Privacy laws? Good idea

The Daily Mail and the News of the World are unlikely bedfellows but today, following the hearing in which Max Mosley won his privacy case against the News of the World, the Mail and the other papers are screeching about how it might pave the way for draconian privacy laws.

Good.

Now this wouldn't have been my stance a few years ago. As a trained journalist, I was all for freedom of the press and proud of the press we had in the UK.

But now? Well, the papers didn't even seem repentant last week when Robert Murat won half a million pounds because they made up stories about him in connection with the Madeleine McCann case. Yes, made up stories. Unheard of a few years ago except in papers like the Sunday Sport.

The truth is that Britain's press has become entirely inconsequential. How many papers honestly have world exclusives these days? How many genuinely reveal stories that are in the public's interest (rather than providing titillation, in the case of the NOTW, and the Mail in its salacious repeating of the story today)?

Answers on a postcard.

Recently I mentioned to a French colleague how our papers, including the broadsheets who are frankly just as bad, swoon over Carla Bruni's every move. She gave a shrug and said the French weren't bothered about Madame Sarkozy. Nor were they bothered when President Mitterand's mistress turned up at his funeral. They didn't care that he had a mistress, if they knew at all. Imagine what would happen here. I do remember in fact "Paddy Pantsdown" as the memorable headline which ended the career in UK politics of Paddy Ashdown.

A few privacy laws might do us all some good. It might free celebrities and royalty from paraparazzi everywhere they go, and put an end to the cruelty of pictures appearing in national papers pointing out celebrity cellulite or "curves."

Maybe with less trivia in the papers they would have to go back to being proper journalists, stop rehashing stories from their competitors (on Mondays the Daily Mail serves up everything that was in the Sunday Times) and stop trying people before their cases have been heard in court (let me suggest a couple of names: Robert Murat, Colin Stagg).

Finally, I heard the NOTW's lawyer bleating yesterday that Mosley wasn't fit to shake the hands of royalty around the world and lead the F1 gravy train. Oh yes? And I'm sure that the overpaid pampered men who live and work in the F1 world, with access to dozens of eager groupies, are all squeaky clean! Next joke please.

A quintessentially English experience

Last night we went to a Picnic in the Park at Kenwood House in leafy Hampstead.

It was an experience as English as you can possibly get: hundreds of people shaking out their picnic rugs and unloading luscious picnics, mainly from M&S and Waitrose (I was picnic spotting). No youths bearing knives, except possibly plastic ones. Recession what recession - I saw numerous bottles of champagne and other fine wines. No bottles of Mateus Rose in Hampstead, that's for sure.

We collected our picnic having ordered it in advance from Carluccio's. Last time we went to Kenwood for a Picnic in the Park (two years ago) the hamper supplier was Marks & Spencer. I have to say that the Carluccio's hamper, at £45, was not good value. It was not very carefully packed and one of the bottles of water had leaked so the two paper plates were sodden. The contents were a bit hit and miss too. Too much rocket for my liking and everything seemed to be swimming in a patina of olive oil.

I've resolved to take my own picnic next year so we can have our favourite yummies. For me, quiche, kettle chips, Scotch egg and an egg custard tart. J is a man of simple tastes and would probably be satisfied with a ham and coleslaw roll and maybe a chicken breast to gnaw on (he is not a leg man).

Anyway the concert was superb - Summer Proms with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Lots of favourites: Sousa's Semperfidelis (the theme tune for Plymouth Argyle FC), Elgar's Nimrod (which always chokes me up, as it reminds me of my dad) and finally the 1812 Overture, regrettably without fireworks. A very enjoyable evening. I am trying to persuade J that we should go to Last Night of the Proms at Kenwood on August 23, but I fear that the deckchair and the cold has put him off until next year.

Flying with the shysters

We're back from our annual summer sojourn, and this year it was to the Greek island of Rhodes.
A splendid holiday was enjoyed. The hotel - Rodos Park Hotel - was superb; its location, near Old Town, was excellent, and we were blown away by the architecture. I hadn't expected Rhodes to have such stunning examples of medieval roads, not to mention the fortresses and castles from more recent (but still distant) times.


