The Apprentice: Week Six

[SPOILER ALERT! Blah blah blah . . .]

At last. She's gone. It was a close-run thing, in that it wasn't clear until the final weigh-in which team had made the most commission selling used cars in Slough, and I had money, as it were, on Sharon's shambolic team being kept behind. But thanks to shifting more Ribena-proof upholstery treatments, they pipped Ansell's team by over a hundred quid and were sent down the Thames on a casino boat to stuff their faces and have a steaming, stand-up row over something Syed said to Michelle about what Paul had said about Sharon, I think. Meanwhile, Ansell dragged Jo and Samuel back in so that the world could breathe a huge sigh of relief that's been building up like gas these past six weeks. Ding dong! Jo is dead! ("I'll stay a good person," she blubbed, inevitably, in the cab home, deluded to the end.)

We saw some sights along the way tonight. Ruth pulling one out of the hat and doing what can only be described as a damn good job. Syed getting a "bollocking", which he called a "consultation" (remember that one) for what can only be described as lying to a customer while qualifying a potential sale. His family are originally from Bangladesh, by the way, and he worked his way up from nothing, you know. Jo "taking it on the chin" for leaving the word "SOLD" scrawled across the windscreen of a car that was "ACTUALLY NOT SOLD" for four hours. Seeing her actually chasing customers away with her brand of Coventry-accented hysteria. Sharon, the spiritual sackee, who knew nothing about cars, or, apparently, about when and when not to call someone away for an important meeting ie. when he's actually seconds away from closing a deal.

Jo deserved to go. We have seen enough of that vacant, toothy, corpse-like grin, and heard enough of her yapping about being too much "competition" for the rest. Ruth has redeemed herself. Paul is sliding down in my estimation: too much testosterone, too much self-belief ("I will be the best"). Sir Alan was on top form, speaking sarcastically of the "Jo Fan Club" and, with regards to the MG Rover part of her CV, muttering, "No wonder they went bloody skint."

The English language continued to take a pasting, with Michelle using the phrase, "As if magic," and Jo storming in with, "Absolutely good."

I'm fired up.



Previous reviews:
Week One
Week Two
Week Three
Week Four
Week Five

Finished!



Worth noting, I think, that I actually finished reading a book last night. In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. It was gripping and inspiring and so evocative that when I saw Capote I felt I'd been inside the Clutter house where the col-blooded murders took place. The attention to detail is now commonplace but must have felt like a whirlwind in the early 60s when it was first published.


That leaves the following books half-read:




Manhood by Australian psychologist Steve Biddulph has now moved up to be my default train read. It's about the crisis in masculinity caused by decades of feminist progress. Biddulph rightly celebrates the reversal of patriarchal society and the emancipation of women, but asks us to spare a thought for the bloke, especially post-New Man. He is, according to this book, a worthless shell, reduced to sperm donor by the advances of female sexuality and made to feel a "creep" thanks to the low, pornographic nature of the mass media. Also, deficient fathering, caused by a crisis in confidence after the pre-war industrial model collapsed, has resulted in generations of boys with no self-respect or direction, reduced to posturing and violence. He certainly doesn't excuse these actions, but he at least tries to mend the cracks by encouraging men to talk to their fathers, to appreciate that women are not always right, to address the thorny issues of lust and arousal and identify what's causing them, and so on. It's a page-turner. It was reading Oliver James' They Fuck You Up that led me down this road. I've never been that big on psychology before, but I'm being sucked in.



Guns, Germs And Steel by Jared Diamond was a recommendation Steve Punt made to me at Christmas. He sold it well. It's a thick one, but then it is a history of humankind, with particular reference to why certain societies developed at different speeds to others, putting the Europeans in a position to go and exploit South America, Africa etc.






Big Pharma by Jacky Law promised much, but isn't delivering. It's a fascinating area - how the pharmaceutical companies are making us all ill - and it appeals to the health conspiracy theorist in me, but this book needs such a major edit. It's bitty and all over the place; it lacks a through-line. The sentiment and the research are there, but it's not gripping me, and it should be, which is why it keeps getting pushed to the bottom of the pile.



Hitler by Ian Kershaw. Let's just say I'm always reading this. I haven't dipped in for a while, and I feel disloyal about that, as I've loved it so far, but I will return. (I managed Simon Sebag-Montifiore's Stalin: The Court Of The Red Tsar in one go.)

Him and his mum
A word about Tony Robinson's brave documentary Me and My Mum on Channel 4 on Monday, which we watched last night. It's part of the channel's The Trouble With Old People season, the sort of thing they do well, and, as ever, the "money shot" (and I call it this with heavy irony), where Tony cries and puts his hand up to the camera to stop filming, was repeated endelessly in trails leading up to transmission. It's clear, to the media-literate among us, that a programme isn't going to get better than this. And indeed, this was the most overtly emotional moment, but the film itself offered so much more than the spectacle of the bloke off of Time Team blubbing. He set out to make a documentary about our disgraceful treatment of old people in this country, both politically and personally (the government grant for those that look after their own elderly or ailing parents is minimal compared to, say, that of a foster parent, and with the ongoing pensions crisis, it's clear that no provision is being made for the future, despite longer life expectancy), but of course it ended up being "about love", as the director said off-camera.

Tony's mum, 89-year-old Phyllis, was in a care home, on the road to dementia but still strikingly lit up by her only son's presence and able to communicate sporadically. It was hard to watch her being lifted in and out of his car for what turned out to be her last day out - she clearly hated it, although whether it was the pain in her old bones or the fuss and indignity we can never know. Tony was conflicted about the situation. He felt guilty for doing what so many of us do: putting a parent in a home. However, his grown-up kids from his first marriage were obviously really cool with their gran and made visits themselves. (Indeed it was Tony's daughter's loving relationship with "Phyll" that broke him up for that shot.) When she developed pneumonia, wiping out her means of speaking, and Tony was advised to let her "slip away", it felt intrusive to see the family around her bedside as she died, but at the same time, it was a worthwhile spectacle to hammer home the programme's points. I had been slightly uncomfortable during the film by how many times the old people in question were spoken about as if they were not in the room. Obviously, they couldn't communicate verbally themselves, but it just felt disrespectful to talk about them while they were still there.

In the end, it was an admirable piece of television. Robinson was a warm host, really genuine with the other elderly folk he met, comforting the wife of 84-year-old John, who, after a fall, was confined to hospital, confused. He was much more communicative than Phyll, however, and asked really pertinent questions of his loving twin daughters as they lied to him ("When you're better, you're coming home"). They moved him to a nursing home and within ten days . . . he was dead. This was the actual "money shot" - the door closing on John's room, the echo of empty promises, the memory of his last question, "This isn't permanent is it?"

How can we stand by and watch our own parents and relatives end up in these waiting rooms? Home care should be subsidised for those that can't afford it. It happens to us all. Even the woman who ran Phyll's care home kept half-joking about "taking the pills" when her time came. It's not just about money, it's also about attitude. Look at the old people playing indoor bowls in Sutton in their blazers. Active, socialised, likely to live longer, happier lives. We must not abandon our parents in old age. It's up to us to keep our families together, I think, to encourage them to go on living, not hide them away, or forget about them.

I fear for Tony Robinson. Both parents died of forms of Alzheimer's. He's 59. I hope he's getting enough fish oils.

The people have spoken




Here's a cautionary tale. Last night we decided to eat out. The best Indian restaurant in South London* is currently being refurbished so we cast our net wider and I found one on a London restaurants website in Putney, with great reviews from customers. A big fan of customer reviews (very useful when booking hotels), I looked the place up on a second website, as a kind of control experiment, and the customer reviews were equally effusive. Here is a sample:

9 out of 10
The best Indian meal I have ever experienced. The originality, presentation and taste of each dish was highly commendable. Well worth a visit! ... The food was fantastic - with real real flavour not just heavily spiced foods ... The ambience and service were first class and I am looking forward already to our next visit. Flavour, soft spices, and lovely atmosphere.

10 out of 10
A real gem of a place ... A very different Indian restaurant ... soft use of spices and a great atmosphere. I do believe this is the future of Indian dining in the UK - fashionable, great music, superb food at very good prices. Do try it!

8 out of 10
The food is as good as I have tried in London ... Best Indian food south of the river!

10 out of 10
The best Indian restaurant in London.

First, it was a Sunday evening, often a slow night for restaurants, but that said, when we arrived at about 7.45pm, "the best Indian restaurant in London" was empty. It was also very bright. Too bright for my taste, but we went in anyway. After all, "flavour, soft spices, and lovely atmosphere." It's a canteen-style set-up (bench seats etc.), again, not to my taste, but it was clean and stylish and the welcome was warm. The food, however, was no more than fine. The papadoms were actually cold and a bit stale-tasting. The chutneys - only three instead of the traditonal four - were in tiny bowls. The main courses were nice, although there was way too much rice in a single portion, and the food was decidedly salty. Four other diners arrived during our stay, which didn't exactly whip up the atmosphere. At one stage, the lights were promisingly dimmed, then un-dimmed, then dimmed again, then un-dimmed, almost as if it were a light show. They ended up pretty much the same. The food came quite quickly, the staff seemed slightly disconnected from the place, as if perhaps they were minding the shop for someone else, but at least the music was loud enough to cover up the lack of merry laughter, clinking glasses and hubbub.

I'm giving it 6 out of 10. I don't know why I'm being so coy as to not name the place. It's a modern Indian canteen-style restaurant that opened last year and is very bright. It's in Putney. I don't want this to be an assassination of the place. It's not. It's a cautionary tale about so-called democratic customer-reviewed websites. How can we trust these people? Who are they? Have they actually tasted all the Indian food in London before they made their judgement? Were they sober when they posted their reviews? ("They", of course, being "us".) It's just a perfectly serviceable Indian that fancies itself a bit. I certainly prefer a more straightforward curry house. And I wish the actual restaurant that serves the "best Indian food south of the river" would hurry up and reopen!

*This is an ironic joke.

I have posted a version of this review on the second website. I hope it at least makes the expectations of future diners more realistic, that's all. Democracy in action. There is a box after the form where you write your review asking if you own or work in the restaurant you are reviewing. All you have to do is tick the box if you do. You don't even have to give a real email address to post a review. You are entirely anonymous. I'm saying nothing.

It's not a scandal. We ate some reasonable Indian food. We came home. We watched The West Wing.

Hello, new studio


Yesterday, after a lazy week off, I pressed START for the very first time, live, in the new 6 Music studio. As you can see from these pictures, it's a vast improvement on the old studio, a studio I loved for four years, but you have to turn and face the strange, and those who fear change will just get left behind. (Actually, I fear change as much as the next person.) Here's the old one, for purposes of comparion:



It was lived in, inevitably, and so dirty it had to be destroyed for health and safety reasons. On most other radio stations they have at least two live studios. At 6 Music, because we are just a little station, we have one, which is a bit like if you only had one towel. It means "handovers" are effected by the previous team getting out and the next team coming in while the last record is playing. This is particularly entertaining after Roundtable and before The Music Week, when a mass two-way exodus takes place. It's never been very graceful. Anyway, that's a lot of teams using the same studio, day in, day out, the only respite being shows from Manchester, repeats and pre-records. As a result, it was pretty grubby: worn carpet, tatty headphones, broken TV, broken webcam, worn faders. I have stated before, and I'll state again, some of the people who work at 6 Music live like students. (I was going to say pigs, but there's nothing wrong with pigs. I'd rather share a workspace with pigs.) The insanitary state of the kitchen in the old Hub - our first point of contact between 6 Music and the outside world, including famous people - was a constant source of amazement to me. These are intelligent adults with jobs at the BBC who are, for some reason, physically incapable of swilling a mug out after use, or throwing out old Marks & Spencer dips before the point at which they start moving about. (No names, no pack drill, as I have no idea who cleaned up after themselves and who expected their mum to come round and do it.) I'm not getting into that now, but the same disregard for basic human decency spread to the studio itself, with mouldy mugs and bits of food and discarded DATs and chewed pens. This is, as the Specials once sang, the dawning of a new-ew-ew-ew era.



