are extraordinarily proud to be able to present an exclusive interview with someone who not only inspired many of Mr Bergman's works but is also, we are happy to say, one of our closest collaborators - Death. (Readers should be aware that Death is a very busy personification of the termination of life and appears to have been somewhat distracted during our conversation with him, which we here transcribe in full.)*

AAD: Who's that?

Death: I am Death.

AAD: Cor, you didn't half give me a fright. You shouldn't go round sneaking up on people like that.

Death: I have been walking by your side for a long time.

AAD: Well, I never noticed you. You'd've thought I'd've heard something ... what with all the pebbles on this beach. You must be wearing crepe souls ... geddit? Ah well, suit yourself ... Anyway, I take it you're here for the Bergman obituary.

Death: Are you prepared?

AAD: For the obituary? Well, I've had a quick glance on Wikipedia.

Death: Well, there is no shame in that.

AAD: Cuh! Tell that to the readers. But I could do with a bit more time to tell the truth ... I wasn't expecting you right now.

Death: That's what they all say. I grant no reprieves.

AAD: Right ... better get on with it then. To sum up - Bergman will go down in cinematic history as one of the greatest stars in the Hollywood firmament, perhaps best known for her role as Ilsa Lund in Casablanca opposite Humphr ... oh, wait a sec, that's Ingrid isn't it? What I meant to say was that Ingmar Bergman was one of those who, alongside directors such as Godard, Truffaut and Fellini, helped to define modern European cinema. From early comedies like "Smiles on a Summer Night" to sombre masterpieces like "The Seventh Seal", "Winter Light" and "Persona" to reflective pieces such as "Wild Strawberries" and "Fanny and Alexander" he reflected on the really big issues - life, love, sex, death and God - and helped his audience to struggle with them even as he struggled himself. With his regular company of actors such as Max von Sydow, Ingrid Thulin, Bibi Andersson and Gunnar Björnstrand, his taut scripts spare of dialogue and his careful framing of beautifully realised images he created a truly unique oeuvre.

Death: How did you know that?

AAD: Er ... like I said, Wikipedia. Makes research a doddle - 5 minutes and you can have a slapdash and only haphazardly accurate article on anything you fancy. You must know about it! Haven't you even got a computer?

Death: Yes, in fact I'm quite a good chess player.

AAD: Ooh! I prefer Minesweeper or Spider Solitaire myself. But if you're online I'd be happy to give you a game some time.

Death: Why do you want to play chess with me?

AAD: Well, partly as a metaphor for the way humanity as a whole arrogantly struggles against Death even though it knows that Death must eventually win and that an ever-distant God will not intervene but mainly because it's not everyone who gets to play chess with Death - unless they're Max von Sydow.

Death: That is your privilege.

AAD: Nice one Mr D! I always thought you were decent sort - great turn of yours in Woody Allen's "Love and Death" by the way ... and that bit playing Battleships in "Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey" - genius! Great stuff! ... And now here we are with a board and here I am ending a piece about the passing of Ingmar Bergman by playing a game of chess with Death himself. Who'd've guessed?

Death: Very appropriate. Don't you think so?

* AS A DODO UPDATE - we are now advised that the above is not in fact a true record of a conversation between our correspondent and Death but is merely some of Death's lines from "The Seventh Seal" interspersed with a series of facetious remarks. We can only apologise to our readers ... again.

Harry Potter July 1997 - July 2007

The As A Dodo Team is pleased to announce that one of its junior staff members - fresh from his previous work editing a documentary on Her Majesty the Queen - has today provided us with what must be the greatest scoop of the decade, a sneak peak at what he assures us are the final few paragraphs of Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows (despite the fact that they seem to have been scrawled in his own hand on the back of a series of losing betting-slips made out in his name), paragraphs which reveal that Harry Potter is to die in tragic and unforeseen circumstances. Accordingly, we print the following paragraphs as the young wizard's obituary. Let them speak for themselves.

"So, Harry. We meet again", said Nosferatu Lord Voldemort, his long thin form gliding towards Harry.