Only a couple of black spots. The first was the unrelenting commercialism of some of the restaurants in Old Town. We found three that were delightful, Fotis (the best fresh fish), Archodiko (very exuberant host and home cooking) and Odyssey (a superb oaky chardonnay was discovered). But there was one restaurant that defied belief. We had noticed some really tall buildings with rooftop diners and several levels of dining. We decided to try one, but once ushered into the building found we had to trudge up the steps in a very shabby staircase, and once at rooftop level, found there was no escape.
The tables were very close together, the other diners were looking round crossly (looking for the waiters we subsequently discovered) and there was a general atmosphere of discontent.
The three waiters were harried and stressed. The meal itself was dreadful. I wanted moussaka but it only came as a starter (which baffled me, because most restaurants would simply offer to provide a bigger portion as a main course), so I quickly opted for kleftico which I normally love. But it was inedible, and cost an amazing 34 euros! My starter was given to the wrong table; the water only came in small bottles. Everyone seemed to be challenging their bills and calling for the waiters.

So that was one bad experience. The other was the return flight with Easyjet. When I booked the holiday originally, the carrier was BA, but unfortunately the route was later sold to Easyjet. I don't usually mind them too much as long as you buy speedy boarding so that you can bypass the awful stampede. But they really surpassed themselves on the flight home.
It was due to leave at 11pm. We were all herded into the gate area (although the screens at Rhodes were not working so no-one knew which gate it was). 11pm came and went. No announcements, no staff to ask. Eventually there was an announcement from Easyjet to claim refreshments for the delayed flight. A stampede ensued for a flattened cheese sandwich and bottle of water. Another announcement wrongly said boarding was about to commence, but we couldn't see a plane. Nonethless there was another stampede. About an hour and a half later we did board (huge stampede this time because it was a different gate) and the captain gave the usual sob story about defective planes, planes flying from Heraklion etc etc, and then added that this was a brand new plane about to make its first commercial flight, and he had had problems with it earlier in the day. Too much information! I am an easy flier but I found myself gripping the seat as we took off, and familiarising myself with the emergency exit which we were sitting next to (having purchased, judiciously, speedy boarding).
My elder bruder and I always used to refer to Easyjet as the shysters, and it does suit them. If only they had made some sort of announcement or apology at the airport instead of leaving us stewing. We finally landed at 4.30am instead of the promised 1.00am and were home by 6am on Sunday.
Would we go there again? Well we might. But J seems to have a long haul hankering and I'd like to go somewhere more unspoilt - perhaps Croatia? So we'll see.

Wayne and Coleen's elegant match

It makes J roll his eyes but I can't resist a celebrity wedding. I couldn't wait to get my hands on OK! magazine, featuring the Rooney nuptials.

Now the nasty old press had already been spreading salacious and jealous rumours: they ate pizza! The Rooney cousins were banned! Coleen bought her friends' dresses so they wouldn't look scruffy!

Well, in case you expected the wedding to be tacky and tasteless, I'm pleased to tell you Coleen does have exquisite taste and it was very elegant and restrained. Unlike some other WAG weddings: the Beckhams for example (remember those thrones?), or Steven Gerrard and Alex Curran. Then there were other z-lister wedding atrocities: Jordan springs to mind.

But Coleen's wedding was charming and stylish. Her dress, by Marchesa, was stunning and there's a wonderful picture of her looking pensive in half shade, showing the gorgeous fan shaped folds of the dress.

The bridesmaids also wore white; the flowers were white and the tables were decorated with white butterflies and flowers. I don't recall any mention of pizza.

The location in Portofino was very romantic and it doesn't look as if rain stopped play (the tabloids were also delighted to point out how it rained and ruined Coleen's shoes).

Coleen's friends and both sets of parents looked good, and so what if Coleen paid for their dresses? These are ordinary people; for once this celebrity couple didn't bow to the OK! pressure by stuffing the church full of z-listers they hardly know. They were surrounded by friends and family, and I think it was a nice gesture for Coleen to let her friends shop in Cricket so they could also feel special on the day.

Wayne wore a light brown suit, as did all the male guests, which looked smart and effective. Both he and Coleen looked genuinely overcome at times and very loving. All in all, despite costing £5m, it looked like a simple old-fashioned wedding, the sort to bring a tear to the eye. Let's hope it lasts, like the marriages of their parents.

Sir Alan you're fired

The Apprentice, final week

No surprise that Sir Alan Sugar chose Lee McQueen to be his apprentice. I predicted on May 8 that Lee would be in the final three.

It was no more than I was expecting. It's generally accepted Sir Alan goes for second best. Most of the runners-up were more feisty, more opinionated and more successful than the winner, and they've done better with their careers since (Ruth Badger, Saira Khan for example).