I love the new studio. It's clean, it's big, it's ergonomically correct, it has a bigger window looking out on the control room, it has a better webcam, as I hope you can see, and the new playout system is - aside from a few bugs and a badly-conceived "search" - clear and inventive. My first Chart show went without a hitch. I was able to "seg" (segue) idents and trails into tracks without fuss, and the touch-screen jingles are a breeze. I also like the curve of the desk and the vastly adjustable chair. I also have four TVs. It makes you feel like Captain Kirk, which in so many ways you're not. But as Jerry says, "My idea of the perfect living room would be the bridge of the Starship Enterprise: big chair, nice TV, remote control."



As you can see, Leona is much further away, which slightly depersonalises the office gossip, and there is a lot more space hardware between the presenter and the rest of the world, but hey, it's a small price to pay. Ironically, the studio smelt yesterday, because Roundtable and Craig Charles had obviously had a party in there on Friday: the bins were overflowing with beer cans, wine bottles and general shit. Leona had to clear it all away and put it all in a black bin bag and put it outside (obviously something those other intelligent adults were incapable of doing).

By the way, it looks like I am swigging from a bottle of orange in the last pic. I am not. I do not drink orange, as it is believed to aggravate asthma. What it is, in fact, is a bottle of a new drink I have discoverd called Firefly. They call this one "de-tox" (which doesn't really need a hyphen), not something I am impressed by, but the drink is very refreshing: lemon, lime and ginger - it's 66% water, with fruit juices and "botanical extracts". The most important thing is that it comes in a glass bottle, which I can take home and refill with simple, filtered tapwater every day and take back out with me. I am against the bottled water industry. I am also against plastic bottles. Not all technological advance is good.

Oh, and the "coffee-making" station outside the studio has no sink. In many ways, this is infuriating, but at least it will stop people leaving mugs in it for their mums.

Happy Mother's Day
Happy Mother's Day to my mum. Here is a nice picture of her, taken in 1965 on the day of my christening.

The new New Yorker
The new New Yorker arrived, a day early, actually, issue dated March 27, 2006. This is both a joy and a pain, as it is every week. I'll explain. On my 40th birthday last year, Stuart Maconie began a subscription to the weekly journal for me as a gift. I have recently renewed my subscription, having truly had the quality of my intellectual life improved in the interim. I'd obviously always been aware of the New Yorker, I'd even flicked through it a couple of times, but not until it started arriving on my doormat did its true magnificence hit home. It has been a vital part of my reading week ever since, and I daresay always will be.

I quickly became obsessed with it - the insane length and intensity of its features, the old-fashioned language, the sense of history, the abiding interest in the Supreme Court and the White House (in that order), the refreshing, leftist politics, the sheer poetry of Anthony Lane's movie reviews (oh what a disappointment when it turns out on occasion to be David Denby - there ought to be a word to describe that peculiar sense of melancholy), the arch, obtuse, think-about-it nature of the cartoons, the artistry of some of the cover illustrations, the typeface, the dogged refusal to list what's inside the magazine on the cover, the - for me - totally pointless Time Out listings at the front for concerts, restaurants and art exhibitons it would be most inconvenient for me to attend, even the curious, arcane netherworld of the small ads (Orvis Fly-Fishing Adventures; Bensonwood Open-Built Homes; Hoosac Boarding School "since 1889"; The Poke Boat - "it's everything a canoe/kayak isn't", Asiatica, Kansas City, "Timesless clothes for worldly women"; The Retreat at Sheppard Pratt, "psychotherapeutic mileu" etc.). I bought every book about the New Yorker I could get my hands on, personal accounts of working there since it was launched in 1923 from the likes of Brendan Gill and James Thurber, Peter Arno anthologies, even back issues from eBay, including some elegant bound volumes from the 70s. In short, I gave my life to the New Yorker. Not bad for someone with deeply-grained anti-American prejudice. (Hey, I pick and choose which bits of America I'm anti.)

Here's the rub: I cannot physically finish an issue before the next one arrives. I tend to keep them in the toilet, and, as I've explained, the Seinfeld book has dominated these past few weeks, which has put the magazine in second place, albeit with a certain symmetry, as it's New York either way. So the new issue (pictured) has arrived. I've started reading it - Anthony Lane, a piece about Bill O'Reilly (his "baroque period", apparently) - and that means last week's will have to go "on the pile". The final score, then, for issue dated March 20, 2006:

Read
The Talk Of The Town(front section, smaller pieces): Chilling (about climate change), Glass's Master Class (about a Philip Glass score to a Samuel Beckett play), Taggers (electronic tags)
The Financial Page: Net Losses (about "tiered access" to the Internet - always read this page, as its writer, James Surowiecki, is such a good communicator)
The Utopians by Ben McGrath (about Playa Grande, a private playground for the boho rich in the Dominican Republic, in which we learned that money manager, environmentalist and Manhattan socialite Boykin Curry and his interior designer girlfriend Celerie Kemble, "have got such startlingly good taste, and not just the kind where it's, like, they know how to put a certain lamp with such and such a textile throw." They sound like wankers, the lot of them, and I was thus compelled to read on, for seven and a bit pages. Moby is an investor)
The Current Cinema (Lane on V For Vendetta, as exquisite as ever: "At this point, a few simple questions need to be asked of [the filmmakers], such as, What in the world are you doing?")
Half-read
To Shop And Drive In L.A. by Patricia Marx (a seven-day retail odyssey on the Other Coast, a nice idea that descended into a list of shop addresses and clothing items . . . "a Balenciaga Jacket, embroidered jeans and a sheer skirt")
Ideas For Paintings by Jack Handey (the obligatory "humor" page, not unfunny, quite surreal)
The Alchemist by John Colapinto (about Tobias Meyer, chief auctioneer and worldwide head of contemporary art at Sotheby's - a tyical New Yorker profile, incredibly detailed and in apparent awe of some guy who does an important job, nine pages long!)
The Raid by Ken Auletta (something about corporate raiders and AOL Time Warner, which I would have finished, had the new issue not arrived!)
Unread
Fiction: Gleason by Louise Erdrich (I never read the fiction - there's too much non-fiction to get through)
Pretty Things by Nick Paumgarten (about Hedi Slimane, a fashion designer, not bothered, although the "weird French bloke" did take pictures of Pete Doherty, whose name caught my eye while skimming. Alan McGee is quoted as saying, "He's not a leech, he's not a user," but that's as far as I got)
Meet The Mets (baseball, not interested)
The Girls Next Door by Joan Acocella (about Playboy, looked interesting, ran out of time)
Mysterious Skin by Paul Goldberger (the Allianz Arena in Munich, an architectural piece)
Ghost's World by Sasha Frere-Jones (the Wu-Tang Clan's Ghostface Killah by the mag's very clued-up rock writer - I will read this)
The Theatre (tend to ignore, as it's the New York theatre, unless it's a play I've heard of or an actor I recognise from the illustrations - Ibsen this week; it seems Cate Blanchett is at the Brooklyn Acadmey of Music in Hedda Gabler, check local press for details)

So, I think you can appreciate my frustration. Such a lot of interesting stuff. So little time. Long may the New Yorker frustrate! Read the best of the new issue for free here

The Apprentice: Week Five

[SPOILER ALERT! Blah blah blah . . .]

The teams, all mixed-up genderwise, had two days to produce a TV ad and a billboard for an as-yet non-existant credit card for Sir Alan's private jet business. This is patently ridiculous - the exec from Saatchi said they'd usually get 12 weeks - but hey, any excuse to see our business bad people making arses of themselves. The team led by Paul, the fattest of the men, thought they were in with a chance as one of them, Sharon, uniquely, knew about advertising. Unfortunately she just taught it. Once. And was - you're ahead of me here - seemingly devoid of any advertising instinct or opinion. The team spent the first five hours not coming up with the concept. At the end of day one, they went back to the house with no concept. Then Paul had an idea in the car: something rubbish to do with a card trick. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up when he announced it. Sharon gave it the green light with her vast ad knowlege. Out of all the ideas they'd had, it was the best. Paul was confident they'd win, as the other team "didn't have the brains".

The other team, led by Ruth, the fattest of the women, had an idea. but it was the wrong one, based on the 14th feature of the card conveyed in what I understand is called a "fact find" (in other words, a meeting) with Sir Alan's softly spoken son, Mini Sir Alan: the concierge service. Ansell was the weakest link as he alone bigged this up. And yet, when all was said and done, he escaped boardroom censure by dint, I think, of being a nice chap. Mani, who certainly claimed always to have been against the concierge idea, is a dickhead, and thus found himself blamed when the writing was on the wall.

Suffice to say, Paul's team won, and, to be fair to the self-satisfied egomaniac, he did a good presentation to the entire, grumpy-looking creative staff of Saatchi - don't forget these people work in a building with NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE carved into the doorstep and have "blue sky labs" with a blue sky painted on the ceiling: they must be hard to impress. Off they were sent to drink champagne out of little bottles at London Fashion Week.

Ruth dragged Jo - out of bitchy spite, as she hadn't done much wrong beyond be all goggly-eyed - and Mani back in to face Sir Alan's Muppet-faced wrath at their shitty film. Ansell snuck away, guiltily, I hope. They were quite the unpleasant trio, with Jo doing her usual indignance, Ruth screwing her face up at any disparaging remark like the character Pig off of Pipkins (no offence), and Mani trying to oil his way out of the firing line. "I'm a world-class presenter," he told the camera. "You've gone from achor to wanker," said Sir Alan, a line he'd obviously been dying to use, the old rogue. After the usual dummying, he fired Mani, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The English language may now move freely, unmolested. (What was he on about when he raised his "60,000 feet point"?) In the cab of death, Mani claiimed he had not yet peaked. On this programme you have, mate.

I can't wait to see the footage of Jo returning to the house next week. Air will be punched. The words, "Get in!" will once again echo round the living room. What a bunch of goons.

Previous reviews:
Week One
Week Two
Week Three
Week Four

Downing Street look upon the recovery of little Alfie as vital to national security
Oh dear. Just for the record, we watched the only ever bad episode of Spooks on DVD last night: series three, episode eight - episode 3.8 as they pretentiously have it - the one where our heroes from MI5 are assigned to the kidnapping of a rock star's baby. It's almost as if it was a Christmas special, played - certainly initially - for cheap laughs, because, hey, it's set in the stupid old world of the music business. Why does drama so seldomly do rock music right? Although the programme never shows any credits, for writers, actors, anybody, in an effort to keep up its secret-service veneer, we watched the featurette about the episode afterwards and discovered that it was written by Howard Brenton, who looks to be in his late fifties, hence the outdated, embarrassing portrayal of a modern rock star, played by Andy Serkis, called Riff, or Sir Riff, as he is seen being knighted at Buckingham Palace in the opening sequence, with his wasted wife, the supermodel Miss B. Did nobody on the production team check to see which rock stars have actually been knighted before launching into this? Riff is supposed to be a British grunge icon from the mid-90s, a borderline alchoholic who looks like Kurt Cobain and whose wife takes coke, openly, in front of MI5. Are these the kind of people who would be knighted? They're clearly supposed to resemble Posh and Becks, in terms of their celebrity-couple status and well-being as a matter of national morale, and yet Posh and Becks would be laid low by a drugs story.