"I'll kill you Ming the Merciless Voldemort", said Harry, angrily, in the first bit of direct speech he'd been granted in the last two hundred pages.

"Oh I doubt it, Harry Potter", hissed Saruman Voldemort, his red eyes gleaming.

Harry raised himself to his feet, preparing himself for the bout of sadistic cruelty that he always had to face at the end of one of his books. Fu Manchu Voldemort pointed his wand at the young wizard and muttered a word with just enough bad Latin in it to sound a bit magical. Harry struggled to stand but found himself frozen. The Dark Lord of the Sith slid towards him.

"No, Harry Potter, it is you who will die, though I will not be the one to kill you ... that task belongs to your true enemy", continued Lex Luthor Voldemort, the slits of his eyes widening. "But first I must give a long and involved recap of all that has happened so far in case any of the slower readers - not to forget all those people who have got so used to skipping turgid passages about Quidditch matches, magic lessons, O.W.L. examinations and your tedious and somehow strangely passionless 'passions' for a series of females lacking any deep characterisation that they've flipped straight to the final pages - have missed anything."

Harry was about to speak but remembered that if he did so he would break up Davros's Lord Voldemort's lengthy exposition. At last - several pages later - the red eyes turned once more to Harry.

"What a fool you are Harry!", Moriarty Voldemort cried. "You thought I was your enemy all along didn't you? Didn't you realise who was punishing you?"

"It was Snape! I knew it!" said Harry.

The Sheriff of Nottingham Voldemort sneered at him. "Snape! Don't be a fool - if he doesn't get a moment of Darth Vader-like redemption in the last book I'll eat my own horcrux! Your enemy, Harry Potter, is She Who Must Not Be Named!"

"She Who Must Not Be Named?" thought Harry, who was having one of those astonishingly thick periods he always got between making astonishing intuitive leaps when the author wanted to move the plot on. "Dolores Umbridge? Rita Skreeter? Not Professor McGonagall?"

Dr Doom Voldemort momentarily buried his head in his hands. "Dear Lord you're almost as stupid as Sam Gamgee C3PO Ron Weasley. Think boy! Think! I speak of the one who truly hates you. Who is it that has punished you for seven, ever longer, books? Who is it that has ensured that all around you ignored your warnings and called you a liar? Who has seen you pummelled and beaten, cruelly mocked and more cruelly tortured for thousands upon thousands of pages? Who has made you doubt your own sanity?"

Harry looked up at the man he had once thought was his greatest foe, who he had always feared - even after discovering his true name was, ridiculously, Tom Marvelo Riddle.

The Wicked Witch of the West Voldemort continued, "Oh she hates you, Potter. Don't doubt that. Think how she sent you away to the Dursleys ..."

Harry shivered. "They're awfully common aren't they?" he said, then brightened for a moment, "But I'm not like them - I go to boarding school and have friends called Hermione and live in a magical world that is exactly like a scene from a 1950s Ealing comedy."

"But without the warmth or humour" said Blofeld Lord Voldemort, stroking a Persian cat. Harry nodded to himself, he knew his enemy's words were true. The Hooded Claw Voldemort carried on, "She even killed off your uncle Boromir Sirius Black and your mentor Gandalf Dumbledore"

"You mean Obi-Wan Dumbledore won't 'unexpectedly' be making a reappearance in the final book?" Harry shouted, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his hands in anger and disappointment.

"I wouldn't put it past her", whispered Nogbad the Bad Voldemort. "Can you really be so stupid?", he continued, his rage mounting once more ... "Didn't you suspect anything even when you realised she'd made your best friend a ginger?!"

Harry just grabbed his wand and squeezed it tight, causing sniggers among any of his readers who'd ever laughed at a Carry On movie.

"It is your creator who detests you so! She Who Must Not Be Named is J.K. Rowling! And now she has chosen to kill you by creating a saga so long and so repetitive that you will be sucked into an endless sequence of quidditch matches and O.W.L. examinations, punctuated by the occasional death of a friend and several over-familiar plot-devices. You will die not by my wand, Harry Potter, but by the actions of ten fingers upon a keyboard!"