Lee wasn't bright enough to play a particular game in the series, unlike Alex who continually tried to undermine everyone and to avoid taking any high-profile team roles. Where Lee succeeded was being so affable and hardworking that he managed to stay low profile for half of the series because he didn't get into the boardroom. Unlike others who made a deliberate strategy of staying out of the boardroom which has in the past annoyed Sir Alan, he was visible enough - by being affable and hardworking - not to come unstuck.

But in the final task, he was carried by Claire. She was magnificent. It's sad that Sir Alan can't cope with a bit of healthy competition, that he has to go for someone less likely to be vocal in his boardroom (or stock room probably more to the point).

As always the final task was an anti-climax.

Lee comes across as a nice bloke but he didn't show any signs of being entreprenueurial or exxceptional. He's a terrible presenter. If you don't have a degree you can still be far more intelligent and insightful than those who have, but Lee didn't strike me as very curious or inquiring. All that gungho "that's what we're talking about" and dinosaur impressions are great at the AGM of the sales division but look a bit shallow in a serious corporate environment.

As for the series, it's a big jewel in the BBC crown now and boy do they milk it. Three programmes in a row on Wednesday night. The programme is starting to look tired and the format is too samey. We know every year that Sir Alan will go for someone mouldable who's good at sales. The producers throw a few people into the mix who make good television, but we know they don't stand a chance. I'd like to see a new "Sir Alan" next year so we get an entirely new perspective. Michelle Mone or Karren Brady would both be ideal. What do you reckon?

Lucinda Let Go

The Apprentice, week 11
It was no surprise when loopy Lucinda bowed out last night, described as "too zany for me" by S'ralan.
I've no doubt that risk manager Lucinda is a solid performer (she is paid the most) but she's a loner. She was only effective when she was managing the task, and couldn't handle direction from any others. That explains why she contracts out her services rather than working permanently anywhere.
In a surprise move, S'ralan then chose to make the four others finalists rather than getting rid of another two. He said they were all strong candidates and it was difficult to choose between them. Personally speaking I would have got rid of Alex and Helene. Alex may seem like a youngster who can be moulded, but he's trucculent, arrogant and defensive. Give him any criticism and he is instantly on the attack, unable to accept it. Helene is another one who doesn't function well in a team. Maybe in the macho corporate environment she describes, but not with women. What I disliked about Helene most though was her contempt for the other candidates - the "gobshites" as she so charmingly put it. And Helene of course is the personification of intelligence and wit, so is entitled to look down on the rest with such disdain. Who's to say that Helene wouldn't look with contempt at those in S'alan's organisation?
In the show earlier this week where the finalists' backgrounds were discussed, Helene referred to her plush office and having cups of tea brought to her. I don't know which US corporate outfit she works for: certainly at mine we do not have plush offices or cups of tea brought to us! I doubt if she will enjoy any of these little comforts at S'alan's box shifters.
Claire performed well in the interviews; I think S'alan is concerned that she may have been pretending to change her ways, but all along she's still very mouthy. I think she'd drive him potty, so my choice would be Lee. He is desperate to win and for him it's his last chance. Claire will do well without the win: she'll probably start appearing on TV just like "The Badger" and Saira Khan without the need to win the title. Lee, who is so desperate to be successful because his father was a milkman, has no qualifications to fall back on and he fits the bill admirably for what S'alan wants. He's a good salesman. I don't think he's particularly entreprenuerial, but I didn't see that either with Tim, the winner of the first series.
I'm a bit disappointed that we will have four finalists because putting them in pairs is just asking for trouble. Each pair will have to win, first of all, but then they'll also have to outdo each other to become The Apprentice. Makes for good TV but I would have preferred a classic head-to-head showdown.

A misogynist fest of weighty matters

The Daily Mail quite often renders me apoplectic with indignation at the way it villifies women (yet conversely claims to be a women friendly newspaper). But today The Sunday Times has got me going.

In their report about the "I'd Do Anything" TV show a male writer tells us that "the competition was won by Jodie Prenger, a size 14....."

And this follows last week's assertion by impresario Cameron Macintosh that Jodie was too large for the role of Nancy in Oliver. Listen Cameron: size 16 is the average in the UK: a size 14 is not fat. Real life is not about size zero women, even if you think it makes it easier for you to sell tickets.

Last night he and the panel were studiously avoiding any mention of weight but were trying to steer the public in the direction of pretty but raw and gawky Jessie from Ireland.