Naturally, when a character offered another one coke, they called it "the finest Bolivian". Does anybody actually say this any more? And if this Riff bloke had sold, as stated, 15 million copies of his last album, why is he living in London in an admittedly large house but one that handily backs onto the street for ease of kidnapping? Surely he'd live in a country estate, or in Ireland? The other area where it fell down was the involvement of the media, and an obvious substitute for Heat magazine, called, ahem, Mega. Arabella Weir played the editor of this magazine, which somehow had an exclusive about MI5's involvement in the "Riff and B" kidnap. This rang rather false. It was as if they wanted her to be a powerful tabloid editor who lunched with spies, but also wanted to cleverly reflect - and satirise - celeb culture, so hedged their bets. Heat don't really do cover stories, as such, they gather together long-lens photos of ladies who are too fat or too thin. Mega was a classic case of a mocked-up magazine.

I'm not going to go on about it. Spooks is one of my favourite dramas on telly - which is why I was so crestfallen by this naff episode. In the interviews on the featurette with the producers and writer, they all sounded very unsure about it, pedalling wildly to convince themselves it was a good idea. It wasn't.

I know Jerry. He's not a Nazi. He's just neat.
OK, Seinfeld update. Due to precise maximisation of time and a day at home yesterday, I managed to do my prescribed amount of sitcom writing (two scenes, one tickle of an existing scene), walk into Reigate for a particular juice from Marks & Spencer (pineapple, peach and passion fruit), a Mother's Day card and a birthday card for my niece, pick up a copy of the Independent because I was in it (see: previous entry), eat a hearty lunch of sausages and soup, exercise and watch a batch of Seinfelds. I call that a very good day. For the record, I finally finished Season Three. (Seasons Four and Five arrived in the post yesterday.) That's:
The Limo
The Good Samaritan
The Parking Space
The Letter
The Keys
Of these five, I laughed out loud the most at The Limo, which took place in a limo, and featured Peter Krause, later of Six Feet Under, as a Nazi. But The Keys caused me to smile the most. I admired The Parking Space, and enjoyed the fact that so much of it was shot outside, in real time, with darkness setting in, but it didn't amuse me as much as the lower-concept episodes. We also treated ourselves to the 15-minute Season Three blooper reel, which was, let me check, ah yes, the funniest thing in the world. Seinfeld, Alexander, Richards and Louis-Dreyfus seem to laugh the whole time while making the show; clearly this can't be the case, and it's the illusion a blooper-reel creates, but as professional comedians and actors, they certainly seem to fill up and brim over with laughter a lot. I love the imaptience of the director's voice, off-camera: "Compose yourselves, guys. We're still rolling." Imagine being cross with the cast of Seinfeld.

Not that I'm obsessed or anything, but I am nearing the end of Sein Language too, which is proving the perfect Toilet Book. I don't usually have a Toilet Book. The toilet is a place to keep up with the New Yorker, whose articles are so long, they take a number of sittings - the one I'm on at the moment about a bunch of bohemians buying up swathes of the Dominican Republic has been open for days. (I prefer the train for a book, you get longer sittings - about half an hour between Redhill and Victoria. Although the new New Statesman usually trumps the book, and I'll read as much of it as I can in a return journey on a Friday or Saturday, then release it to the coffee table for communal use.) The Seinfeld book comes in bite-sized pieces of wit and wisdom, so it's perfect for the toilet. As mentioned, I like to maximise my time. So I'll continue reading the book while I brush my teeth. This involves standing over the book, not over the sink, so I have to make sure I keep all the toothpaste spit inside my mouth, and usually have to break off from reading once to expel. This, I think of as an efficeient use of time. Time and motion. There's nothing to do while you clean your teeth. And the book's just sitting there. I use an electric toothbrush that shuts off after two minutes to tell me when I'm done cleaning. I never read on past the two-minute shut-off. Those are the rules.

I realise this is turning into a Seinfeld routine. That's the effect he has on you. He makes you ponder the mundane. Seinfeld also claims to maximise his time. "When I'm making my bed and I tuck in one side of the sheet, I stay bent over as I walk to tuck in the other side. Why stand up and then bend again? It's a waste of life."

By the way, should you ever need a definitive Seinfeld episode guide, it's here.

Billie-Jo And Me: A Tonight Special
I don't normally bother about Tonight With Trevor McDonald, mostly because it's sensationalist ITN crap, but it just happened to coincide precisely with cooking the dinner last night so I watched it all. I note this morning that it drew an impressive 6.4 million viewers (beating the FA Cup match on the other side, which must have really irked BBC1 after the damp-squib Jean Charles de Menezes Panorama on Black Wednesday a couple of weeks back, which pulled just 2.1 million, thus proving that the murder of an innocent Brazilian on a Tube platform in Stockwell doesn't put bums on seats like the murder of a 13-year-old foster-daughter with a gerbil and a dog in Hastings). Anyway, I found myself morbidly and mundanely fascinated by the interview with Sion Jenkins, 48, who might not be able to spell "Sean", but can clear himself of murder.

Looking like a cross between Jim Davidsdon and sports presenter Rob Curling*, Jenkins might have had enough of being cross-examined, having been on trial three times, but he allowed Sir Trevor to do it one more time. This was his first interview since being cleared of killing Billie-Jo with an iron tent peg, and the interview covered most of the contentious areas: his odd behaviour on discovering her body (he claims, fairly credibly, to have been in shock - who knows how we would react in the same situation? - we might go and sit in the car for a bit like he did), his circuitous route to B&Q, which was held against him as a deliberate attempt to provide an alibi for himself (he claims, less credibly, that he couldn't do a three-point turn and drove round the block, twice, instead) and the allegation that he beat his kids with a stick and his first wife, too (which he flatly denied - it's his word against theirs).

He certainly laid in to the police, for what he sees as tucking him up and failing to notice that he was in shock, and the prosecutors, who used his odd behaviour (going to the DIY store without any money to buy white spirit that he didn't need) to turn him into a murderer. I know that a lot of people think he did it. Until they find out who did (perhaps the suspicious-looking vagrant?), these people are going to carry on believing he did it. Perhaps he did do it. Jenkins, whose Prince Charles-like use of the word "one" can't have endeared him to anyone on the jury, had this to say to Sir Trev (who incidentally has some pretty marked downward creases in his forehead, suggesting gall bladder trouble): "For any man or woman in this country who believes in British justice to now have a situation where the Crown might seek a conviction on hearsay and on bad character issues that bear no relationship at all to what that person is in the dock for, I think is worrying, deeply worrying."

It's a fascinating case, made more fascinating by this interview, so I must thank Tonight for setting it up for me. Nobody explained why Billie-Jo had the name of a country singer.

*Apologies to Rob Curling, who looks like this. You decide.

And to compensate, this is his website - he does training videos and conference hosting. Why not book him and say it's the non-murderer Sion Jenkins. That would pack out the auditorium.

Undead, undead, undead
There's a piece in today's Independent about Goths. There's also one - played for cheap laughs - in the Guardian, and it's no doubt in the other papers too, as it's based on that most vital of newspaper sources: the study. In fact, a media studies doctorate. Hey, it's all news.

To save you the bother of hitting the link and reading the whole thing, here's a precis: Dr Dunja Brill, a 32-year-old German "with her own Gothic tendencies" (it says here), studied Goth subculture for her doctorate in media and cultural studies at Sussex University. She believes Goths were misinterpreted following the 1999 Columbine High School massacre and insists that far from being "a sinister group of social misfits, Goths place a high value on university education and highbrow culture. Parents agonising over their offspring's sudden passion for black clothes and eyeliner should be reassured they are more likely to end up a doctor, architect, social worker or in the creative industries than dropping out."

Dr Brill states, "The Goth lifestyle allows you to lead a perfectly sane, stable lifestyle with a proper job, your own flat and even a family, then at the weekends or in your leisure time follow your Gothic activities. The scene has quite middle-class values - education, highbrow culture, theatre, museums, romantic literature, poetry, philosophy, Gothic architecture. Many Goths like classical music. It's a status symbol to have a good collection of classical pieces - mostly requiems and darker pieces."

Well, I preferred Alien Sex Fiend to classical music, but as a professional ex-Goth (a bit like being a professional Northerner, I suppose), I was contacted by the writer of the Independent piece, Ciar Byrne and she interviewed me over the phone. Hence, my testimony alongside her piece:

'There were never any fights or violence': Andrew Collins, writer and broadcaster
I turned 18 in Northampton in 1983. I was in the sixth form and there was a big style move towards longer hair and looking a bit moody. My look just evolved. The first hair colour I dabbled in was henna and then black. I wore a black coat, black scarf and Dickensian fingerless black gloves. I went to art foundation school [clearly, Ms Byrne misunderstood this - I actually did a foundation course at art school, but she's quoted me with a high degree of accuracy so I won't complain] and started to become more Gothic. I never dared to wear make-up. I don't think anyone did in Northampton. I went round to my friend Kevin's on a Saturday night and we would listen to the Cure and Sisters of Mercy and sculpt our hair in identical fashions. Robert Smith of the Cure was our model. We used to go to wine bars. They would always change as the management realised we were spoiling the view. Bauhaus were Northampton's most famous export and they used to drink in a wine bar in Bridge Street, although we were too cool to look like we recognised them. There were never any fights or violence in the places where we were. We drank blackcurrant and lemonade because it looked good. The flip side was what we called "rugby players", wearing a suit and a smart haircut and white socks and yet they would be rowdy and have fights. Then I went to art school in London and suddenly I was surrounded by people who looked even more ridiculous than me.

Interesting footnote about Goths of today, the little Marilyn Manson fans. "Goth culture still arouses suspicions. On its website, the Parents' American Religious Organizations [sic] Defending Youth, Parody for short, blames Goths for everything from the Columbine massacre to Buffy the Vampire Slayer and South Park. The website asks: "What are the worst dangers that threaten our children today? Satanism? Drugs? Homosexuality? A culture of violence? Heat exhaustion? What if there was a danger that included all of these? That danger is here and its name is GOTH."

*This is a quote attributed to Craig, bassist in our band Absolute Heroes, from an article about us in the Northampton Chronicle & Echo, September 15, 1982. It refers to our sticking-up hair. Here's a picture (I hadn't really "gone Goth" at this stage, but our singer Jo was well on the way):

Sunday
I'd like to thank Mark Lamarr, as he was parachuted in to do my Sunday show for me on 6 Music as part of the BBC's fulsome coverage of the South By Southwest music festival in Austin, Texas, which used to be, well, local, and has now grown into one of the biggest jollies on the media calendar. Radio 2 and 6 Music are well represented there, by presenters and management (Stuart's out there, as is Steve Lamacq), although they have cut down this year (Mark Radcliffe isn't). Anyway, I heard Mark Lamarr "trailing ahead" on Radio 2 on Friday night: in his usual couldn't-care-less way he muttered that he was doing a show "either on Saturday or Sunday" on "Radio 6". Nice work. One BBC etc. All I care about is that I get the day off work!

25 repetitions (or until fatigue)
Wake up at 6am, which is my usual hour. Go defiantly back to sleep. Repeat this process until it is 9am. Rise, well rested, in fact too well rested, to do my exercise, something I don't usually have time to do on a Sunday when I'm working, as I have to get into 6 Music in plenty of time to read the Sunday papers. This is a fitness regime with particular emphasis on the upper body that I began last year, around May, and is taken from the Bodydoctor book, which has good, clear instructions and helpful photos of a man and two different ladies doing it. The blonde lady looks very stern, the dark-haired one looks much more relaxed, the man looks like a Liverpudlian sailor called Barry who my brother and I befriended on holiday in Jersey in the early 80s. This is unimportant, but when you look at the pictures in a book as often as I look at the Bodydoctor they start to play hideous tricks on the brain. For the record, this is my regime. (I'm putting this down more for me than for you, but bear with me.)

