Friday night: Rob Newman's new show, No Planet B, at the Tricycle Theatre in Kilburn, North London. If you caught his exemplary History Of Oil on More4 (why haven't they repeated it on C4 yet?), you'll be au fait with his current style (illustrated political seminar meets music hall). No Planet B is his History of the World Backwards, an insanely over-ambitious conceit that sprawls over two hours, with interval, taking in slides, impressions and songs. Lots of songs. Here's how it opens:

The history of the world backwards. What does it look like? From a distance we may see the mighty sweeps of population. We gaze in horror upon American Indians as in 1900 they begin a process of ethnic cleansing, so relentless and ruthless that by 1492 there is not one single European living on the North American landmass.

Approach a little closer and we observe how a man's life changes his character. In the southern cone of Africa, Nelson Mandela enters prison a sweet-natured Spice Girl fan but emerges from long incarceration an embittered terrorist bent on the armed overthrow of the state.

Closer still and we see... ourselves! Look! Look ... look ...!

This mix of Martin Amis's Time's Arrow with 1066 And All That fake history is, of course, shot through with satirical barbs at the way we live now, as oil is undiscovered and technology is uninvented, without which, it would not be a Rob Newman show. Whether you like him or not, whether you agree with his extreme liberal, anti-coporate views or not (and I think you know where I stand), you have to respect his total reinvention, from early 90s comedy heartthrob to cut-me-do-I-not-bleed-Seattle anti-globalisation activist. I witnessed the first wave of metamorphosis with his awkward but admirable Resistance Is Fertile show at Edinburgh in 2000, where traces of the old Rob held back the new Rob, but in the intervening years, not least through his rather beautiful and difficult novel, The Fountain At The Centre Of The World, he has achieved a kind of peace. Which is to say, he's fucking angry, and prepared to walk as well as talk for the causes he cares deeply about, but his comedy - or at least his performance (as some of this is not funny, and not intended to be) - has found its own niche as a result. I wish I'd seen him tour with Mark Thomas. That sounds like a good match, albeit they attack similar monsters with different tools.

I have to declare an interest. I know Rob of old. I met him when he first made inroads as a circuit impressionist (doing Ronnie Corbett and Jonathan Ross, oh and the Ayatollah Khomeini) into radio. I interviewed him so often for NME and Vox we started to see each other socially. It was a happy time, but tinged with problems, as I was still a journalist at the end of the night, Rob had his own insecurities, and our friendship fractured after a review I wrote of the sub-standard Mary Whitehouse Experience book (its chief crimes: bad sub-editing and a clash of egos among the four contributors, by which entries in the mock encyclopaedia were initialled to indicate who had written them, which went against the collaborative grain, I felt). So we necessarily drifted apart. He retreated from the limelight. But it's been pleasant to see him again, and I'm delighted that his career has found new rails. Smaller shows, smaller audiences (appreciative ones, judging by the Tricycle run), but bigger gestures.

No Planet B is worth catching when it tours, as it must. Rob has a lovely singing voice, and the accompanied music, very much in the style of Tom Waits (ukelele, accordian, acoustic guitar, junkyard percussion), is haunting. But there's a lot of it, so be prepared, and the narrative, weighed down by the high concept and a running love story thread, does occasionally buckle. But you don't get this much information and invention in the average stand-up show, so value for money is not an issue. He's a likeable tour guide, looks dashing in a stovepipe hat, and his Edwyn Collins impression is a show-stopper.

I hope to God comedy audiences aren't as dumb as they make out ...

Good and bad. Good: the BBC Natural History Unit at Bristol have been on holiday to the African bush again, to bring us unique pictures of lions, leopards and cheetahs, spread across a whole week of programmes. Bad: three people keep getting in the way in their Land Rovers. I believe they are called presenters.