I was a bit of a Jessie fan myself, but in the end I'm glad the public stayed true to their principles. Jodie had never been in the bottom two; the public clearly thought SHE personified their idea of Nancy, not an 18 year old with tumbling curls and an Irish lilt. Or the frightfully bland Sam from the Isle of Man.

But to get back to the size matter: Jodie has lost 8 stone, and hasn't made a big deal about it on the show. Even during the programme's eight weeks you could see she was still losing weight. I seethe when male writers brazenly write about someone's size in the opening paragraph of a story. Do they ever write a man's neck or waist size in stories? No they don't. I don't recall when Paul Potts won "Britain's Got Talent" that the papers introduced the concept of him being fat in the opening paragraph.

I wish we could see an end to the way writers of both sexes perpetuate the warped view that women have to occupy the narrow range of a size 8 to 12 and if they're at the opposite ends of that scale they're too skinny, skeletal etc or too fat, obese, lardy. Even Allison Pearson, who writes in the Daily Mail and has a daughter, thought it was sensible to take a pop at Princess Beatrice, who is not fat but has a curvy figure. The ridiculous Amanda Platell also wrote one of her "analytical" pieces about pear shaped women, and all I can say about that is "pots and kettles."

Allison I hope when your daughter is 19, and wearing a bikini, she hasn't got a pair of bitchy middle aged women spitting venom about her being pear shaped in a national paper.

Michael's out - at last

The Apprentice, week 10

Michael Sophocles finally got the boot last night, and I am still pondering on the whereabouts of the flashes of brilliance that Sir Alan seemed to see. I didn't see any, and was so indignant that he wasn't booted out last week that I didn't write my usual critique.

The trouble is, I am growing increasingly weary about this once stellar program. It's fallen into the usual trap engendered by success. The formula is exploited, and I'm sure Sir Alan is being told by the producers to keep certain candidates in because they're good TV. I didn't think Sophocles was even good TV, such was my distaste for the odious little sneak.

Anyway, to summarise last night's task in one sentence: they had to rent out posh cars. Michael had no interest in either the cars or the task, and it showed. Lucinda also reverted to her tearful "I can't do this" mode which we hadn't seen since early on when she couldn't use a PC. Pathetic. Helene, as always, did nothing but gave such a stout defence of her traumatic life at an American company, where they are always making people redundant (I know what she's saying) that Sir Alan kept her on for another week.

Alex had a good week; he managed to sell some car hours. Lee also scraped by with one sale. I don't like Alex. He still bites his lip and his surname is just too irritatingly northern to be taken seriously. "Wotherspoon" indeed. Claire is looking a bit of a dead cert at the moment.

Brilliant bank holiday

What a great bank holiday Monday! And no, I don't mean that in the ironic sense. We haven't had a wet bank holiday for a while, and what a treat it was to have to stay indoors, away from the tedious chores of the garden or the threat of a bike ride or walk, to read or watch TV. And how thoughtful of the BBC to have provided quintessential bank holiday afternoon viewing, The Sound of Music.

I spent a happy couple of hours scrapbooking, although it was a little too cold to stay in the lean-to any longer. I then went back to the snigger fest that is my latest book, "A nice cup of tea and a sitdown."

This book is laugh out loud funny, but only in the British way. If you're not British, forget it. Firstly, you wouldn't get our obsession with tea, and the way it has to be made; and secondly, you wouldn't appreciate the chapters about different types of biscuit and their dunking capabilities.

I was thrilled to see my own personal favourite the jammie dodger had a suitably "A list" mention. When the Rover Selection was proudly brought out in the office for an agency visit, there was only ever one jammie dodger in the tin which I was primed to grab before someone else did.

I was pleased to see that the Tunnock's Wafer also had a splendid showing. I never really liked them but Grandma always had them in her house, along with Schloer and Woodpecker Cider. Sadly the Bandit did not get a mention. Does anyone remember them? A chocolate biscuit similar to a Club. (And yes, I sympathise with the writer of ANCOTAASD who bemoaned the changes that have blighted the Club).

I would imgaine if you were at a pop festival, a 10k race or in a tent, today's weather in the south would have been a little trying.

But if you were snug in your house with a fine cup of tea (no biscuit) and the promise of sausages for dinner, than a finer bank holiday could not be had.

Change Eurovision or walk out

I'm afraid I succumbed last night to the lure of velcro, the whirling of numerous dervishes and the howling of banshees.