12-MINUTE WARM-UP
I do 12 minutes on the treadmill because it takes that long to get properly warmed up when you do it first thing in the morning in winter, before the radiators have had a chance to get to work. I average at 6.5 kmh on a 3% incline, and usually notch up around 1.3km and burn off 65 calories. I never thought there would come a time in my life when I would care about this kind of shit, but I do.
INCLINED CHEST FLIES
I've no idea why they are called this, but the Bodydoctor does not make stuff up. Strengthening the upper and inner chest muscles, these involve lying on a flat bench and raising the dumbbells in an arc-like movement from an outstretched crucifix position to above your chest. First weights exercise of the day: always a shock to the system.
LAT-PULL DOWN
You really need a lat-pull machine for this, which I don't have, but the book shows you how to make do with an exercise ball, which I do have. You sit on it, edge forward, lean forward and pretend you are pulling down a bar to behind your neck. This is achieved by using your imagination and holding an elastic strip between your hands. I don't know what the technical term for this item is. (All of these are 25 repetitions, unless stated otherwise.)
INCLINED DUMBBELL PRESS
Back on the bench, with the seat and back adjusted, extending your arms upwards from a starting position where the dumbbells rest at chest height, palms facing forwards. Easier than the Chest Flies.
STRAIGHT-ARM PULL-OVER
Nothing to to do with wearing a jumper. Same position on bench, with one dumbbell cradled between both hands and allowed to arc behind the head, then straightened up again. Quite easy. A bit distracting when you momentarily glimpse your own puffing reflection in the silver dumbbell as it passes over your head.
SEATED SHOULDER PRESS
This one looks good in the mirror. You notch the bench up so you're in an upright position and raise the dumbbells into the air above your head. It is tinged with melancholy, as the hardest exercise comes next:
SEATED LATERAL RISE
Ooh, this is a killer. For this I swap my 4kg weight for 3kg. That's how hard it is. Another sit-up-straight exercise. Start with your elbows locked at right angles and the dumbbells held out in front, then allow your arms to "float" upwards until they are level with your shoulders. 25 of these and you'll be suffering, even if it does strengthen the shoulders, upper back and backs of the arms. Your reward is the easy one:
SEATED BICEP CURL
Arms at your side; using the arm as a hinge, you bring the weights up level with your shoulders. I don't know why it's easier than the others, but it is. Then, with the home strait in view, you put the bench level again.
TRICEP BENCH DIP
These are just push-ups off the edge of the bench. I've been doing these wrong for about 9 months, but I re-read the instructions and now I'm on it.
PRESS-UP
Trad arr. I can only do 12, or 10 on a day after I've stupidly eaten ice cream and aggravated my asthma.
SIT-UP
These aren't actually in the workout, but they feel like a good way to end the session. If I was good I'd finish on some stretching exercises. If I was good.

What did you have for breakfast?
Breakfast: pink grapefruit, raspberries, strawberries, pumpkin seeds. Bear in mind none of the rest of this ever happens on a Sunday . . . Read the Sunday papers, but at home, at the kitchen table, and only the two newspapers I actually choose to read, the Independent and the Observer. What a rare treat in itself. No skimming. No sticking Post-It notes in. No photocopying the stories for Richard. And no News Of The World or the Mail, which suck the very life out of me on a weekly basis with their idiocy, salaciousness and their panicking.

Having sex with giants
Feet up. Watch a couple of Seinfelds on DVD, namely, from Season Three, The Boyfriend Pts 1 and 2 (one of the great achievements of this series with its JFK parody) and The Fix-Up. I am nearing the end of this season now, so I was reminded to order the next one online. Which I did. I like it when Jerry says, "This is the whole thing," in his opening schtick. It is. He's right. (Incidentally, I am enjoying Sein Language, the book of wit and wisdom Rob and Jessie bought me for my birthday: it's basically Jerry's routines, written down, in bite-size pieces. I particularly liked the bit about suits and pyjamas, but paraphrasing is not going to put across the concise genius.)

The curly kale is off
Pleasant late Sunday lunch at riverside restaurant in Mortlake called The Depot; a panoramic view of the Thames with people in boat race-style boats and Canada Geese, and fabulous, hearty food: carrot and ginger soup, smoked haddock, broccoli with ginger and chilli (to replace the curly kale advertised), rhubarb crumble and custard, pot of peppermint tea.

Wise men
More Sunday papers. Top Of The Pops, great to sit down in front of despite being as dispiriting as ever, not least for the insipid appearance of James Blunt and a terrible new song by Girls Aloud, who can do much better, and Trevor Nelson - bless him - introducing the Secret Machines as "Secret Machine" (I know it's not your kind of thing, Trev, but when your main job is to introduce artists it's good to check their names before you say them out loud). Who are Orson and why are they top of our pops? What a dreadful looking shower in their pork pie hats. What kind of music is it? Where do they come from, and where do they fit in?

Dubai has our ports
This has been such a relaxing, leisurely day, I even found the time to read an essay from yesterday's Guardian, by New Yorker economics correspondent James Surowiecki, about foreign investment and protectionism, which, despite a really nice illustration, turned out to be boring. But how nice to have time to even read the boring stuff from the previous day's paper.

Beltway Arnie
The West Wing continues to grip my soul. Episode two of the final season, The Mommy Project (something to do with the US electorate wanting a "daddy" on national security, but a "mommy" on jobs and healthcare), written by Eli Attie: inevitably dominated by the electoral race between Matt Santos and "Beltway Arnie" Vinick, and friction between the Santos campaign and the White House, beseiged by the NASA leak. A good episode for Josh. A bad one for Leo, who was totally absent, referred to only in terms of his cholesterol levels, which was a worrying omen in the cirumstances. Janeane Garofalo joined the cast as a fast-talking (as opposed to what?) media consultant. Preferable, certainly, to Mary Louise Parker. As usual, I caught and understood about half of what was said, and that thrills me to my bone marrow.

I am always right
Followed by a brand new Poirot on ITV1. I am a sucker for two-hour murder mysteries with an all-star cast, albeit a late convert to Monsieur Poirot. Cards On The Table had a bridge theme, and four explicit suspects, which was quite contained - although I was dummied into thinking it was the Superintendent, just as the writers intended. An interesting cast that included Zoe Wanamaker, Robert Pugh (seriously underused - that's how much these actors must want to appear in a Poirot, the TV equivalent of a Woody Allen), Tristan Gemmill (better known as DI Veal from little known sitcom Grass - always a treat to see the actors from that going on to better things) and Honeysuckle Weeks (forces' favourite from Foyle's War). It's now just gone 11pm and, knackered from exercising and doing nothing, I'm calling it a fantastic day. Not a jot of work done, not a word spoken into a microphone, not a foot stepped onto a train platform. Back to work tomorrow, and I don't even mind.

The Chronicles Of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe
Stage school kids. Jesus allegory. Impressive CGI battle with big swords. Nice beaver. Fun spotting the animals' voices (Ray Winstone, Dawn French, Liam Neeson, Rupert Everett, an uncreditied Michael Madsen - I got four out of five, not correctly naming Everett, and I became convinced that I'd misidentified Ray Winstone at one point and in fact it was Bob Hoskins as the beaver; good job it wasn't an actual test). I remember the book from school, and liking it; as with any other kid, I was captivated by the idea of a magical land round the back of some coats, but I'm not sure this film was really my cup of tea. It's all a bit bloodless, and I mean that literally, and any story where the good guys get turned to stone has a built-in denouement, doesn't it? Tilda Swinton definitely makes a good white witch, although all the costume and hairstyle changes struck me as a bit camp for this earnest type of thing. I also found the recruitment of mythical creatures (Minotaurs, Centaurs, Cyclops, Gryphons etc.) a bit of a steal. Think up some of your own!

Anyway, it didn't convert me to Christianity but it did pass an easy two and a quarter hours as a nice, bright day turned into a cold, dark evening. I had the day off work, and it felt good to be able to watch a big-budget fantasy on DVD at 5.45, because I could.

One-day return to Bath Spa
A very enjoyable diversion today, in the historic City of Bath. I had been called up by BBC Bristol (with whom I have worked twice before, on a Time Shift documentary about the Centrial Office of Information that is due to be shown on BBC4 in two weeks, and a failed pilot for a series called The Times Of Our Lives, which involved a lot of me "walking and talking" as they say in the trade, and being shipped around assorted locations between Oxford and Bristol in search of "real people" and their memories and archives, which will never be shown unless you ask to view my showreel) - this time to present a short film about the BBC1 drama series Life On Mars, around the re-showing of which on BBC4, they are theming an evening of programmes. I jumped at the chance, a) because I like doing TV, b) I like the people at BBC Bristol, c) I love Life On Mars, and d) I would get to drive an original 1973 Ford Cortina.

Catching the 8.13 from Reigate and changing at Reading, I arrived in Bath Spa just before 10.30 and was collected from the station by Caroline and Kristin, production assistant and researcher. Francis Welch was in charge, as producer/director, a disarmingly youthful chap, but then that is often the way in television. First cameraman was Pete, soundman was Nic and shamefully, I've forgotten the name of the second cameraman, which is very bad form. Please never let me be the kind of presenter who forgets the name of the second cameraman. Anyway. I was whisked to a piece of picturesque wasteground with a gasworks in the background (very Sweeney, which was the masterplan), where a red Cortina was being driven, screeching, round in circles, by its owner Dwayne, and filmed in the rear view mirror. It was bitterly cold. This is why film crews all wear puffa jackets and woolly caps as industry standard.

Fully insured for the occasion by the BBC, I was called upon to drive the Cortina into shot (it will, of course, look as if I was doing the stunt driving when it's edited together) and deliver a "piece to camera" (the technical term for delivering a piece to camera) out of the car window. Then I had to drive off. In terms of TV presenting, this is fairly basic stuff, hitting a mark etc. But for me, it was a first, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I love to learn how to do new things, even if they are ultimately useless things unless you happen to be presenting a TV programme on wasteground. Filming, even on this scale, takes a long time, as the producer, director and cameraman always want "coverage". They film everything more than once, and from every angle, so that back in the edit suite, they'll have footage to service every eventuality.

Bored? Here's a picture of a car. (Not the but the same model and colour)



Next, I had to do a variation on the same speech (which I memorised: "So what's behind the success of Life On Mars? Is just a nostalgic romp for lovers of bad shirts and glam rock? Or does the show prove that British audiences are hungry from drama that pushes back the boundaries?"), which involved turning off the engine, getting out of the car, shutting the door and walking round to perch on the bonnet in a 70s cop-show kind of way, talking all the while and looking in to the camera. Pretty tricky, I think you'll agree, but we nailed it in four. Then it was off to an Irish pub called the Rummer in central Bath, where the bulk of the film was to take place. First though, I had to drive the Cortina into a parking space, get out and walk into the pub (at which point, you must be slack-jawed at the multi-skilling TV professional I clearly am). This took quite a few goes, as we had to wait until there were no buses pulled in at the other side of the road, as they ruined the shot, and there were a lot of buses. Also, Kristin had to stop the traffic, with no greater authority to do so than the fluorescent tabard she was wearing. (People do respect day-glo yellow. Someone should write a thesis on that.) I also had to get back in the car and pull out into traffic, for an end shot.

Eventually, with all this in the can, and Dwayne profusely thanked for the lend of his Cortina, we moved inside the pub - a really excellent, welcoming, old-fashioned wooden city pub, purpose built I understand - to warm back up. While the rest of them them set up in a private room upstairs, I ate Irish stew and parsnip soup, as it was St Patrick's Day - surely the finest pub food I have ever eaten, all homemade. At this point, far away from home, my day took on a surreal aspect. The bar staff were wearing those hilarious novelty top hats made to look like giant pints of Guinness, which is what all Irish people wear in Ireland, day in day out. Irish folk music was played over the PA.