His speech finished, Abanazar Lord Voldemort looked down triumphantly at Harry but Harry could not see him for Harry was already dead.

Harry Potter will be buried at St Mickey Mouse's Church of the Marketing Wizardry, in a grave well set apart from Lewis Carroll's Alice Through the Looking Glass, Lloyd Alexander's The Chronicles of Prydain, Norton Juster's The Phantom Tollbooth, James Thurber's The Thirteen Clocks and The White Deer, Susan Cooper's The Dark Is Rising sequence, Alan Garner's Weirdstone of Brisingamen and the works of The Brothers Grimm. He is survived by a generation of young adults for whom thousands of years of myth and legend, wizardry and wild romance, fairy tales and gothic sagas, imagination and mystery have been distilled into a moderately-well written, deeply small "c" conservative, school story in which all the magic of "magic" has been rendered into a banal substitute for technology with all the eldritch mystery of a trip to McDonalds.

Disney Animated Feature Films 1937-2007

Disney Animated Feature Films has sung its last saccharine ballad penned by Elton John and gone to join its maker in a cryogenic chamber following the publication of research that the negative portrayal of the elderly in films such as Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, 101 Dalmatians and The Hunchback of Notre Dame adversely affects children’s image of the older generation – even more so than when the older generation refuse to buy them the repackaged DVD of Lilo and Stitch, available for a limited time only, that they have already seen 237 times.

Disney Animated Feature Films - the child of animator Walt Disney and his beloved pet mouse - burst into the black and white world of the 1930s with Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs – a brash and colourful brat that leapt into the face of Depression-era America and the smoggy world of staid Britain, injecting a much-needed dose of Technicolor with its innocent story of a sweet young princess who spends her time buffing the tools of seven aged midgets.

The success of Snow White, despite its portrayal of a wicked elderly royal intent on destroying a beautiful young princess (a portrayal understood - according to the representatives of Mr Mohamed Al Fayed - to have been based on Prince Philip), encouraged Disney to return to the drawing board for its next feature, Pinocchio – the heart-warming and innocent tale of an elderly carpenter who, to banish his loneliness, whittles away at his wood for hours on end until a magic fairy grants him a young boy all his own.

Despite the box-office failure of Fantasia (attributed by critics to the two-dimensional performance of Mr Disney's beloved protegé, one M Mouse) Disney Animated Feature Films continued to prosper during the war years with Dumbo, a young elephant who discovers an ability to fly following an alcoholic binge and a couple of sniffs of a magic feather, and Bambi, a young deer traumatised by the tragic death of his mother at the hands of a wicked hunter (again, we are advised by the representatives of Mr Al Fayed this part was based on The Duke of Edinburgh).

In the post-war years The Films continued to increase their hold on children’s imagination and their parents wallets with a string of all-singing, all-dancing anthropomorphic adventures including The Lady and the Tramp, The Jungle Book and The Anthropomorphist’s All-Singing All-Dancing Adventure.

By the 60s, however, the Films' grip on the public imagination began to loosen, thanks in part to lower budgets and production values but mainly to the fact the public's imagination was dancing naked round a maypole while whacked out on a mix of acid, peyote, hash and those groovy looking pink 'n' purple pills. Things worsened in the 1970s and 80s, with the films coming under attack from such attractions as Luke Skywalker's struggles against the wicked Darth Vader, a creature more machine than man (a character we are again advised was in fact based on Queen Elizabeth's husband).

Advancing years began to take their toll on the Films, with features such as Aladdin and Mulan relying more and more on a clinical formula of over-the-top performances from US stand-ups and soundtracks composed by cutting edge musicians such as Celine Dion. Ever more competition from digital animators, changing demographics and a disastrous decision to ask Slipknot to provide the love songs for the proposed, 101 Dead Dalmatians, bleached the colour from Disney’s upbeat vision of the world and slowly The Films became less animated.