Yes, I decided to watch the Eurovision Song Contest. The only reason was because Sweden were declared favourites, and I perked up thinking that if a Western European country was a favourite, maybe things wouldn't be so bad.

In the event, Sweden didn't do very well (and I wasn't that bothered because the Scandinavian countries role modelled the art of voting for each other, long before Eastern Europe joined the party).

I could see that some of us were trying very hard. France even sang in English, for the first time ever, and had someone who's apparently quite cool. I liked their song. Germany were Germany. Spain tried to go for novelty and cheese with something about "cheeky" which really should have been a nul points.

As for the rest, well, I lost the will to live at quite an early stage in the contest and started reading, so they all merged into one. So many turkeys! (And Ireland wasn't among them). I did notice some old geezer, some head bangers (Finland again) and of course the dire Latvian pirates. A few years ago they may have won it, but Eurovision voters tend now to go for overblown big production jobs, and this year's winner, Russia, fitted that bill perfectly with some muscle hewn singer called Bilan and a male ice skater pirouetting in the background.

Terry Wogan sounded crushed and at the end said it was no longer a song contest and western Europe should think carefully about what we do next. He hinted he may not be there next year. I won't be either, unless there's a radical change. Seeing as we, Germany, France and Spain fund it, I believe we should now put our mouths where our money is. I'd like to see the senior bigwig from the BBC who runs this event defending it.

It used to be a bit of fun but now it's painful. It's not about songs but about allies and close countries. Sadly for us, only two countries deigned to vote for us (San Marino and Ireland) so it's a giant snub from western Europe. Yesterday's Times showed a table of all the winners over the years, and a few years ago we were always in the top 10. In fact, coming seventh was considered a flop. Now we are always at the bottom. It's not that the songs are dreadful. Scooch last year was pretty dire, but there are always worse. This year our song was like a Lennon McCartney compared to some of them.

So how to change?

First idea: get rid of the public vote. Go back to the voting panels. And don't allow a country to vote for those on its borders.

Second idea: create two Eurovisions, funded by the countries taking part. One for western Europe, the other for eastern Europe.

Making my mind up to give up Eurovision

This is very sad, very momentous. But after goodness knows how many years, I am giving up the Eurovision Song Contest.

I knew the rot had set in when I didn't bother to watch the two semi-finals this week. Then I heard that the UK entry is 100 to 1 and considered by the bookies to be our worst ever entry. Seeing as we've finished in the bottom three for the last three years, that doesn't bode well. The song is actually OK - not a novelty song - and Andy Abrahams is OK. But unless you're from the FSU or your country ends with "ia" you might as well go home.

It used to be fun, even the political voting. But it's just got worse and worse over recent years and now it's too much of a choker to contemplate, seeing buffoons in pirate costumes or people who should only be singing at karaoke bars, and then seeing the countries that fund the wretched thing ending up at the bottom.

So tonight I will be watching a film and a long standing tradition dies.

Make time to smell the roses

This is the time of year when gardens and hedgerows look their best. Even along the M25 I marvelled at the lushness of the elderflower and the profusion of white frothy flowers on the cow parsley.
In my beloved rose garden, the roses have burst into flower. I have two types, both pink and both David Austin English roses: Gertrude Jekhyll (pictured), a deep pink that's both hardy and highly scented, and Sceptered Isle, paler pink cup shaped blooms. Both are inclined to be climbers so they get a bit leggy as summer progresses. At this time of year, they're in fine form with no pesky diseases. Although I must say this year I am eschewing sprays which are friendly to ladybirds etc in favour of chemical warfare, to try to prevent a recurrence of last year's black fly.

My love of roses came from my dad, Stamps. I was only about seven when, in driving rain, he painstakingly cut out a circular flower bed in the front lawn. For many years it was filled with roses. I remember going by in a coach on a Sunday school outing and Mrs Newnham remarking on the garden with the roses. I told her proudly it was mine.
Stamps loved Ena Harkness, a deep red, highly scented, which is quite disease prone and has a bad habit, so it's not a rose many plant nowadays. That one sprawled over the back fence. It wasn't a very profuse bloomer: literally one magnificent flush and that was that, whereas my Austin roses start in April or May and happily perform until October. He also loved Wendy Cussons, a pink. I remember the arrival of Superstar, a new genre of highly coloured, highly perfumed hybrid tea roses. Shockingly vermillion, my mum thought it was a bit loud. Meanwhile she and Stamps both had an irrational dislike for Iceberg, which I thought was a shame so I used to put my egg shells around it.
My grandma loved Peace and not surprisingly this was the rose that we insisted on at the garden of remembrance, although it never really flourished.