To cut to the chase, the bulk of the programme was a discussion, which I chaired, between the three creators of Life On Mars, writers Tony Jordan, Ashley Pharaoh and Matthew Graham, and John Yorke, head of drama at the BBC. (Bit of history: John produced the first ever radio Stuart and I ever did, on Radio 5 back in 1991. I also worked under him at EastEnders between 2000 and 2002. Tony was series consulant on the soap then too, and he was something of a guru to new writers. I'd never met Matt or Ashley before, but they also have an EastEnders background, so some bonding occurred before the cameras rolled. It also turns out that Matt bought Where Did It All Go Right? as research for Life On Mars, a fact that thrills me.) This discussion took place in a room that was "dressed" to look like a room in a 70s boozer, with artefacts like a picture of George Best in a frame and half-supped pint pots strategically placed. A noisy dry ice machine filled the room with smoke. This aggravated my asthma, which is unhelpful when you have a microphone pinned to your collar. (I fear I will never be able to go on Stars In Their Eyes.) Matt had on a noisy new shirt, which also caused microphone problems and demanded retakes. As the filming progressed, I gradually poured my beer away so it would look like I had actually drunk some of it. The three writers had no need for this illusion and actually drank theirs in the spirit of three men who should actually be working on the second series of Life On Mars but instead found themselves in a pub in Bath on St Patrick's Day.

So, we finally finished shooting at 19.25, just in time for John and I to catch the 19.42 back to London (or, in my case, Reading), and put the world of television to rights. What an exhausting day it was, but hugely rewarding and good fun, and I think it will make a nice little programme. Should be on in the next month. Because most of my TV presenting experience has involved sitting next to Stuart in a cinema in Hammersmith, it's bracing to get out and do some walking-and-talking and PTCs. I will never claim it to be rocket science.

The lady in the blue sweater . . .

Having just submitted my piece for Word magazine defending Question Time against facile charges of dumbing-down, it was heartening to see another lively and intelligent debate last night. I also got the chance to shake my fist at the screen, which is a useful defence against developing cancer. In decending order of party-affiliated vacuity, we had Margaret Hodge MP, the condescending, eye-narrowing, head-shaking work and pensions minister; David Willetts MP, shadow education secretary and a great favourite of the programme, on account of his unusual number of brains; Jenny Tonge, sacked Liberal front-bencher (something to do with suicide bombers) now outspoken Liberal peer with newly-dyed hair, which looks much better; Simon Jenkins, floor-crossing Guardian columnist whose words I find regularly compelling and fair (not bad for a former editor of the Standard and the Times); and Kwame Kwei-Armah, who I would describe as "most famous for appearing on Casualty" if I was trying to make a snooty point, but since I'm not, the playwright and actor.

From Gateshead, the audience were as tuned in, passionate and vocal as we've come to expect, not least a teacher from Sunderland who attempted to cut through the party bullshit about Blair's education bill (which squeezed through its second reading thanks to life-saving support from the Tories - how proud he will be of his legacy). I was particularly interested in the panel's reaction to this Parexel story: six human guinea pigs fighting for their lives after a drugs trial that went wrong. My first reaction, and you might not like it, is, hey, they volunteered to take part in this trial. It's a risk you sign on the dotted line for. Drugs-testing is a well-known method for topping up grants or paying for a skiing holiday (you can get up to two thousand pounds a trial - two thousand, three hundred and thirty in this case - and you only have to leave three months before you can do another one); those that sign up do so with plenty of small print to protect the drugs company and, I daresay, in a spirit of "what could possibly go wrong? There are people with white coats here". I respect the volunteers' right to do this, and I wish no harm upon any of them. But when it goes wrong, as it has done with this trial for TGN1412, an anti-inflammatory, it's difficult to get worked up. The QT panel indulged in a display of kneejerk sympathy which, for me, skirted the issue, which is twofold.

1) Why are we testing drugs on animals (in this case rats and monkeys), if the drug can still have catastrophic effects on humans? Doesn't this blow the pro-animal-testing argument out of the water? It's a waste of time. I don't recall a media feeding frenzy the last time six monkeys swelled up and had to fight for their life. Is the life of a mouse so cheap? How many mice must die to make the papers? (It's ironic, because if a pet dies, we go nuts, and if a pet dies in a horrible way, it will make the papers, but these creatures are being bred as convenient drug-dustbins just so that we can relieve joint pain. And worse ailments, I know, but there's still something wrong, to me, about the set-up.)

2) The bit that nobody seems to be picking up on: when are we going to stop treating genetic modification as A Good Thing? This drug is a "humanised monoclonal antibody", a genetically engineered protein that is part mouse but mostly human. These drugs usually aim to suppress an immune system reaction - but this does the opposite. Either way, it's part-mouse! Who wants the genetic makeup of a mouse sticking in them? This is unholy.

I don't wish to get into a crowing debate about the pharmaceutical companies, but, like all other companies, especially ones that make billions of dollars a year, they need to make more money. And to make more money, they must invent new drugs in the hope that one will be a "blockbuster". and to get these on the market, they must test them. Fair enough. But let's not be surprised when one puts six fit young men in hospital, or when one, like the painkiler Vioxx, turns out after about four years on the market to cause heart attacks and strokes.

We are all guinea pigs, not just those poor blokes on organ support machines.

Check out Parexel's website (I'm not doing a link, you'll find it) - they're an American company who are very keen to promote drugs trials in Latin America, where there's a large untapped market described in the blurb as "naive subjects". I'm sure this is a medically-recognised term, but the big buzz-phrase at Paraxel of "shortening time-to-market". Good idea. Let's speed things up.

Be careful out there.

The Apprentice Week 4



[SPOILER ALERT! Read no further if you're watching the repeat or you've taped it. I got back from a restaurant at 11.25, but had to watch it before bedtime. It's too important not to.]

Oh how we laughed every time the voiceover mentioned Mani's "crepe idea"! It was the inevitable catering task: with Velocity headed by a boy (the oleaginous Mani, whose flipchart-Tourette's went into overdrive with talk of "a divergent phase" moving into "a convergent phase") and Invicta headed by a girl (dead candidate walking Alexa, whose rosy cheeks only got rosier as the task engulfed her miniscule talents), the hapless fools were dispatched to the edge of the Thames to create a food stall in a marquee. Most nosh shifted: the winner. Both teams seemed unhappy with their gender-swapped project manager, the boys for ingrained sexist reasons, the girls because Mani was a goon from the off, with his brainstorming (otherwise known as shouting stuff out and writing it in a spiral-bound jotter). Invicta went for pizza as their "theme", with Syed responsible for fucking the whole thing up, despite having managed restaurants, or so his CV says. Having failed to note when the wholesalers opened and closed, he was reduced to leaving a message with his order and thus landed the team with 100 large chickens - this meant one chicken per traditional Italian "chicken pizza". They seemed to have over-ordered the mince too, as the "mince pizza" looked heavy and overloaded too. (Anyone who has eaten pizza in Italy will know that it comes with tomato, oil and, if they're feeling really crazy, mushrooms.)

Apart from the appalling waste of food (we inevitably saw the boys scraping whole cooked chickens into a bin in the middle of London where, it's rumoured, one or two people are homeless), this was also an appalling waste of manpower, with the girls chopping peppers and manhandling chicken for their Oriental noodle stall for the best part of a day, all the while refraining from stabbing Jo in the heart with a kitchen knife, and the boys putting in a 17-hour shift making about 90 pizza bases out of a planned 500. My heart sank as the farce played out. There was no leadership on the boys' side (Alexa's time was running out) and no respect on the girls'. The sight of them desperately trying to flog off their unsold noodles and pizza to passers by at the Thames Festival (something I've never heard of - perhaps Sir Alan set it up as a hoax) was unedifying and pathetic. I noted Paul using his not-considerable charm on a lady customer and I'm pretty sure she told him to fuck off. These business buffoons are meant to thrive on pressure. They just became panicky and unable to make a decision when the hob was on. (If you can't stand the heat of business, get out of the kicthen, or at least enter a second "divergent phase" and diverge off.)

I know the editing is selective and the "story" the programme-makers opted to tell was one of Mani sneaking off and not doing any work, but he was the team leader and I didn't begrudge him not getting his hands dirty. I wanted to know a little bit more about the sequence at the wine wholesalers where he seemed to patronise an employee at the warehouse. Could this bloke speak English? We never heard him open his mouth. Was Mani being a tit? Or was he clearly explaining himself to a non-English speaker? Let us not have our emotions manipulated.

Sir Alan, like the little girl who whined that her pizza slice was too big, was not happy. The girls-and-a-boy won, and deserved to, for not ordering 100 chickens and plucking the figure of 500 pizzas out of thin air. They were sent to a restaurant ("the Oxo Towers" as poor Tuan erroneously called it, as if perhaps it might be a future Al-Queda target), whose attendant fireworks display seemed in danger of giving the overexcitable Jo a coronary.

Alexa correctly pulled in Syed and Tuan for the final showdown (Paul threatened to laugh if he was selected - I'd like to have seen that, the big role-player - sorry, liar). Sir Alan viewed the whimpering "brain surgeons" will unconcealed disdain and looked for all the world like he was going to fire Syed, the architect of the team's downfall, despire being "a fighter", in his own frightened words, and a "winner". "But you bloody lost!" Nevertheless, his endless claim of having given "150%" (unless he meant that's how much he over-ordered by) either earned Syed a last-minute reprieve, or Sir Alan was going to get rid of the silly girl anyway, and it was all amateur dramatics. Alexa watched her second chance go up in smoke and, like the pizza oven, was fired. (Sir Alan is a brilliant performer. He might not know how to flog anti-ageing cream, but he has an instinctive grasp of TV drama.)

You had to love it when he told them, "Clear off."

Not enough emotion this week, save for when Sharon walked out of a meeting to sob on a bunk bed because Mani hinted that he couldn't understand her Scottish accent. Unable to use the English language properly, in common with all our business hopefuls, she said he was being "derogative", which I'm fairly sure isn't a word*. Earlier, Mani had said, "Let's go whole hog." I'm not sure my heart can take much more of this.

*It is a word.

Capote
Saw this at Reigate Screen this afternoon. What a bleak film. I have been furiously reading In Cold Blood, trying to finish it before seeing the film of its conception, and I didn't quite manage it, but the way it's written - so evocative, so thorough, so vivid - I feel I've been inside the Clutter house where the mutliple homicide took place in November 1959, smelt the wheat of Holcomb in Kansas, met Perry Smith and Dick Hickock, the killers, lived in the family household of sheriff Alvin Dewey while they were tracked down. So actually seeing the story dramatised, none of it was any great surprise. The bit that's not in the book, of course, is the author himself. He never mentions himself, playing the silent, omniscient observer. With 94% recall.

It goes without saying that Philip Seymour Hoffman is impeccable in what might have been a cartoon role. I've seen Truman Capote on film and he really did speak like that! Effete and false and almost wilfully irritating, that's just the way it was. And Hoffman brings such a subtle depth to him. This is not a heroic portrayal - he's selfish, opportunistic, manipulative - but it beats most standard literary biopics. Yes, we see him typing, but not once does he take a sheet of paper out of the typewriter and screw it up into a ball, which I thought was law in this genre.

Let's hear it for the supporting cast: Clifton Collins Jr, who should have been Oscar-nominated for his Perry Smith (you may have seen him in Traffic or Tigerland, but this should improve his stock); Catherine Keener, who's now been in so many unrewarded supporting roles it was a moral victory to see her Oscar-nominated; and Chris Cooper, who, as my wife observed, is the new JT Walsh, and there's no shame in that. He's a walking mark of quality. Let's hope he finds a lead part for himself at some stage. (And I don't mean in a John Sayles movie. Nobody watches those. Mind you, look at David Strathairn, another Sayles repertory player who came good this year. It can happen.)

Beautifully shot and composed by director Bennett Miller, Capote is a quiet masterpiece, I think. As long as you can get over the voice. Now, I must finish the book. You can see why it is purported to have changed American literature. It's the kind of writing I read the New Yorker for (do all their writers have 94% recall?), and the kind you don't really get in British magazines. (I know, not much of an anti-American am I?)



