Strictly Come Dancing line-up

It's a true harbinger of autumn along with conkers and Christmas cards appearing in the shops: the announcement of the Strictly Come Dancing line-up.

For the benefit of my US visitors, this is the show that led to all the other SCD versions across the globe and "Dancing with the Stars" in America. It's really big in the UK and has single handedly rescued the career of Bruce Forsyth (who really should be knighted soon, Queen, if you're reading).

So here's my assessment of the line-up announced today and their ideal partner (my selections):
"Bubbly Birds"
Rachel Stevens -- bit of a has-been now and looking to rejuvenate her career. Brown hair in the BBC picture. Makes her look a bit ordinary. Partnered with Anton du Beke because he always gets an old bird with no chance of winning.
Jodie Kodd - looking to revitalise her career after an alleged drugs scandal. Tall skinny ex-model. She'll have to have the lovely Ian Waite because she's so tall.
Heather Small - I remember an amazing voice - "Proud." Maybe Matthew Cutler.

Older Birds
There's always one or two from EastEnders. This time there are two, Jessie Wallace and Gillian Taylforth. For Jessie I would say Vincent and for Gillian, tee hee, the awful Brendan.
Lisa Snowden who went out with George Clooney and makes a clown of herself on Britain's Next Top Model. (She would expect to be in Bubbly Birds category. I'll pair her with Darren Bennett.)

Older Blokes
Chef Gary Rhodes will no doubt be showing off his muscles (I've written about him before, and it wasn't flattering). For him, Karen Hardy.
John Sergeant, 64, is my tip for the first exit. I thought he was fabulous when he stood in on Have I Got News For You? Maybe the lovely Flavia?
Don Warrington with the rich honied tones (ex Rising Damp). Partnered with Erin Boag.

Sports people
The boring and hugely competitive inevitable sportspeople are: Mark Foster, the swimmer who carried our Olympic flag (no medals though) and a rugby player called Austin Healey. For Mark I would recommend Camilla Dallerup and for Austin, Nicole Cutler.

Miscellaneous
The obligatory GMTV presenter is Andrew Castle, the ex tennis player, who will no doubt be ferociously competitive and wanting to do better than Fiona Phillips and Kate Garraway. And that won't be hard, will it? I was hoping for LK.
Some woman from The One Show, Christine Bleakley.
Tom Chambers from Holby City. Don't watch it now (not since Mr Mayer left) so don't know who he is, but would suspect he must be the obligatory young stud muffin when you look at the rest of the men!
For these three, I would recommend the three new professional dancers (wonder who's not taking part this year?).

The obesity epidemic

The Conservatives today said they wouldn't inflict a "nanny state" by intervening to stop the obesity epidemic. This sparked an interesting debate on the Jeremy Vine show, which normally I avoid like the plague. Anne Diamond, the former broadcaster who had her stomach stapled or a gastric band or whatever, is now some sort of obesity spokeswoman, and she sparked off some new thinking for me by highlighting that obesity is also a major problem in countries like Australia and Japan.

Previously I had blamed the obesity problem on previous governments selling off school playing fields; on schools stopping domestic science, so that nobody knows how to cook nowadays, and the fact that nasty old junk food is actually addictive, as proven in "Supersize Me" where the guy's mouth would start salivating every time he went near MacDonald's.

There's obviously some wider social issues at play and it's gratifying to know it's not just Britain that is becoming a nation of lardasses.

Predictably, several listeners rang up to say that fat people should simply eat less, but when food is used as an emotional crutch, it's much harder to say no. I speak from experience as I used to be a bit of a lardass myself but in the last four years have more or less eaten sensibly and exercised. Occasionally half a stone creeps back on, because food is damned enjoyable and I enjoy eating my way round the nation's restaurants, but then I have to rein myself in and go back on the Gillian McKeith regime.

The Hall Marks - a new type of award!

You may have heard of the Blackwell awards where some unknown American lambasts celebrities for their frock horrors each year.

Well, I'm now launching the Hall Mark Awards, a list of people I find interesting - and a list of people I would avoid like the plague.

I can see this becoming a big property on Living TV and I'm quite happy to be styled and loaned some rocks and Manolos.