Shrill Sara gets the boot

The Apprentice, Week Eight

Apart from her beauty it was hard to see what Sara Dhada had in the way of skills to contribute to Sir Alan's empire. Her voice was her worst feature: sometimes shrill, generally monotonous. She always seemed to be on the defensive, and when she did try to sell, she came across as hard and aggressive.

So in last night's bridal challenge, Sara was the evictee, although it was difficult to choose between her, leader Helene and the oily Michael. Notice how Sir Alan shrewedly put all the weakest contestants in one team? Alex was there too, and I don't think he's impressing Sir Alan. He's been on the losing side far too often and always seems more interested in covering his own back than anything else. He clearly lacks confidence with all the facial gurning and lip biting that he does.

Helene's team lost the challenge, to sell bridal dresses and a range of accessories at the NEC bridal fayre, by selling mid-priced dresses that looked somewhat downmarket. Ditto the wedding cakes. They sold five dresses but no cakes. Alex did most of the selling and to give him his due, he is a grafter. Helene did nothing apart from flounce around in one or two of the wedding dresses, like Boudica inspecting her flotilla.

Sara and Michael tried to sell the cakes and got increasingly desperate as the day went on.

Meanwhile over at the other booth, Lee was putting his charm to good use by selling "fongs", bikinis and sandalls, and delighting the women of Birmingham by under-guessing their true size; Claire was doing a great job giving nervous brides the right messages about the expensive Ian Stewart bridal gowns, and Lucinda was a beacon of calm, becoming stronger by the task. Only Raef seemed a little out of his comfort zone. But in the boardroom, he readily admitted to having pushed for the top of the range bridal gowns, even though they only sold three and all these at the end of the afternoon. Had the team lost, he would have taken the rap.

Three candidates are now looking very strong to me: Raef, who is a true gentleman with strong ethics and principles; Lee, who combines an outgoing nature and charm with the ability to understand when to challenge and when to follow, and Lucinda, who instinctively knows how to get the best out of people. Claire seems a little more average to me: a good operator but probably limited in her potential.

Gird your loins - it's nearly here!!

The Eurovision Song Contest, live from Belgrade, Serbia, May 24

There's no middle ground as far as the Eurovision is concerned. You either love it or you hate it. Those who hate it look at you as if you're mad. Lighten up, I cry: it's a bit of a laugh! It's irony incarnate. It's kitsch. It's the only thing that unites everyone in Europe (and a few others like Israel).

So what's in store on May 24? And before that, in the two semi-finals? (April 20 and 22).

Well, UK doesn't have to compete in the semi-finals. Thank goodness! Because we'd never make it to the final. Along with Germany, France and Spain we fund it so we get a wild card or a free bus pass or whatever you like to call it.

What I don't understand is why we (the UK) are not allowed to vote in the first semi-final. I had already promised Kurt I would cast a solitary vote for Belgium, and then what happens? Belgium are in the first semi. I can't believe it's because Ireland are in the first semi. I mean, come on!! They never give us all their points and we only give them a few. It's not like the Swedes giving the Danes 12 every time, or Georgia giving Russia 12, or Croatia giving Serbia (need I go on about the nuances of the voting system?). We and the Irish have a bit of dignity and pride!

Anyway, down to the matter of form. This year it's all about the novelty act. There are several! Ireland has Dustin the turkey, a puppet singing "Irelande douze pointe". Clearly the Irish invested a lot in the lyrics. We're talking Lennon McCartney in their prime:
Hello Abba, hello Bono, hello Helsinki,
Hola Prague, hello sailor, c’est la vie,
Auf wiedersehen, mamma mia and God save the Queen
G’day Austria, bonjour Serbia, you know what I mean

Other novelty acts include Latvia with Pirates of the Sea singing Wolves of the Sea (I think there may be a theme going on here), and Croatia, fielding an elderly gentleman doing some rapping.

As for "Royaume Uni" (that's us), we have no chance whatsoever. We never do these days, with the Baltic bloc vote, but the trouble is this year we have a fairly decent song and a fairly decent singer, but it's all a bit...well, fairly decent and average. Not a nil pointe but it won't be giving Terry Wogan palpitations either.