A note about Reigate Screen. I feel privileged to have it as my local. It's small but it has a big heart. Screen 2 seats 139. The massive Screen 1 seats . . . 142. Quite a difference. And the manager, Toby, comes in before the film starts and tells you about other films they've got coming up (including an ongoing season of foreign films on a Tuesday night). What a tremendous individual. I have actually learned to despise going to the cinema in recent years with its texting, crisp-rustling, talking idiots, but Reigate Screen has changed my opinion.

I include these shots from the 6 Music webcam because today was the last time I will broadcast from Studio 5G, Broadcasting House. As of next week, 6 Music is moving to new studios in an adjacent building called Western House. These new studios are mint, never been used before except for training. They also use a new playout system, which is a bit like the old one, but better. I fear change like everyone else, and I have sentimental feelings for 5G, as we've been broadcasting from it, as a network, since day one, four years ago. It is the first studio where I ever "drove the desk" (ie. press the buttons and move the faders and insert CDs into the drawers and cue them up, like proper DJs do). I was trained, somewhat improbably, by Chris Hawkins. (I only say improbably because he is a fellow presenter.) Anyway, these grabs show me and Richard Herring having a right old laugh at Daniella Westbrook or Margaret Beckett or Judas, based on stories about them in the Sunday newspapers. Notice my admiring face, looking over at Richard. This is obviously put on, to make him feel important, even though he doesn't get paid very much money. You can see Mark, who is the programme's BA (broadcast assistant) but he was being the producer today because Leona is taking some well-earned leave.

The Adam Rickitt Incident
I am an habitual letter-writer. Rarely does a week go by without me firing off a letter to The Guardian, New Statesman or some other publication. I had a good strike rate with The Guardian in the beginning, but once I started writing a regular radio column for them, I stopped being an irate member of the public and I like to think that's why the appearances on the letters page dried up. This illustrated the precarious divide between civilian and non-civilian. I still send letters to them, as it has a therapeutic value that's unbeatable. One thing I learned during my time was that letters criticising the newspaper never make it into print. Criticism of content is fine, but not of the paper's editorial line. The NS is no less prickly, although they did once print a letter I'd sent questioning the stealth sponsorship of their letters page by Sainsbury's. In it I provided a long list of the supermarket giant's crimes against the community, daring them to print it. And they did. I'll be honest, the 25,000-circulation Statesman clearly don't get that many letters, as I enjoy something like a 90% strike rate. This can lead to complacency on my part, and I sometimes expect to be published. In the past month I've written three letters: one about a lazy Arctic Monkeys piece, one about the frankly baffling branding of a public health supplement by Pfizer, and one about Adam Rickitt. Today, they printed the latter.

My gripe was about the convenience of a dumbing-down argument against Question Time, one of my favourite TV programmes, by Decca Aitkenhead. This is the letter - I think it's self-explanatory. [The part they cut out is in bold.]

Dear Letters Editor*
Once again, television soap opera is casually used as shorthand for "low" or "worthless" culture (the Media Column, 6 March). Decca Aitkenhead accuses Question Time of dumbing down because it recently had Adam Rickitt on the panel, the implication being that, as a former Coronation Street actor, his opinion must be of no value, even though he has been approved as a prospective parliamentary candidate for the Conservative Party. (The fact that he has 4 A-levels and was set to read law at Cambridge before the Street is not mentioned.)
She goes on to question the suitability of another recent "wild-card guest", Art Malik, whom she sneeringly describes as "famous chiefly for having appeared on Holby City." Rather more famous, I would have said, for Jewel In The Crown, The Far Pavilions and A Passage To India, but then these don't suit the dumbing-down argument quite as neatly as a dismissive reference to a hospital soap. Ms Aitkenhead goes on to wonder how surprised anyone would be if Jade Goody were next up on Question Time. Very, is the inconvenient answer.
The "fifth chair" (formerly fourth) has been a welcome fixture of the programme since its debut in 1979, when novelist Edna O'Brien counterbalanced the party-political ballast, and long may it continue, with no "culture bar" against those who work in popular culture.
Andrew Collins
Former scriptwriter, EastEnders
Reigate, Surrey

*I always apply this cordial courtesy to publications that don't dustily expect "Sir"

I'm pretty proud of this one, as unelected defender of popular culture. (This lazy dismissal of soaps often goes unchecked in middle- or highbrow publications. I once had Letter Of The Week in the NS when I railed against a similar act of facile snobbery by Brian Appleyard. This meant I got a wine voucher to spend with Corney & Barrow, which I never claimed actually.) Last week, I had a letter (my second ever) published in Private Eye on the same subject. Again, it explains itself - and of course, makes me sound, cumulatively, in love with Adam Rickitt. I'm not. He is merely symbolic. [Nothing in bold as they printed it in full.]

Sir,
I fear Remote Controller is either being disingenuous or dim in his assessment of BBC1's Question Time (Eye TV, 1152). The main plank in his case for the programme's dumbing-down is the recent appearance on the panel of Adam Rickitt, "famous for playing a teenager on Coronation Street". Working himself into quite a lather about "booking soap stars", "soapier guests", "the cast of Hollyoaks", "some bloke from the Rover's Return" and "Babs Windsor, Chantelle and Pete Doherty", he omits to mention that Rickitt, 27, who attended Kingsmead Prep, Sedbergh School in Cumbria, got four A-Levels and was set to study law at Cambridge before joining the Street, was, in October 2005 approved as a prospective parliamentary candidate for the Conservative Party. While none of these qualifications especially endears him to me, they do rather explain his appearance on Question Time. We've all seen vapid panellists on Question Time. They are called cabinet ministers. My name's Ben Elton etc.
ANDREW COLLINS
Reigate, Surrey


It's good to get into a dialogue. (And yes, I know signing myself as from Surrey is one step away from being disgruntled of Tunbridge Wells, but what can I do?) I do have to tread carefully. As a contracted BBC employee, I don't wish to shoot my mouth off on a politically sensitive issue and end up like Rod Liddle. (Certainly not after looking at the state of him on last week's QT. He needs to call Nicky Hambleton-Jones forthwith.) My automatic email signature has my 6 Music credentials in it, as well as Film Editor, Radio Times, which I prudently always remove before sending. Unfortunately, I forgot to do this when I sent a lengthy rant about Live 8, including the BBC's occasionally naive coverage thereof, to the NS, which they printed in full (Letter Of The Week), signed, "Andrew Collins, BBC 6 Music." In effect I was complaining about the BBC as a hapless representative of the BBC. Big mistake. I forewarned the 6 Music press office about my accidental misdemeanour but their experienced, don't-panic view was that "nobody reads the New Statesman". It passed without incident. (I'm much happier defending the Corporation anyway.)



Incidentally, thanks to the wonders of the BBC and the unique way in which it is funded, I have been viewing archive editions of Question Time online, including Rickitt's appearance, and although I don't think I'd like to spend any quality time with him (he seems a bit waxy-looking), he acquitted himself very well. Better than I would have done at 27. The exhaustive QT minisite offers a fantastic service, by the way; the archive also includes an unmissable best-of from 2004. It's here.

Not quite J-Lo!
Not my words; those of Nicky Hambleton-Jones, reptilian sprite of bad cheer and conspicuous consumption, put on earth perhaps solely to make Gillian McKeith seem sympathetic. Good heavens. I've never seen a full episode of this programme before and it is more appalling than I feared. 10 Years Younger(C4, 8pm) is the extreme makeover show that parades wrinkled women in a shopping precinct, gets a median age estimate from idiots and then promises to take ten years off it through the use of surgery, dentistry, a decent haircut and a lesson in "accessorising"! Couldn't be simpler! This programme is You Are What You Eat without the social conscience or the public service remit. This week, poor old Shirley, 41 (above), who's certainly lived a hard life in the North-East of England and is self-conscious about her asymmetric face and baggy eyes (something that might, according to her boss, limit her chances of promotion - eeeek!), went through the mill with Nicky at her side, having new veneers on her "tombstone teeth" (yes, it has a sarky voiceover, which does it no credit), a load of meat carved out of her cheeks, metal staples plunged into her skull, her eyes beaten to a bruised pulp, multicoloured hair extensions to replace her Mo Slater crop and a few belts to de-accentuate her big belly. (Oh, and she also had her face sanded down. I kid you not.) On top of this lot, she was painted in by a professional makeup artist to give the impression of looking like a new woman, when in reality it means Shirley will now have to spend an hour in the bathroom before feeling presentable enough to enter the kitchen. She is now hooked on cosmetics, handbags, "narrow scarves" and imported Russian hair. Stiched up, or stapled up, like a kipper. And she seemed a really nice person. Now she looked like a middle aged man in drag, but the same idiots in the shopping precinct thought she looked 38. Which she doesn't. Yes, I'll be tuning in next week.

I am currently reading In Cold Blood by Truman Capote, trying to finish it before I see Capote on Monday. In it, an officer investigating the murder of the Clutter family in Kansas describes an interview with an aged crone who runs a rooming house where one of the suspects stayed. "She was 74 years old but looked younger - maybe 10 minutes younger."

The Apprentice part three



[SPOILER ALERT! Read no further if you do not wish to find out who was fired!]

Well, though this was the least interesting task of the series so far - buy ten items; winning team comes back with the most change from a thousand pounds - it was no less compelling in terms of human drama. It was Jo's show. Although Syed was project manager for the boys' team, he made little impact, dramatically, beyond haggling for a lobster at zero hour by lying. Indeed, Invicta did little of any interest except win, by eight quid. The spotlight belonged to Velocity, and the inevitable power struggle between Jo and Everybody Who Isn't Jo. She quickly nominated herself as team leader, despite an early challenge from belligerent Brummie Ruth ("What skills have you got?") It was as if the other five wanted her to hang herself. She kept the tears under control, but not her mouth, or her isolationist tendencies (always good in a team leader).

Most of the boardroom bullshit (remember - Sir Alan doesn't like bullshitters) came from the boys: "go for the close", "role-playing" etc. But there was no tension to entertain us. Having spent two and half hours planning what to do, which seemed like a waste of time, the girls split into two teams of three and Karen and "soft-mannered" Alexa were unlucky enough to end up in Jo's people carrier. That was their downfall. While the other three went off and procured seven out of the ten items - for which they were rewarded by the project manager with the task of getting the tyre (good delegation) - Jo proved herself useless yet again, taking them on a wild goose chase to Camden for a dinner jacket, and "brooding" in the back of the car when not consulted by mobile. (Always on speaker phone, the sight of women yelling into an open mobile as if using a compact will be the enduring image of this series. "I'm not having it," huffed Jo. Oh yes she was.)

In the boardroom, it quickly emerged that that the poorest negotiators had won, and were packed off to a symbolic race meeting at Sandown Park for champagne and chest-beating. Jo dragged her loyal captains Karen and Alexa in to the final showdown with her and the nicest lady lost. Alexa, accused of being a bit girlish by woman-hating Sir Alan, spoke up ("I don't think I'm amateurish") and saved her own pink-cheeked skin. Karen kept her counsel (well, she is a lawyer) and was fired. The first unfair sacking of the series.

Of course we all hate Jo now more than we ever hated Saira. And that, like an idiot chef who can't tell pork from a scallop on Kitchen Nightmares is TV gold. "I was like a Rottweiler," she said, at one point, picking far too sympathetic an animal. Sir Alan called her "a bloody nutter" but in an almost affectionate way. She loved that. She is the kind of person that says, "I'm mad, I am." She is having it after all. I love this programme more than any other. It proves that Milton Friedman has even more to answer for than we thought.

I'm working on a longer, more detailed review, which will appear on Off The Telly, where reviews of each episode are promised each week.

Yes?



Third episode of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, a series that has yet to jump the shark. Or jump the sea bass. Though it fits into the "makeover TV" category - Ramsay turns up at failing eaterie, swears at the chef, simplifies the menu, turns the buiness around and comes back six months later to admire his work - it's a cut above thanks to Ramsay himself. He's a seriously charismatic host and mentor, and takes no shit. He also has sage advice to offer. (And onion advice. Ha ha.)