Simon King, Jonathan Scott and Saba Douglas-Hamilton are admirable people. They love the natural world, they adore and respect big cats, and they are filled with an enthusiasm for their subject that goes beyond professional detachment and into rhapsody. However, their brief on this series seems to be to translate ie. tell us stupid members of the viewing public what we are seeing. If Notch, the male lion in the Marsh tribe, roars, they tell us he's roaring, while he's roaring. Yes, they do that whisper that wildlife presenters in close proximity to their subject do, but they're still talking over the top of the action. Worse, all three tear around in their jeeps after the lions, leopards and cheetahs as if to make the "chase" more exciting. Even though they are only there to record footage, there's an element of safari about it that I don't like. When they are parked, these presenters are literally between us and the big cats. At one point last night, the female cheetah actually hopped up on the roof of one of the camera vehicles and stretched out there. It was lovely to see her shot close-up from underneath, through the sun roof, but it tells you all you need to know about the intrusive nature of the filming. And when they're not just obscuring the view, they're treating the audience like children, in a programme that airs at 7pm and in a TV age when even children aren't treated like children.

While Douglas-Hamilton, by far the most irritating of the trio, whips herself up into a state of grace about the movements of her leopard ("Bella's making her way up the bank"), King and Scott indulge in the most discredited kind of anthropomorphism, imagining what the delectable baby cheetah, Toto, is saying to her mum, or what Notch is saying to his lady lions. Now, as cat lovers, we are guilty of trying to second guess what Pepper is saying when she miaows at us, but I wouldn't stake my zoological reputation on it. This lot talk with such authority. And yet, when Toto's mum went off to catch an antelope for supper, leaving little Toto back at the mound, unprotected and squeaking like a baby bird, Jonathan Scott, with his comedy moustache, seemed genuinely concerned that she wouldn't find him again. Of course she'd find him! She's a wild animal that lives in the wild!

Give me stunning pictures of big cats. Edit them together by all means. Play African music in the background and drop in dramatic shots of Land Rovers rattling along between catty bits. But don't treat me like a fool, and don't talk over the lions.

The pleasure and the privilege is mine
It was way back in November 2005 that the University of Northampton (formerly Nene College when I went there to do my one-year Foundation art course in 1983-84) contacted me with these formal words: "The Governing Council and Senate are minded to confer on you an Honorary Fellowship at a Graduation Ceremony taking place in July 2006." And today, it all finally came together at Park Campus in Northampton, held under glorious blue skies, and with due pomp and circumstance, amid the actual graduation of about 200 degree students from the School of the Arts. It was on this site, in 1981, that I saw my first rock gig - U2 on their Boy tour, supported by Altered Images - in the refectory. An historic day then, an historic day today.

With Mum, Dad and Julie as my guests, we arrived at the University's Sunley Management Centre at midday, there to be greeted by Melva Duley, Senior Administrative Officer, who introduced us to the Chairman of the Governing Council, John Castle, the Vice Chancellor, Ann Tate, and Dean of the School of the Arts, Dave Keskeys (whom I have already met and had lunch with). The Mayor and Mayoress of Wellingborough were also there (I mention this not because I am impressed by chains of office, quite the reverse, but because I once drew a caricature of the Mayoress, when she was just an ordinary dance teacher and friend of my Mum's, and so I met her on equal terms). There is, of course, an air of formality about the occasion, but at the same time, the people involved - university types, after all - are very nice and normal, and the lunch was peppered with lively conversation about subjects as diverse as Craig Charles, 24-hour news and the complaints procedure at the BBC and the University, with head-of-the-table Professor Peter Bush, the Pro Vice Chancellor (as opposed, one assumes, to the Amateur Vice Chancellor). Pretty good buffet too, and they had peppermint tea!

Then I was whisked away for robing. I was dressed in the electric pale blue and fluorescent sea green cape pictured, and fitted with a blue cap that was half mortar board, half Shakespearian actor. Official photographs were duly taken, holding what I took to be a fake scroll in a blue crested tube, such as those often employed at graduations for photographic purposes. I left the tube on the table, kept my raiments on, and went to be interviewed by the education correspondent of the Chronicle & Echo. Then it was procession time! While the guests were minibused to the marquee, I was called upon to march there as part of a formal, robed parade through the university grounds, led by men with sceptres.