The official Eurovision site, by the way, is worth checking out...not only can you see each participant and hear their song, you can see the lyrics too!

Stay tooned to this blog - there's more to come I'm afraid.

A most condescending article

Most journalism is fairly run of the mill. Now and then, an article strikes a chord and becomes memorable to me, either because of the subject matter or because of the way it was written.

Yesterday's Sunday Times had an article by Lesley White about John Prescott and his wife Pauline which was memorable because of the latter. It was extremely patronisng and condescending.

White clearly went to the interview with preconceived notions about the couple. She was snooty and sniffy about their house and its location, and some of their interests and habits: Pauline's love of champagne and handbags and her tidiness. You would think she had been confronted with Hyacinth Bouquet herself. Maybe Lesley White comes from "old money" where tidiness and cleanliness (and children) have a very low priority compared to dogs and muddy boots; a world where working class people know their place and don't attempt to better themselves. There wss a touch of ire about her tone that suggested she was aggrieved the Prescotts had done so well considering he failed his 11 plus. I am amazed people still talk about such things.

By the end of the interview, White had grudgingly grown to respect Pauline who seems a towering figure of strength. But her description of bone china cups, highly polished photo frames and cucumber sandwiches will live on in my memory.

I still carry with me the disbelief I felt, many years ago, when I read an interview between Jilly Cooper and Robert Redford. To me at that age, Cooper was ordinary with a desperately old-fashioned hairstyle (which she still has) and gappy teeth. I couldn't believe my eyes when she angled the whole article around the fact that Redford had not found her attractive, and he hadn't done much for her either. I remember saying to my mum, "does she seriously think he would fancy her?"

I also remember an article in She magazine at the time when the film Shirley Valentine was getting the sort of attention that Sex and the City gets now. The writer was excited about meeting Pauline Collins, who played Shirley Valentine, and hoping she would be similar in character. Instead, I remember the writer saying how bitterly disappointed she was when Collins was snippy and rude, quick to brush aside any suggestion that she was like Shirley.

The power of the written word is one reason why printed publications will never go away, in my view.

Selfish Profiteering

It's summer and the snakes in the grass are out in force. Three of them: Cherie Blair, John Prescott and Lord Levy.

They've all published their tedious autobiographies which have one thing in common: let's have a go at the prime minister, Gordon Brown.

I can't think what good is served by the odious trio and their selfish profiteering. Cherie must be the only PM's wife to ever write her account of "what happened". Presumably her motives are twofold: pay for the monstrosity of a house they have just bought, and try to restore Tony's reputation so that history doesn't only remember him as one of two idiots who took us to an unnecessary war.

It's less clear to me what the motives of Prescott the bulimic and Lord Levy are. As they glory in their cheques from the newspaper serialisations, perhaps they should muse over their cornflakes on the opinion polls and the recent savaging in the local government elections, and wonder how much of a negative impact their books are having on their own party. So much for loyalty, eh?

The Jennys are out

The Apprentice UK, week 7

Two departures from The Apprentice this week, which added an extra bit of zing to the Moroccan flavour.

The two Jennys, "Europe's best salesperson," Jennifer Maguire and redhead Jenny Celerier were sent on their way by Sir Alan. Not a minute too soon either. I had had quite enough of Jenny C's relentlessly clashing colours. Pink with red hair simply does not go, dear! And I felt she should have gone last week after the eco card disaster.

Last night though Jenny C really showed herself in her true colours (not just pink), and she more or less admitted in the subsequent Adrian Chiles' programme that she did change her story as dynamics changed in the boardroom.

She emerged as manipulative and keen to win at any cost, no matter how much it cost in terms of integrity or respect. Jennifer, on the other hand, simply lost the task because she lost the plot, not because of any Machiavellian tactics or inherent evil.

The two teams were sent to Morocco and given a very specific list of items to buy. Jennifer's mistake was rushing off to the soukh without any planning; probably not realising the size of the thing and how it's structured. She didn't pay any attention to detail, and failed to utilise pushy Claire, who seems strong in this regard.

Lee's team did do some planning - they knew where the Jewish quarter was for buying the kosher chicken, which was key to the whole thing - and it was good to see victimised Sara and Lucinda performing well, even though Lee kept them under a tight leash.

It was a chicken and a tagine that cost Jennifer's team dear. Jenny and the dreadful Michael ("good Jewish boy," who doesn't know what kosher means) bought their chicken from a Muslim butcher with some ridiculous nonsense about the butcher blessing it. Meanwhile Alex, whose constant gurning is driving me nuts, bought any old tagine instead of the branded one Sir Alan had specified. The team had to rush around looking for a green mosque alarm clock after Jennifer bought a white one by mistake.

