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?]