This is us arriving at the podium:



(The man in front of me is Nick, whose entire job it was to tell me when to sit and stand, and when to remove and replace my silly hat. I liked him.) The marquee was packed with mums and dads, and art students self-conscious but secretly rather proud of themselves in gowns. It was hot in there, with much wafting of programmes to keep cool. You should try wearing a suit and a cloak and an Elizabethan hat! The Vice Chancellor made her address first, very serious, very formal, but important, as she basically bigged up the University and the studes. It was their day too, not just mine. But before they could troop up, have their name read out and shake the Vice Chancellor's hand, they had to sit through Dave Keskeys' citation ie. him talking about me for quite a long time, by way of explanation to those who haven't seen The 100 Greatest Pop Videos as to why I was being made an Honorary Anything. As guided by Nick, I had to get up, put my hat on and stand about three feet away from the lecturn and look formal while Dave read out my life story. it was like drowning and your whole life flashing before you.

Then it was my turn at the mic. With an audience of art students and a sea of parents either side, I opted for a sincere but lighthearted speech, planned in my head rather than on notes, with a few disparaging remarks about art students and a heartfelt vote of thanks for the Fellowship, which I got out of the way early, for fear of leaving it out in the heat of rushing to the end of my alloted five minutes. I read three entries from my 1977 diary from the time when I attended Saturday morning art classes at Nene College, to capture the wonder of a 12-year-old boy entering the art school's hallowed halls.

Saturday, September 24
This morning I went to a special art class at Nene College. Angus went and so did 60 others. There will be a test to see who is good enough to pass. We had to sketch a load of old junk today. Mine was good. We will do painting next week.

Saturday, November 5
As I've passed the admission test I now go to Nene College art classes. Simon Brown also goes. Today we did pencil sketches about tone and shade.

Saturday, November 12
Went to Nene College as usual.

(How quickly the magic fades!)

Saturday, November 19
Got the new double ELO LP. It is fab. In it there is a brill poster of ELO.

I also told the James Bolam story that will form the prologue of my book, so I'm not telling it here. It was an exclusive for the graduates of the School of the Arts, and anyone else I tell it to in the meantime. Either way, it allowed me to use the word "bollocks", triumphantly, at the climax, which actually got a round of applause. I told them they were pathetic for clapping a swear word, but was secretly very pleased. Then I shook the hand of the Chairman, pictured below, and sat back down, my shirt stuck to me beneath the robes.



After all 200 or so students had filed onto the stage and back to their seats, each one duly applauded (this is only one of nine ceremonies this week, processing over 2,000 graduates), we stood for the National Anthem - luckily we weren't expected to sing this irrelevent dirge - and filed out. One quick procession later and we were back at the Management Centre for disrobing, at which point I was given back my blue tube, which turned out not to be a prop, but a container with my Fellowship in it.

It was a grand day out. I remain flattered and honoured to have had this rolled-up piece of paper conferred upon me by the college I will always know as Nene. (It's pronounced "Nenn", out-of-towners, not "Neen.") It was good fun to say one swear word in front of hundreds of people, and I know Mum and Dad were proud (of the Fellowship, not the swear word). There was an article in the Guardian last week asking, "What's the point of honorary degrees?", having a cheap dig at the likes of Billy Connolly for accepting so many, and for Hull University, for giving one to Pierluigi Collina, the famous Nosferatu-faced ref. Firstly, what's the harm in it? Secondly, what's Billy Connolly going to do? Turn them down? How rude would that be? And anyway, mine's not an honorary degree. I've already got a degree (not that anyone's ever asked to see it in my 19 year career). It's a Fellowship. And since I'm not famous enough to bring the University much publicity (outside of the Chronicle & Echo), I believe their reasons for giving me it are genuine. As are mine for accepting it.

Oh, by the way, the following other people have received, or are receiving, honorary Doctorates and Fellowships this week: Ben De Lisi (a fashion designer), Sir Malcolm Arnold (composer), Jonathan Ollivier (ballet dancer), Elizabeth Cracknell (something to do with occupational therapy), Chelly Halsey (sociologist), Sir Patrick Walker (MI5) and Lord Bernard Donohue (Downing Street Policy Unit). I expect their families are also proud.

I must mention the Griffin Inn restaurant at Pitsford, where Mum and Dad took us for dinner. A lovely old-fashioned pub setting, tremendous food and friendly service. They also served peppermint tea. Today, as Ice Cube once observed, was a good day.

++++++STOP PRESS+++++++



I'm not saying it's a slow news day in Northampton, but I made the cover of the Chronicle & Echo!