The final blow was struck by researchers at the Brigham Young University in Utah who, after 70 years of smarting at Snow White’s satirical take-on Mormon polygamy, published a scathing attack on stereotypical images of the elderly in Disney Animated Feature Films – complaining that toothless and hunched characters were demeaning to senior citizens and severely cramped Peter Stringfellow’s style. The writing may not have been on the wall but the drawings were most certainly in the bin.

Disney Animated Feature Films will be buried next to Bambi’s mother. The service will be available for a limited time only on DVD and the congregation will sing from the Book of Phil Collins and Elton John. They are survived by the Duke of Edinburgh.

The Long Good Friday 1980-2007

Lovers of British films are today gathering to scatter soggy popcorn on the sticky floors of darkened independent cinemas up and down the country in memory of classic 1980s movie The Long Good Friday, which has passed away following news that it is to get a "Hollywood makeover" from director Paul W S Anderson.

The Long Good Friday was born in 1980, the gritty and resolutely unglamorous tale of gangster Harold Shand's attempts to give some legitimacy to his East End criminal empire by redeveloping London's Docklands in time for the 1988 Olympics, in the face of the threat from IRA terrorists⁽¹⁾. Starring Bob Hoskins, the man who stunned the world in BBC Adult Learning series "On the Move" and dumbfounded critics with his devastating performance in "Super Mario Bros", and Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II (or possibly Helen Mirren), The Long Good Friday was rightly hailed as one of the greatest ever gangster movies, able to stand shoulder-to-shoulder beside such legends as Mike Hodges's savage revenge tale "Get, Carter" and brilliant crime-caper "The Italian Job" in the pantheon of British cinema.

Together this triumvirate would inspire Britons throughout the 80s, 90s and noughties to believe that they could create movies capable of standing against Hollywood's best without always having to resort to long, slow pans across rolling countryside and Helena Bonham-Carter/Kate Winslet in a bosom-flattering Georgian frock or getting Richard Curtis to write yet another piece of heartwarming drivel about how a floppy-haired, repressed Brit living in a racially-segregated London where it always snows at Christmas can be saved from disaster by the presence of a moderately bankable Hollywood star name.

Yet the mere fact of greatness has never ensured proper recognition. Soon the British gangster movie was not merely inspiring the great and the good but also the not-so-great, the frankly-indifferent and the bloody awful. Where once giants like Harold Shand and Jack Carter had stalked Britain's grimy streets, now they were filled with British bratpackers, desperate to prove their serious acting credentials and get over the fact that daddy ran a drama school/was a former Doctor Who by dropping the odd aitch and "giving it large" ... and Guy Ritchie.

Such an end would be piteous enough but worse was to come. Concerned by the respect that was still being shown in some quarters to the ageing British threesome, the big boys over in Hollywood decided to send hitmen across the pond to sort the trio out. The first to fall was The Italian Job, knocked down by a BMW-owned Mini Cooper in a Los Angeles street far from its Milanese home. Next came Get Carter, mysteriously plunged into a river of bad notices, weighed down by a concrete-shoed performance from Sylvester Stallone.

Only The Long Good Friday was left. Hunted through the streets of London, it was eventually cornered in an East End abattoir, where it was hung from a meat-hook for days, its mangled corpse later being discovered dumped on a Miami Street by the director responsible for such luminous moments of cinema as "Mortal Kombat" and "Resident Evil".

The Long Good Friday will be buried alongside the rapidly-rotating coffins of Get Carter and The Italian Job. All three are survived by fond memories of the originals, dreadful remakes and, with any luck, a British version of Chinatown set in Somerset starring Justin Lee Collins, its final line "Forget it Jake, this is Nempnett Thrubwell"

⁽¹⁾ devotees of NORAID are requested to read "IRA terrorists" as craic-loving, happy-go-lucky freedom fighters, who never blew up an innocent person without a smile on their lips and song in their heart.

The VHS Tape 1976-2007

The VHS Tape has unspooled for the last time, its glossy surface ripped from its plasticky exterior by economists at the Office of National Statistics, who have extracted it from the shopping basket of goods and services used to judge the rate of inflation and thrown it into the bin alongside brie, vegetable oil and sprouts.