I love this programme. Tonight, he tackled Clubway 41, which, despite its name, location and horrible massage-parlour signage, had been named Blackpool Tourist Board's Restaurant of the Year ("Shithole of the Year," quipped our man with the Easter Island statue face), which served salmon and strawberry, tomato and Cointreau soup, and pork medallions in a brie and nectarine sauce to nobody. Had these people not seen Life Is Sweet and laughed at Timothy Spall's "liver in lager"? The ill-trained chef, Dave, in a black bandana that made him look like he'd been sacked from in Fleetwood Mac in the 70s, was TV gold, ie. an idiot. He couldn't cook very well, and when Gordon tried to teach him he actually swore back at him and made what used to be called, when I was at school, a "spastic face", and was outlawed as soon as society saw sense.
"Plonker."
"Twat."
That was how this particular exchange ended. You get the idea.

Eventually, Dave and his front-of-house partner, got the idea and started cooking food that people in Blackpool might eat. As ever with Kitchen Nightmares there was a salt-of-the-earth kitchen assistant who, once empowered, came into his own on the night and proved invaluable. Then left under a cloud. I hope Nigel is running his own restaurant somewhere.

I still find it curious that, before he gets down to business, Ramsay is contractually required to take his top off for the camera before he puts on his chef's jacket. Does he demand that they let him do this, or do the programme-makers actually think his buff, rugby-player's torso is what the audience tunes in for? It's very distracting and sexist.

Nobody defies me. Nobody



Mercifully, Dr Gillian McKeith doesn't do this before she puts on her white coat. Haven't watched this series of You Are What You Eat as religiously, chiefly because the formula is too predictable. Not that I have any bright ideas on how to improve it, but if you miss one borderline-diabetic pizza-junkie with no libido and an account at the local takeaway being pilloried into trying seeds and salad for the first time until they lose two stone, there'll be another along next week. Amazingly, Britain has an unlimited supply. Tuned in tonight to see a hormonally-imbalanced mother-and-daughter double-act getting the finger wagged at them in the kitchen, Karen (15.5 stone) and Aimee (17.5 stone - not bad for a 20-year-old). "You've picked the wrong time to visit," blubbed the mother, having been told she's killing her daughter with bread. "I've got PMT!" Gillian's face did not crack: "I'm not surprised with what you eat." Harsh, but fair. At least the mother didn't then do a "spastic face". One new development: they now seem to actually show the stool in the tupperware tub, rather than just have Gillian describe it. That's progress.

Not flippin' likely



And while we're on the subject of non-fiction telly, what about Bill Oddie's How To Watch Wildlife? It ended on BBC2 this evening with a fairly facile compilation of best bits, but this still meant a few greatest hits, like the Arctic Tern pecking Bill's sleeve and shouting at him, the swooping starlings, the seal impression, the sea otter eating a whole eel and those two badgers in a Paignton front garden (soon to be culled if the government have their way in the farmer-lobbied panic about TB in cows, even though the RSPCA, among other bodies, insist that a cull of 100,000 badgers will not solve the problem, but potentially escalate it as group immunity is affected by the loss of so many of these sociable creatures, who operate in large, interlinked groups of about 20 - don't get me started). Bill Oddie, who is always careful to say "flippin'" when you must assume he would normally say another word, makes the world a better place. Long may he reign.



And if you want to save the badger, go here.

Academy Awards 2006: The Highlights



First of all, I made it. By avoiding the radio and TV news all day and averting my eyes from certain websites and the cover of the London Evening Standard I was able to survive until 10pm, at which point we sat down, oblivious, to watch Sky One's Oscar highlights show. The full results are here. I was pleased to have predicted Best Actor (Philip Seymour Hoffman), Best Actress (Reese Witherspoon) and Best Director (Ang Lee). I was even more pleased, though, to be surprised by Best Picture for Crash (and not, as everyone in the Kodak Theater presumed, Brokeback Mountain). Having watched Crash again only last night, and with its complexities, Magnolia echoes and layers of LA racism fresh in my mind, I feel it's a deserving winner, although I might have said the same about Brokeback if last night I'd watched Jack and Ennis keeping each other warm in Wyoming. The point is: I like surprises at the Oscars. I also prefer the big awards to be spread out a bit, as they were this year. Nothing more boring than when one film sweeps the board. I was chuffed to see my hero George Clooney picking up Best Supporting Actor for Syriana (all that pasta wasn't wasted), and Rachel Weisz Best Supporting Actress for Constant Gardener (although quite why this was a supporting role is beyond me). However, there was one major problem with the 78th Annual Academy Awards and it was this:

Sky's coverage. Fucking hell. What a shower: intrusive, stiff, dumb, amateurish, technically inept and a drain on the excitement and glamour of the actual event it purported to be covering. Instead of, I don't know, call me a crazy maverick, showing the highlights from the Oscars, they kept cutting back to Jamie Theakston and Amanda Byram, firstly on the fringes of the red carpet elbowing for glitz, latterly standing outside the Vanity Fair party like two people outside a party which I suspect they weren't going into at any stage after the cameras stopped rolling. I had nothing against Ms Byram; she was vaccuous and overexcited, but these are forgiveable qualities on Oscar night, even admirable ones, and at least she flirted with some of the stars as they ambled past, eliciting an almost candid response from one or two of them. Theakston, though, God bless him, is totally miscast as suave, dinner-suited Osacrs achorman. He looked like a competition winner. The smile that plays about his lips as he towers above everybody transmits a natural irreverence and archness that don't come over well at inflated occasions like this. You can't take the piss. You either do it, or you don't. It's as if he had to hand in his personality at the suit hire shop and doesn't get it back until the morning. At one point, he said of Good Night, And Good Luck (and I'm paraphrasing), "I really loved it, but will that be enough to win it the Oscar?" That you loved it, Jamie? Possibly not.

As if the presentation wasn't ropey enough, the pair of them seemed not to be miked up at the party, and sounded, during every link, like they weren't hosting Britain's exclusive television coverage, but gatecrashing it with a camera-phone. Before each ad break, they ran up some spurious Top Ten or asked every buttonholed star the same burning question ("What are your pre-awards rituals?", "Are you nervous?", "Do you have any idea who we are?"), as if the show was aimed squarely at the Heat readers celebrated by Julie Burchill in the authored documentary that ran on Sky One directly before this.

Final complaint: I tuned in with great anticipation over Jon Stewart's links. I saw hardly any of them. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a swiz. Next year, we sign up for Sky Movies 1, tape the whole thing, and watch it the next morning. At least that way, we might get to see the highlights of the Academy Awards, as advertised.

. . . who gathered all those remarkably different cultures together and taught them all how to park their cars on their lawns?



In other words, we watched Crash again, on DVD, in the spirt of Oscar night, and enjoyed it again immensely. Beautifully structured by writer-director Paul Haggis, and it comes in well under two hours, which is incredible for such a rich tapestry of racism. It's nominated for Best Picture, Best Director, Best Supporting Actor (Matt Dillon as the racist cop), Best Original Screenplay and Best Editing. I actually think Dillon is in with a shout, unless, because Philip Seymour Hoffman is bound to snatch Best Actor from under Heath Ledger's nose, they give Best Supporting to Gyllenhaal to compensate. Crash should also be nominated for Best Score, by Mark Isham, a lovely, ambient synthesiser wash that runs under the action and fits the wintry LA night like a glove. Live Oscar coverage, which would ordinarily be worth taping, is on Sky Movies 1, which we no longer have, so it's the hightlight package on Sky One instead tomorrow night (Monday). I plan to do a Bob and Terry, and avoid all news tomorrow so that I can enjoy some suspense in the evening. As I'm writing from home again, this should be possible. I have just replaced the BBC News website as my automatic homepage for when I log on in the morning, a wise precaution, and I'm hoping the results will be too late for the morning papers. (When do they go to bed? I'm going to bed now.) All I have to do is not watch or listen to any news all day. I'll let you know how I get on. (I expect Brokeback to win Best Picture, and Ang Lee Best Director, and Reese Witherspoon Best Actress, all well deserved, but I would rather a few surprises.)

I stayed up all night to watch the Oscars once, in 1998. Damn near wasted me. I was hallucinating the next day.

Announcing The Seventh Poseidon Adventure Fan Club Reunion
Look what turned up in my inbox! (How much would I love to attend? Wrong country, sadly.)

The Seventh Poseidon Adventure Fan Club Reunion, May 6, 2006
Tickets are now on sale! Come enjoy an evening of fun honoring the original film that brought us all together, before the new remake opens!

Jak Castro/Morning After Productions in conjunction with the LA Harbor International Film Festival present, The Seventh Annual Poseidon Adventure Fan Club reunion Saturday May 6, 2006. we will be showing Ronald Neame's original Academy Award winning 1972 film The Poseidon Adventure in 16mm on the big screen, at the Warner Grand Theater in San Pedro, California.

The festivities begin at 4:00pm on Saturday May 6th
Special guests scheduled to appear:
Glamorous award winning actress Stella Stevens,
Beautiful & talented actress Carol Lynley,
Big Brother Teddy, Stuart Perry.
It's the reunion of Nonnie & Teddy after 34 years!
along with other celebrity guests, who will be announced as they RSVP the fan club's invitation.

This event is being held in conjuction with The Third Annual LA Harbor International Film Festival "Hollywood Nostalgia Tribute" at the largest and grandest theater in Southern California, The Warner Grand Theater! The Warner Grand Theatre, is located at 478 W. 6th St in historic downtown San Pedro - The Port of Los Angeles.

For further information and directions to the theater, please visit the website for the Warner Grand Theater For further information and schedule of showings for the film festival, please visit the LAHIFF

Immediately before the screening, enjoy special video tributes to Shelley Winters, The Poseidon Adventure Fan Club's past seven years, and the trailer for the new Wolfgang Petersen big screen remake Poseidon

Tickets are $20.00 general admission Poseidon Adventure Fan Club member tickets are $15.00

To purchase your tickets, directions, list of highlights, and more updates, please visit the fan club website

Keep on capsizing,
Jak Castro

[Incidentally, don't you just love the description of Carol Lynley as "beautiful & talented"? Also, you have to be a pretty hardcore Poseidon fan to appreciate who "big brother Teddy" is. He's in the band who play on New Year's Eve, hippy type, and he gets crushed by his own amp if I remember correctly. Was this Hollywood's revenge on the counterculture?]

41
Happy birthday, Bobby Womack, Patsy Kensit, Evan Dando, James Ellroy, Shakin' Stevens and Brooklyn Beckham, all of whom share a birthday with me (above). I'm old enough now to not make too much fuss on this special day, but I appreciated all the cards with cats and birds on them (especially the owl), and if I write out a list of my presents it will give this blog entry the feel of my 1976 diary:
A Seinfeld book
A book voucher
A Sideways DVD
A really nice black jumper (I am into jumpers, which proves how grown up I am)
Two tickets to see Arctic Monkeys in April in Bournemouth (a real surprise, as we already have tickets for Brixton, but this will be a nice opportunity to stay in a hotel, and it's seated, which will be an interesting new combination of factors at what will be our fifth Arctic Monkeys gig)
Two tickets to go and see Malcolm Gladwell live on the South Bank this month

For the record, in 1976, I got:
Two drawing books
A box of paper
A "brill" pack of felt tips
Some drawing inks and different nibs
A drawing book
The Goodies File
A Liverpool mug
Two Subbuteo goals

As a treat on my birthday (this one), I got up at 6am and wrote some of my book. I had a leisurely breakfast of raspberries and banana, followed by my favourite millet and spelt cereal combination with oat milk, sultanas and pecans, and some tinned sardines with sun-dried tomatoes, pine nuts and chilli. I went to work, it being a Saturday, but enjoyed the Chart, as ever, if not our fleeting number one, Corinne Bailey-Railey, whose debut album will debut on the Official UK Album Chart tomorrow and will thus be robbed from us. It's a deal. I met my wife in Wimbledon and we ate a splendid birthday dinner at a posh burger restaurant in the village, where I had calamari and a sweet chilli dipping sauce, the house salad, two organic burgers without the bun and without the Monterey Jack, but with egg, bacon, pineapple, beetroot, chips and mayonnaise. (Chips was my birthday indulgence. I ate them all, even though they give you too many. This proves I am a reckless fool, living on the edge.)