In the boardroom Jenny C tried to stitch everyone up to save her skin but Sir Alan is shrewd enough to see through this in an instant. She will never forget her 35th birthday!

Jennifer's departure was then a foregone conclusion because she spent the whole task running around like a headless chicken. She looked very scary in the boardroom with her acid yellow top and bright red lipstick. Somehow she and Jenny played the whole series like a throwback to the 80s where it was assumed that women had to act aggressively to get on: to cheat, sneak, plot and boast.


I'm confident enough now to make a prediction for the final three: Lee, Claire (she got a "love" from Sir Alan yesterday) and Raef. What do you think?

Matt Lucas Lookalike bows out of The Apprentice

Feisty little bank manager Kevin Shaw was given the boot this week after telling Clinton Cards' buyer that he was as bad as George Bush if he didn't embrace his team's flawed concept of environmental greetings cards.

The teams had to devise a card opportunity and pitch it to three card companies. Both came up with a fairly lame solution: the dreadful Michael was pushing a Singles' Day card, and Matt Lucas lookalike Kevin the green card.

I actually think a Singles' Day card would be a neat idea, but not on Feb 13th when all the card retailers are rubbing their hands in glee and preparing to fleece us for Valentine's Day.

Kevin and team got rail roaded into the environmental idea by the pushy and charmless Jenny, even though, as she told a card buyer in one of the pitches, she has cut down on the number of cards she buys "for environmental reasons."
It was very strange that Jenny didn't end up in the boardroom, seeing as it was her daft idea that lost them the task anyway. Somehow they all turned on the quiet member of the team, Sara, although I distinctly remember her suggesting an Ide card, and that would have been a far better idea. I have looked for Diwhali cards, for example, and there are very few. Eastern European opportunities for cards must be significant.

Sara managed to survive but her days look numbered, particularly as the boys seem to be ganging up on her. I was warming towards Lee, a straight talker who was showing some promise, (and has played a blinder in so far being invisible in all the tasks) but then he started bullying Sara at the end of the programme. I even warmed towards Raef who defended her. What a gentleman.

Michael did not impress me in the least. There were two incidents that made me dislike him intensely. In the boardroom, he became very petulant, like a spoilt child, when chastised by Sir Alan. It was almost as if he was back in the nursery and had forgotten who was talking to him. Then, when he heard his team had won, he started yelping aggressively like a football hooligan. Most inappropriate. Margaret's face was a picture.

I think Sir Alan has warmed to Claire, who has improved leaps and bounds since her dressing down a fortnight ago. Having been leader for two tasks, she must be in a strong position now unless she messes up.

Street dentistry

It seems the latest craze of reality TV, in which the hapless public is the star, is programmes like Embarrassing Illnesses and Street Doctors. Having switched off Embarrassing Illnesses after about 5 minutes, when I realised that people who weren't going to their GP were instead being goaded into stripping off in front of millions of viewers, I was channel hopping today when I was gobsmacked to see another version on BBC1, Street Doctors.

We'll obviously see lots more in this genre so here's a suggestion for the programme-makers. Street Dentists. With the chronic shortage of NHS dentists, I imagine they would be queuing round the block for free dentistry, and what a spectacle it might make. Back to medieval times with crowds milling to watch extractions (thrillingly done without anaesthetic!).

If this turns up on Five in the next few months, I'll direct them here so I can claim my royalties.

Who cares about the Rich List?

The Sunday Times posted its much publicised Rich List again today. Goodness it comes round fast. Bits of info had been leaking for weeks. Sir Paul McCartney is really worth £100 million more than the court was told. Outrageous! (Not). Personally I am very sceptical about these so-called rich lists because part of the secret of success of...er...the rich...is that they squirrel their money away offshore and in investments, and I doubt if even Philip Beresford can get to the true bottom, so to speak, of Sir Paul's fortune.

Does anyone find this old tosh interesting? They somehow concocted a story for the main paper along the lines of "the rich get richer under Labour." Your point is? It does seem odd perhaps but the Labour Party of today bears no relation to the Labour Party of 20 years ago.

It would be far more relevant, and jolting, to see the Poor List. Shock the complacent Sunday Times readers to the core by showing how a lot of people are forced to live on a pittance.