The Vertical Helical Scan System, known to millions simply as "the VHS" or (every time it unaccountably failed to record the whole of one's favourite programme) "that bloody thing" - was born in 1976. From birth it was to have a hard life. Even as it emerged from the womb of the JVC corporation it was to find rival mother Sony standing over it, pillow in hand, as it prepared to smother the child in favour of its own offspring, Betamax. Fortunately, the errant Japanese corporation was dragged away to a quiet room and, despite its inferior picture, VHS was ultimately to triumph over its rival after impressing the public with the size of its recording capacity. Thus began VHS's popularity as millions marvelled at their ability to record TV programmes while they were out… and then leave them unwatched until they were taped over a few days later.

The VHS was to prove a major stepping-stone in the life of many a child. Not only did it give the average 5-year-old their first opportunity to triumph over their parents by being able to tape hour after hour of Battle of the Planets while the adults could only manage a recording that ended halfway through Bullseye, it also gave millions of impressionable adolescents the chance to broaden their cultural education by watching fifth generation pirate copies of Driller Killer and recording subtitled films on BBC2 or Channel 4 in the hope of a fleeting glimpse of arthouse nudity (hopes which, thanks to the technological precision of the pause function, were inevitably crushed).

With the birth of its younger sibling, the VHS camera, the Tape enjoyed amazing commercial success enabling people to video their own weddings and birthday parties – and then send the oh-so-hilarious results to Jeremy Beadle’s You’ve Been Framed - and later allowing unknown micro-personalities such as Abi Titmuss to become very-well-known micro-personalities when recordings of their most intimate moments somehow found their way to the desks of every newspaper and PR agency.

It was the introduction of digital technology which saw the Tape facing its final rewind. Its binary relative, The DVD, stole the show and viewers’ affections by being able to provide movies with a sharper picture, surround sound and a commentary from the director’s chauffeur’s uncle’s sister at the push of a button.

The Tape deteriorated rapidly – stretching and distorting the picture and losing its sound quality in a gale of white noise – at which point the ONS consultants agreed that it no longer had a sustainable quality of life and, for the last time, gently untangled it from the playback heads and replaced it in its tired and worn-out cardboard sleeve.

The VHS Tape will be buried at car boot sales and charity shops across the country. It is survived by The DVD-RW, Hard-Disk Recorder and accidentally recording over that episode of The Persuaders on ITV4 you really wanted to watch.

Those Who Knew Them: Joseph Barbera 1911-2006

All at As A Dodo are delighted to inform readers that the following piece was penned bysomeone who was not only a close friend of the late Joseph Barbera but also an undoubted Hollywood legend, Mr Thomas Cat. We would also like to make clear that the fact that the reporter we sent to Sunset Boulevard to conduct the interview with Mr Cat (on which this piece is based) was last seen lying face down in Mr Cat's pool with a bullet through him should in no way detract from the great star's words ... which have in any event been taken down and may be used in evidence.

Joe Barbera?! Now there was a director! Of course, I had no doubt about his talent from the moment I met him ... and he certainly had no doubts about mine! He spotted me in 1940 working in an off-Broadway production of The Cat and The Canary and he knew right from the moment I fell off stage into the orchestra pit and had my head repeatedly smashed flat between the percussionist's cymbals, before being sliced into a hundred pieces by the wires of the piano that I had that certain je ne sais quoi that those without my command of French might term "star quality".

Soon Joe and that truly marvellous man Bill Hannah were whisking me off to Hollywood for my first starring role in Puss Gets the Boot. Oh Joe and Bill were great on that movie and so was I. We deserved that Academy Award nomination ... in fact we should have got the whole damned Oscar. I still can't believe those little, little men at the Academy could give it to that nauseating The Milky Way. I remember Bugs, Elmer and I commiserating in a bar afterwards. Of course Jer was there already.