World Cup 2006: the final
How joyous to watch a World Cup final in which you'd be happy for either team to win. Which is not to say I didn't have my favourite. I love Italy. I love the Mediterranean way of life - the appreciation of fresh food and the way they make an event out of mealtime. I love the city of Rome. I have enjoyed watching Italy play, against a background of angst and uncertainty back home, and I'm glad they made the final. I love France. I love the French way of life - the love of fresh food and the egalitarian nature of cafe culture, where all classes are united by a cup of coffee, a glass of beer and a pastry. I love the city of Paris. And the French team have supplied such thrills, with their dizzying average age of 83, and the likelihood that Zidane would have to go off for a nice sit down with a blanket over his legs at any moment. (I wrote that before the match.) So I supported France. The tracking arial shot of the Olympic stadium in Berlin took the breath away, the evening sky grew more and more dramatic in maroon and pink, and the BBC even gave us a poem, I think read by Adrian Chiles, as if the venue itself could speak. You wouldn't get that on ITV1. To the game ...

Italy 1 France 1 (5-3 on penalties)
Such a great start, with Zidane making his mark from the penalty spot after a daft foul on Malouda by Materazzi and taking France one up in the 6th minute. Imperfect-looking goal it may have been, hitting the bar and bouncing in and out, but still, 1-0, that's not how World Cup finals are supposed to start. Italy's equaliser was far more of an exhibition shot, with an operatic corner from Pirlo (surely pronounced Peer-lo, not Per-lo, commentators?), headed in by ... Materazzi, thus wiping his slate clean. This was all in the first 20 minutes. Both teams held fast until half-time. No sign of the creaking of French knees when they returned, invigorated by a pep talk from Paul O'Grady, and with Henry notably full of zip. At this point, you thought, it could go either way. When Vieira went off, hamstring-pulled, in the 56th, a little of France's magic went with him. If thoughts were turning to penalties at this stage, you'd have to have been thinking: one down. An offside goal by Toni was disallowed - it was a bit of a scramble, but the replays confirmed it as such. Italy certainly seemed full of detemination, but once into extra time, it was clear they were going to be happy with a shootout and pulled everyone back into defence. The best chances came from France: one, shot wide, from Ribery (slightly under-par tonight), just before he was taken off (hmmmm - another penalty shooter out of the mix), the second from Zidane, whose header off a Sagnol cross was nicely done, but too central and pawed out by Buffon. Henry, suffering from cramp, came off for the doughty Wilford - another penalty-talker off the list. At least Zidane was clearly being played until the bitter end by Domenech.

And then, this ...



"The world of football is very sad," concluded Leonardo. Indeed. In minute 109, the World Cup final fell through a hole in time and space, and Zidane, apparently verbally goaded by Materazzi, ran ahead of him, turned round and headbutted him to the floor in his chest. It was one of those sights that actually got worse each time they replayed it. Zidane, at the end of his career, was correctly red-carded and sent to sit in the dressing room, alone, presumably in deep and miserable contemplation of his insane red-mist moment. What the hell was he thinking? I've seen enough films about detectives who do one last case on the day of their retirement, and they always get their man, with dignity. Zidane has not seen these films. I hope the post-match cigarette gave him some respite. The French fans, who can't have seen what happened, booed ref Horatio Elizondo. Not their fault.

Thus were France sapped, by injury, judgement or self-harm, of Vieira, Henry, Ribery and Z*d*n* at penalty o'clock. The French fans - of which I was no longer one (hey, that's the beauty of being a fairweather friend) - must have prayed for Barthez to save their souls. It couldn't happen. Italy erased previous penalty nightmares (hey, I'm talking like a pundit now) by scoring five out of five, while Trezeguet hit the bar.

Italy were worthy winners, and I loved the abandon of their celebrations - the way Gatusso took his shorts off, the way they kissed and buffed up the trophy, the fact that some of them were still wearing comedy hats and flags tied round their heads like old women when they lined up for their medals. You had to feel for France, who overcame the perception that they were past their prime and made it this far, only to be defeated by a series of unfortunate events (and one fucking stupid one), when it came to the crunch.

It was Motson who yelped, "Bedlam in Berlin!" after the Zidane moment. I just liked the way he yelped it.