So without further ado, here is my list of The Most Interesting. I wouldn't invite them to a dinner party at the same time because there would be too much competitive preening and bitching. But on a one-to-one basis, I'd quite happily share my picnic with any of these.
In no particular order:

1) Carol McGiffin: the mouthy one on Loose Women and ex-wife of Chris Evans (see entry 9). We seem to share the same robust views on a number of topics and both belong to the "get a grip" school of, well, getting a grip.
2) Jane McDonald: hmmm there's a Loose Women thread developing here. And do you know, I am actually seeing Lady Jane in Torquay soon with my mum! Love her deadpan northern humour.
3) Sarah and Gordon Brown: I would much prefer to have dinner with the Browns than dinner with the Camerons (see my Really Boring List). I imagine dinner would be simple and unpretentious, Gordon is probably very erudite and well read, and they wouldn't subject their guests to a lot of emperor's new clothes type nonsense.
4) Russell Brand: to start with, I thought he was a mouthy big haired loon, but I now "get" him. Love his word play and cruel personality.
5) AA Gill (Sunday Times critic). Another one with an interesting way with words. His nemesis Giles Coren is on my other list.

6) Jerry Hall: a woman ageing gracefully without using botox or other nasties.
7) Dame Vivienne Westwood: complete class act and as mad as a hatter.
8) Dame Helen Mirren (a dame thread is now developing). For showing what a 62 year old can look like, without making us feel bad about it (see other list entry #10, Madonna).
9) Chris Evans: I didn't use to like him but I get so affronted when he's on holiday and we're lumbered with Richard what's his name (Allison?) that I won't listen.
10) Cynthia Nixon: my favourite from Sex & The City.

The Hall Mark List of Really Boring Tedious People
1) The Camerons: achingly "trendy" Boden clad smoothies who no doubtdrone on about the provenance of their food, which schools are the best, which cars are the most fuel efficient and how they're listening to the Ting Tings (when really they're listening to Shirley Bassey).
2) Gordon Ramsay: so over!
3) Sienna Miller: file under "slapper"
4) June Sarpong: smug

5) Mylene Klass: smug and ubiquitous. Someone stop her from appearing in everything on TV! Fully expecting to see her looming up in Strictly Come Dancing and Countdown.
6) Kate Spicer: hang dog looking journalist and alpha woman, always moaning on about eating disorders and hating fat people (needs to see a shrink if you ask me)

7) Giles Coren: as we saw from "Super size", the man has had a personality bypass. All he seemed to do was frantically chew whatever it was he was given, testicles etc.
8) Jennifer Aniston: needy.
9) Angelina Jolie: pious and smug.
10 Madonna: I admire her for showing that 50 year old women do not become invisible. But she's so controlling and disciplined I long for the couch just thinking about her.

It's not rocket science

Apparently the authorities in Zakynthos and Malia (Crete) are in an uproar about the behaviour of drunken, promiscuous and aggressive young British tourists. Even the British ambassador has been called over to account for himself ("Good lord!").

I'd like to offer some free advice to the Greeks.

If you want to appeal to families and stop the rot of marauding teenagers and 20- somethings, then get your bar owners and restrauteurs to a) close at midnight and b) stop serving cheap alcohol in gold fish bowls.

Simple.

That's what they did in Ayia Napa, Cyprus, and the place is now largely cleansed of these appalling people.

I don't blame the kids themselves. After after working the longest hours in Europe, eating the worst diet and getting no exercise, it's not surprising they feel like letting off steam. The problem is the avaricious bar and restaurant owners who can retire for the winter after a good summer intoxicating the youths of Britain. Close the bars early and hike up the price of alcohol and you'll soon see those parasites, the likes of Club 18-30, seeking a new destination to spoil.

Tears for Paula

I doubt if there was a dry eye in the land as the nation awoke to discover that Paula Radcliffe had another disasterous marathon at the Olympics. Paula was very brave to finish and actually came 23rd so not a terrible performance. Brendan Foster seemed to be suggesting that maybe she shouldn't have run at all, knowing that she wasn't fully prepared for the race. It was very sad nonetheless to see such a great runner failing to add an Olympic medal to her tally of trophies.

This Olympics seems to have been more of a tear jerker than it normally is. Somehow you don't feel like crying for Michael Phelps as he ruthlessly snatches yet another victory, like some sort of automaton. But it's very emotional when the old British flag goes up, particularly when, yesterday, Brits in the velodrome actually started singing the words.

We have done very well this time. People will always sigh about our medal performance but if you compare us to nations with the same size population (eg Turkey, Spain, Poland) we're streets ahead. It all augers well for 2012.

Now, onto 2012. I'm fed up with all the moaning about "we won't be able to top the Chinese opening ceremony." Tosh! Few other countries have the heritage, history and cultural diversity that we enjoy. I'm sure we can pull off an amazingly colourful and entertaining opening ceremony. It doesn't have to have all the hugely expensive computer generated trickery or perfect looking people. I see it including Scottish pipers, Welsh male voice choirs, Irish dancing, ballet, ballroom dancing, scenes from Shakespeare and Dickens....and ending with "All you need is love" performed by Paul & Ringo with the sons of George and John. How about that!