I had a really nice birthday. Thanks to a few days working from home this week and to three sessions in the gym that I was able to fit in because of it, I don't feel 41. I really don't get worked up about age. Certainly not about the numbers.

Of course, in 1976, it was not all over on March 4 - I had a modest party on March 6, and more presents were forthcoming from my friends Kim, Milner, Griffin, Angus, Lewis and Wilson, including: a torch, the Eighth Army soldiers and a 50p gift voucher. Also, with some of the money I received on my birthday I bought The Tower paperback by Richard Martin Stern (on which The Towering Inferno was partly based - I was mad on disaster movies at this age) and The Goodies' Book Of Criminal Records (I was also mad on the Goodies). I can honestly day I would rather be 41 than 11. I've still got the Goodies books, Bill Oddie is now one of my favourite TV presenters, and I now own four torches, which are placed at opportune places around the house ready for the next power cut.

I hope Bobby Womack had a splendid day too.

Police state latest
I called John Lewis, further to what they're all calling The Linen Basket Incident, and I spoke to an operator who assured me she could help when I asked to speak to customer services. She informed me that the reason I had to give my postcode to buy a basket was because they need it to "get into the system" (which is what the third man told me yesterday "in store"). This, however, only applies if you're picking something up from the collection point. You don't need to supply your details to buy something (as implied by the man yesterday), but you do need to if you're collecting it. This, she told me, is because if you left the goods there by mistake they could contact you and tell you. This is nuts. If I was stupid enough to leave something behind that's my lookout. And I could always contact the shop. It's clearly a system designed to keep tabs on what customers are buying.

The woman also tried to sell me a flimsy line about using a cheque: if I used a cheque (which I didn't), and it bounced, they would be able to contact me. What rot. Surely they would use the bank to get in touch if that was the case. So I asked her if this meant that if I wanted to pay for anything by cheque I would have to give my postcode and she said no. So it was a pointless thing to tell me.

I told her that the system was bad. She said nobody else seemed to mind (that's because they are idiots) and assured me my details would not be passed to any third parties and I would not be sent junk mail. I tried to tell her that in the current climate I'd rather keep my details to myself wherever possible. That's why I don't have a Nectar card or any loyalty cards. She offered to take my details off the computer system, which I said yes to, on principle. (From now on, I shall only buy things from John Lewis that are small enough to be on display. She seemed to think I was joking when I said this.)

I also told her John Lewis ought to train their staff better, so that it doesn't take three assistants to badly explain "the system". A letter to head office may be in order. Am I being paranoid? (The linen basket looks great, by the way, and I really enjoyed the phonecall. We must not let the big people get away with this type of thing at least without a difficult phonecall.)

Thanks to James for sending it my way.

I'm working from home today. This, though, is a photo of our sitcom-writing schedule (the different coloured highlighters represent the episodes we have to write). It's nice to write from home for a change (Lee's at the office) - it's an experiment to see if we get twice as much work done. We shall see. The only downside of working from home today is that it's a lovely sunny day and that means, in Reigate, that people burn garden rubbish. There are no bylaws to protect non-smoking households from other people's secondary bonfire smoke, and they are pyromaniacs round our way. The first sign of a fine day and they're out there setting fire to leaves and grass cuttings. A call to the council reaped no rewards - they do collect garden rubbish though, it's just that some people love to burn. They are obviously not asthmatics and they obviously get their laundry done by someone else and don't hang clothes out to dry on fine days. They are apparently also quite content to keep all windows and doors firmly closed. (Actually, we've done that too, but the smoke still gets in the house. And, like the song, in your eyes.) If it was up to me, the cigarette-smoking ban would also include bonfires. Unsociable, arrogant bastards.

Entertain, amuse and insulate
Went to see Good Night, And Good Luck (watch that comma!) and even though it was exactly as I expected it to be, I was not disappointed. George Clooney is clearly one of the most interesting and talented men in Hollywood right now, and powerful too. I hope "they" don't take him out. This, as I expect most people know, is the story of Edward R Murrow and the CBS News team's idealogical battle with "the junior Senator from Wisconsin", Joe McCarthy. It's in black and white, and, as one dimwitted and isolationist reviewer described it (and this was supposed to be a criticism), it's a load of men sitting around smoking and talking. (This same "critic" observed that Clooney is no great shakes as a director, when - hmmmm - the exact opposite is patently true.)

It's small and focussed and conversational, doing as Murrow did, which was not to take sides exactly, just encourage debate in a climate when that very thing was discouraged to the point of outlawed. I know that most of the great speeches are word for word what Murrow himself said on air - and at an industry dinner thrown in his honour in 1958 - so we must laud him for much of the movie's power ("We cannot defend freedom abroad by deserting it at home"). But David Strathairn gives the kind of honest, low-key performance that never feels like a performance. It's done with vivid period detail, and though the camera moves, fluidly, like a modern one, it works, as if we're eavesdropping on history.

It's not an Oscar-winner, as I've suggested before: too small, too quiet, lacking in sufficient emotion to win over the Academy, but we should be grateful that it's nominated, and that Clooney, as actor, director, producer and writer, operates in these troubled times.

By the way, Nick Cotton was in the cinema for the same showing, on his own. (Alright, the actor John Altman, if you must.) I never met him when I worked on EastEnders, but I did write words for him to say. He passed me twice in the corridor outside and looked at me both times, as if we knew each other. I wanted to say to him, "Hello, I killed your son," but that might have freaked him out without preamble.

The 1.35 matinee showing of a film about newsmen in shirtsleeves talking to archive footage of congressional hearings is not one where you're going to get pesky kids who came in by mistake. However, there were two blokes who insisted on eating the noisiest crisps all the way through it. How can people intelligent enough to want to see this film also be so thick? At one point, I thought Nick Cotton was going to tell them to pipe down. The look on their faces would have been worth the price of admission.


Police state latest
Went into John Lewis to buy a linen basket. Whilst paying for it with a credit card and getting the slip of paper needed to go and collect my goods from the customer service bay, the sales assistant asked for my surname and postcode. I gave him both, then did a double take.
"Why do you need my postcode?" I enquired.
"I don't know," he replied, pulling the sleeve of the next assistant along. "Why do I need his postcode?"
The second assistant, older than the first but clearly not in charge, asked the next bloke along: "Why do we need his postcode?"
The third assistant explained that it was required to get in to the system. "Even if we paid in cash?", we enquired. Apparently so. This seemed unlikely. "You have to do if for TVs and videos," he reminded us. (This is true, but that's because you have to have a TV licence to own a TV, and also, brown goods can be used to launder money. I was only buying a laundry basket. This struck me as amusing.) He explained further that "some techie" probably programmed it in. My wife asked what would happen if, hypothetically, we refused to give our postcode. He assured us that he couldn't sell us the goods.
The lady next to us at the counter said, "It's the Big Brother state."
We intend to find out if it is indeed John Lewis policy not to sell goods to anyone who refuses to give over their postcode. I wish now that I had not given it, to see what would have happened. Watch this space.

Apprentice latest

[SPOILER ALERT! If you have yet to see episode two of The Apprentice read no further as I will reveal who was fired.]

Yet again, I despair at the unholy combination of vacuity, ineptitude and self-belief exhibited by the contestants in this compelling series. They are even more fatuous and irritating and bullish than last year's 14. The boys ('Invicta') and the girls ('Velocity') remain pitched until the numbers come down, and that means neither gender feels the need to temper their traits: Invicta are aggressive and nasty, Velocity are emotional and airy-fairy. Having said that, while Jo continues to behave as if she is undiganosed bipolar (in which case, like the fired Ben, she deserves our sympathy and should get out of this stressful game), we had tears from two of the men when the going got tough. These people are living on the spare tank of adrenalin. Many of them are not up to the job of working with other people, let alone the job Sir Alan is offering one of them.

Their task: to produce and flog a calendar for Gt Ormond Street. Though Invicta took longer to get theirs off the flipchart, neither team did a good job. The Invicta calendar (babies dressed as grown-ups - always a winner with those who miss the Mini-Pops) was ugly and cheap-looking, the Velocity one (kittens in a "contemporary" style) was illogical and unusable as a calendar. Neither sold well, but the boys' seemed to impress one calendar company and they won some caviar, champagne and hubris. Nargis, the Velocity team leader, a pharmacist, gave the worst presentations I've ever seen, even on training courses ("I haven't finished speaking, sorry"), and yet - guess what? - she seemed oblivious to her own shortcomings. She pulled the irritating Jo into the boardroom to detract from her own uselessness, but the coup failed, and she was fired. Good. The most ineffectual of an ineffectual bunch got the taxi of doom back to Civvy Street. The sight of a triumphant Jo punching the air again almost had my dinner up.

This is top quality telly. If you like watching maladjusted twerps humilating themselves for £3,000 each (which is apparently what they get as an appearance fee). For me, Invicta won tonight's show for the sheer number of boardroom cliches they managed to employ: thinking inside the box, singing from the same hymnsheet, coming from leftfield, putting things on the table, moving forward - the entire handbook was there. I'd prefer the programme if the loser was actually fired from a cannon into the sea. (I can't believe I am watching a series where Sir Alan Sugar speaks for me.)

German cat dies
I hate it when animals or birds die. (And humans too, obviously, I wouldn't want you to think that I care more about animals than humans.) Last night we passed a dead fox on the southbound A217. I swerved to miss it as it was curled up on the road as if perhaps sleeping. It must have been hit moments before. I didn't want to be the first to desecrate its still-warm body, but I expect, with that much traffic, it will have been paste within the hour. I always keep an eye out for foxes on the roads in semi-rural Surrey. You mostly see them at night, sneaking across roads, and I would be inconsolable if I ever hit one. A cat has died on the Baltic island of Rugen (I don't know how to do umlauts on this keyboard - there's one over the "u") of the H5N1 strain of avian flu. They suspect it ate a heavily infected bird, as it was found near to where most of Germany's 121 cases of the virus have been found. Poor cat. Poor birds. It is clear that the non-human form of this virus will at some point hit Britain. Even the most hysterical newspapers have stopped making it front page news, presumably because they realise that a pandemic that will kill us all is a very remote possibility. The drugs companies have already had their way, selling tons of Tamiflu, which is not a vaccine, nor is it proven to prevent or cure bird flu. But governments have bought the lot, just in case.

Whenever there's a health scare, you can be sure that one of the all-powerful pharmaceutical companies will be behind it. They invented erectile disfunction and sold us Viagra, which was formulated for something else but didn't work, so they had to foist it on us pampered Westerners somehow. But the drugs companies are running out of illnesses to invent and pills to invent to combat those illnesses. They're doing well with statins. And they've done well with bird flu. (The same companies make veterinary medicines, so they're laughing if farmers have to vaccinate flocks and it never reaches humans in Europe anyway.) I feel sorry for the farmers, and that's something I don't usually say. Having said that, avian flu has only flourished because conventional, factory farming uses so many antibiotics and crams its livestock into appalling close quarters, making the spread of disease a piece of cake. Anyway, I feel sorry for the German owners of that cat. They must be sad today.


On a more upbeat avian note: yesterday, I was thrilled to see a family of seven siskins feeding at my feeder. First time we've had siskins in the garden, but what an entrance. At first glance I thought they were greenfinches but the black cap and the rich yellow gave them away. What a glorious, life-affirming sight.