Jer, Jer, Jer ... what to say about Jerry Mouse? Joe and Bill insisted we work together and, I have to admit, his rough charm did somehow work up there on the silver screen. But then there were the constant attempts to upstage the leading man (whom I am to humble to name), not to mention the offstage rows, the revolving door through which his wives processed and, most of all, the drinking. I know Joe in particular often despaired of my on-screen sidekick's behaviour. Lucky for Jer, Joe had the patience of a saint. I remember once he had Jer drop an anvil on me nearly a thousand times just to get the right effect (he'd obviously been impressed by my own perfectionism after I corrected his use of the word "whom" for the third time that day).

Yes, thanks to Joe and Bill (not to mention a certain feline gentleman) "Tom and Jerry" (note the order of the billing) were to dominate those silver screens for decades - 7 Academy Awards, 6 Nominations! How many of today's so-called stars can match that? And the dedication! Over 150 movies! Not that the powers-that-be were grateful. Of course it all got too much for Joe and Bill. The constant pressure to produce yet another work of genius always takes its toll. At least neither of them went Jer's way, hanging around in bars, trying to impress ever-younger women with his "mouse in a martini glass" routine. In fact, I always thought it was the anxiety over that incident with Jerry and that young girl (did he really think she looked seventeen?) that sent them off to that sad little world they call TV. What they did there I have no idea ... although I do remember being forced to stand next to a boorish "gentleman" in a ludicrously bourgeois smilodon-fur outfit at one of their parties - honestly! An hour and half of listening to some delusional talking about his "alien friend" The Great Gazoo(!). Sad that a man like Joe should be forced to work with such people.

Still, Joe was one of the Hollywood greats, back when they truly were greats. I'm more than happy to raise a glass to his memory, or perhaps even drop a 10-ton weight on Jer's grave in memory of old times. Adieu mon cher Joe, adieu!

Tom Cruise's Major Studio Deal 1992-2006

Tom Cruise’s Major Studio Deal died suddenly this week after a long battle with declining box office returns. Despite the Deal's long illness, Mr Cruise forthrightly rejected all medical assistance for it, citing his deeply held religious beliefs and the difficulty of giving it an injection whilst he was bouncing up and down on its hospital bed.

Tom Cruise's Major Studio Deal came to prominence in 1992 when, desperate to shake off its image as the career of a diminutive, wooden-faced, pretty boy who expressed emotion and character chiefly by alternating between staring silently and shouting maniacally at his co-stars, it persuaded Tom Cruise to sign up with Paramount Studios in a contract that would guarantee him new and varied roles, and vast sums of money.

In the ensuing years these varied roles were to come thick and fast. Who can forget A Few Good Paychecks, in which Tom played a diminutive, wooden-faced military lawyer – expressing emotion and character chiefly by alternating between staring silently and shouting maniacally at his co-stars: “You want the money?! You can’t handle the money! Show me the money!”? Next came Jerry Morewages, with Cruise wittily playing a diminutive, wooden-faced sports agent – expressing emotion and character chiefly by alternating between staring silently and shouting maniacally at his co-stars: “Show me lots of money! So I can give it to the Scientologists! Did I mention I'm Operating Thetan Seven!?” Before long came the lead in top box office blockbuster Mission: Unpayable, with Cruise playing against type as a diminutive wooden-faced spy – expressing emotion and character chiefly by alternating between staring silently and shouting maniacally at his co-stars: “I love her! This sofa will self-destruct in five seconds! Give me more money”.

In recent years, however, it became clear that the health of the Major Studio Deal was unwell. While Tom himself stuck to the task of promoting scientology and acting weirdly on major chatshows, the Deal was often to be found desperately chasing after directors all over Hollywood in search of one more hit. Many saw its eventual decline as inevitable, especially those who sat through War of the Worlds.

Tom Cruise’s Major Studio Deal passed away on Wednesday, leaving all its multi-million dollar fortune to a diminutive, wooden-faced actor, who expressed his deep emotion at the loss chiefly by alternating between staring silently and shouting maniacally at his fellow mourners. Friends of Mr Cruise say he will honour the memory of his deal by continuing to surprise and delight audiences around the world with his ability to stretch himself. His next project is rumoured to be a biopic of Tom Thumb.