All I hope is that we throw enough money at the 2012 Olympics to make it work like a dream and run like clockwork. I don't want any meltdowns or issues with public transport. We don't want another Terminal 5 type debacle. If we run the Olympics like we run the royal pageants, it should be flawless. Can't wait!

Some random thoughts and not a lorry in sight

Britain's answer to Paris Hilton, Peaches Geldof, has just embarked on her first marriage. I say "first" because I know with doom laden certainty that this sudden Las Vegas coupling isn't for keeps. It seems to be some sort of promotional push for her new husband's band. Ironic, seeing as in an interview recently in one of the "quality" papers she lamented the way she is always being compared to her mother. This after she was rushed to hospital after an alleged drugs overdose.

It seems Peaches cannot exist without the oxygen of press coverage, mostly negative. She seems doomed to travel on the roller coaster of Z list celebritydom and to live out one failed marriage after the next.

Wrong? Hope she proves me wrong. But somehow I doubt it.

Meanwhile the city where I was born, Plymouth, has been in a lather of excitement thanks to 14 year old sychronised diver Tom Daley. (My brother Robert was apoplectic at the Radio Times crediting Portsmouth for this prodigy - a most unfortunate error, given that bloody Portsmouth has been preferred over Devonport and the dockyard there is now doomed to closure).
Unusually for a 14 year old, Tom is confident and lucid, and quickly became over-hyped by the press both in the UK and in China. The fact that his 26 year old diving partner then criticised him when they came bottom didn't surprise me in the least. The poor guy was barely mentioned in the run-up to the Olympics, even though it takes two to do synchronised diving. He was bound to be secretly seething, and by the next Olympics will probably be over the hill.

Let's hope Tom comes good in the individual diving event near the end of the Olympics. Otherwise four words "Eddie The Eagle Edwards" spring to mind.

Picnic Panic

One of the hazards of a UK summer is that you're doomed to being cautiously optimistic, but then having your hopes dashed. If only we could rely on constantly good weather, like we had a couple of years ago!

As I write, it's raining, and I'm hoping that tomorrow will be one of those rare perfect sunny days, as we're off to the Innocent village fete at Regent's Park. It sounds right up my street - I love fetes, but nowadays they're mostly glorified car boot sales.

My mum always has great expectations for Christmas but for me it's all about halycon summers. I'm always living in hope of wonderful picnics, BBQs and garden parties with those little lantern fairy lights threaded on trees. I want tartan picnic rugs, I want chilled Pimms, I want little savoury eggs, lots of laughter and no wasps.

What I invariably get is "light showers" (necessitating umbrellas and unflattering plastic capes as well as the cool box and sun cream), gloomy companions and a sense of "we've had the picnic, can we go now?"

When I was a kid I don't recall many picnics, except for the packed lunches we'd have at Tinside pool. There was always greaseproof paper and a hard boiled egg, and if Grandma was around, a wet flannel (she was ahead of her times, predicting the rise of the Wet Wipe).

What we did do, nearly every Sunday, was go out for a drive after the roast. My dad Stamps was a somewhat irascible character at the best of times and on many occasions he would drive us angrily to somewhere like Tavistock and then say "I've brought you here so enjoy yourselves." Once he got so mad on the way to Newquay (before the Indian Queens bypass) that when we got there, he decided we would go straight home.

But the funniest thing about those trips was the car coats. Do you remember them? What a strange concept - funny anorak type coats that were sold to wear in the car!

I can still picture my nose pressed against the glass of our saluki bronze Cortina, wearing my green car coat, and hoping for laughter and savoury eggs at Tavistock or wherever it was we were headed.

Barry George freed

I wrote a few months ago about the miscarriage of justice that resulted in Barry George languishing in prison for the murder of Jill Dando, a former colleague of mine, whom I did not believe he was capable of killing.

Today he was freed.

Embarrassing for the police who now have to reopen the case. I can't help thinking it's all too convenient for the police to accuse people like Barry George, Stefan Kiszko and Derek Bentley who are easy targets. In a high profile case like Jill's, a decisive result was needed fast. The local "nutter" who idolised several TV celebrities was an ideal candidate. He probably caved in very quickly under questioning because his grasp of reality is apparently very limited.

Goodness knows what his defence case was like in the case that sent him to prison because anyone could blast a thousand holes in it. His "army experience" was a couple of days in the TA (they got rid of him). The evidence against him was purely circumstantial.

He's spent eight years in jail but he's of the lucky ones. Derek Bentley was hanged, (later given a posthumous pardon) Stefan Kiszko was freed after 16 years and died a year later aged 44.

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.